FIC (No, really) (SPN, Dean/Castiel, NC-17)
This is for the salt_burn_porn challenge. It's also the first thing I've written in...god knows how long. Awhile.
Title: Won't You Please, Please?
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel (sort of)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,865
Summary: When he thinks about it-which he doesn’t, often, because frankly he doesn’t have a ton of time for deep introspection these days-he might even say he and Castiel are friends. Allies, without a doubt. But it never occurred to him that Castiel might care enough to worry about Dean in any sense beyond “don’t let him die or get possessed by an arrogant dick of an archangel.”
For the prompt from hunters_retreat:
Frankly, this habit the angels have of popping into the middle of his dreams is starting to piss Dean the fuck off. It’s always the good dreams, too-ones where he’s fishing, or in the middle of, you know, other relaxing things. Things involving strippers and the occasional pair of pink satin panties. The angels never seem to bother interrupting him when he’s in the middle of a lovely stroll down memory lane with Alistair and his knife collection, though, god or who-the-fuck-ever forbid.
Which is why, when Castiel shows up right in his face, just as Dean’s about to hit the pennant-winning home run against Manu Ginobli (what? It’s a dream, last time he was pitching to Wayne Gretzky, which was even better) Dean decides he’s had enough and doesn’t bother to pull his swing.
“Dean, you’re dreaming,” says Cas as the bat goes right through his head without hitting any resistance.
“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.” Dean lets the bat fall and it disappears the way things do in dreams (bats, strippers, his last little bit of alone time, apparently). “What do you want, Cas? I’m kind of in the middle of my beauty sleep, here.”
“I am…worried about you.”
“You’re-what?” That doesn’t even make sense. Since when does Castiel-well, Dean knows Cas cares about him (and Sam) in his own sort-of-angelic way. When he thinks about it-which he doesn’t, often, because frankly he doesn’t have a ton of time for deep introspection these days-he might even say he and Castiel are friends. Allies, without a doubt. But it never occurred to him that Castiel might care enough to worry about Dean in any sense beyond “don’t let him die or get possessed by an arrogant dick of an archangel.”
Castiel is still standing in front of him, but suddenly he’s right in front of him, like the personal space issues they’ve discussed don’t count when Cas is inside Dean’s head. Maybe they don’t, because for some reason Dean isn’t feeling the vague discomfort he usually does when he’s suddenly forced into way too close an encounter with Castiel’s pores.
Nor does he feel the urge to lean back or put a piece of furniture between them that he normally does when Cas stares at him like this; when he’s suddenly uncomfortably aware that Castiel has really pretty blue eyes and he smells kind of like cinnamon gum and that Dean doesn’t exactly hate either of those things at all.
Castiel is standing very close to him and staring at him with his pretty blue eyes and there’s a tiny frown line between right between his eyebrows. Dean is just going to blame this sudden desire to run his tongue over the groove of that tiny frown on the fact that this is a dream and weird things happen in dreams. This is no weirder than dreaming about playing baseball against Manu Ginobli, okay?
“I am worried about you,” Cas says again, and runs a finger over Dean’s forehead in a gesture like the one he makes when he knocks a human out for the count-except this is very gentle, more like a caress, and Dean doesn’t fall asleep (or stop dreaming, at least) but he does have to fight the urge to close his eyes and lean into Cas’s hand.
“Why?” he asks, and his voice is unexpectedly soft and sleep-rough in his throat.
“You seem…lost. More lost than before, that is.” In the way that sometimes happens in dreams, all of Dean’s senses seem to be in overdrive all of a sudden. He can smell Cas’s cinnamon-gum breath and feel its slightly wet warmth against his face. He can feel the brush of Cas’s trench coat against his hands where they hang at his sides. He can feel the rumble of Cas’s voice in his chest as he steps so close he’s almost standing on top of Dean. In the way of dreams, he also knows with perfect clarity what is about to happen, like he can see into the future of his own imagination, at least.
He knows that Castiel is about to cup his cheek in one palm and kiss him, very softly and sweetly. He knows that he is about to let Castiel do this, that he is going to close his eyes and lean into the hand on his cheek and open his mouth to Castiel’s tongue and grip the lapels of Castiel’s trench coat in his hands and pull Castiel against his body.
He knows this is going to happen, so instead he keeps his eyes open and clenches his hands into fists and takes a step backward, away from Castiel.
“So, what?” he asks, and lifts his chin so Castiel has to look up at him just that little bit more than usual. “You thought you’d kiss me and make it all better?”
Castiel tilts his head and looks confused, and kind of sad. “No,” he says. “But I want to help. You…asked…for help and I don’t know what else to do.”
Without walking, Cas is suddenly right there in Dean’s personal space again. He puts one hand on Dean’s arm and leans in, slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare Dean away. Cas leans up and whispers in Dean’s ear: “How can I help you, Dean? Let me help you.”
Dean feels something crack inside his chest and he shudders, a soft “yes” sliding out of him before he realizes he’s given in.
“Thank you,” breathes Castiel, and then his tongue is in Dean’s ear and his arms are sliding around Dean’s waist and Dean moans and captures Castiel’s mouth with his own.
Again in the way of dreams, they’re suddenly no longer standing at home plate, but Castiel is lying stretched out on the pitcher’s mound, Dean lying on top of him, still kissing, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. Then suddenly Castiel is naked and Dean is sitting up, pulling off his Yankee’s uniform (cleats conveniently gone already) and falling back on to Castiel’s chest, loving the feel of skin against skin, sucking and biting the delicate spot right under Castiel’s chin.
Cas’s hands are running up and down Dean’s back and over his sides and chest and he digs his nails in, hard, when Dean sucks one nipple between his lips and then nips at it. Cas gasps out “Dean!” and his hips thrust up and suddenly they’re rutting against each other shamelessly, biting and sucking, scratching and clutching, rolling over and over in the grass and dirt of Dean’s imaginary Yankee stadium.
When they finally roll to a stop, Castiel is on top, his tongue deep inside Dean’s mouth, Dean’s legs tight around his waist and their hands in each other’s hair, holding tight. Castiel’s hips are rolling down into Dean’s, his cock sliding in the groove between Dean’s hip and thigh, his balls rubbing gently against Dean’s on every other thrust. Dean feels pinned down, still out of control, and desperate for more, more, more. He sucks on Castiel’s tongue, holds it between his teeth and bites down, not gently at all. He scratches his nails up Castiel’s back and spreads his legs wider around Castiel’s hips and meets him thrust for thrust. He tears his mouth from Castiel’s and presses it to his throat, his shoulder, bites down when an unexpectedly brutal thrust from Castiel almost knocks the wind out of him.
He doesn’t even realize the grunts and groans and cries of “Please, please, I want, God…” are coming from him until Castiel slows his movements to an almost gentle, but still overpowering, series of rolls and presses, his cock nudging the space behind Dean’s balls teasingly.
“Do you want this, Dean? Do you want me?” Cas whispers against his ear. He follows the whisper with his tongue, licking into the sensitive whorls of his ear and Dean shudders and moans. But all he can manage to say is “please, God please, unh” in response.
Cas doesn’t stop his movements, but they get softer, lighter, until Dean thinks he’s going to lose his mind if Cas doesn’t get with the program already and move. He can’t think, he can’t move himself, he’s pinned beneath Cas’s weight and helpless and loving it, but he needs more, now or he thinks he’s going die. And if he dies in a dream he could die in real life, right? Dean doesn’t really want to find out, so he needs Cas to move again, right now.
But Cas isn’t, he’s almost completely stopped, except for his lips, brushing lightly over his ear, the side of his head, his face. Dean turns his head, blindly seeking Cas’s lips and he groans when Cas’s teeth close over his lower lip and bite down, then let go with a long, slow suck. Castiel grinds his hips down, slow and hard and Dean’s eyes fly open and he stares into his blue, blue eyes and thrusts his hips back just as hard.
Castiel runs a finger over Dean’s lower lip and lets the tip slide in a millimeter or so. “Dean,” he says softly. “I need you to say it. Tell me you want it; you want me.” His finger slides out and Cas’s mouth moves to Dean’s ear again and he whispers “Say yes, Dean. I need to hear you say yes.”
He punctuates this with a sharp thrust of his hips and Dean feels like he’s had the wind knocked out of him, hears himself saying “Yes, yes god, please yes, Cas” like it’s someone else saying it.
But then, then oh god it’s so good. There’s no more buildup, no preparation-it’s his dream after all, no need for KY or whatever-there’s just Castiel, spreading Dean’s legs a little more, pushing his knees up and then Castiel’s cock, sliding inside him, stretching him, possessing him.
Castiel is holding him open and pounding into him and it’s so fucking good and right and Dean doesn’t want to ever wake up. He just wants to stay like this, open, taking it, feeling Castiel’s cock right up inside him, thrusting against that spot inside him that makes the lights flash behind his eyes. He’s not even holding on to Cas anymore, his hands are over his head, gripping handfuls of grass to keep from sliding over the ground. Castiel’s hands are tight on his thighs, he’d have bruises for days if this were really happening. Dean can’t stop moaning and talking, now, saying “Yes, yes, god Cas don’t stop, please don’t stop, yes, yes YES.”
Castiel is talking, too, gasping out between breaths “Yes, Dean, that’s it, you’re so gorgeous, so beautiful when you say yes. You see, Dean, that’s all you had to do to let me help you, all you had to do was say yes, and do you see? Do you understand how good it is, how good it will be? It will be glorious Dean, I promise, all you have to do is say yes…”
At these words, Dean begins to come, cock untouched, writhing down onto the angel inside him. He opens his eyes, and it is not Castiel looking back at him this time.
**end**
Notes: Title from the Beatles' song "Help". Unbeta'ed, because doctors make the worst patients, okay? If you see any egregious errors, feel free to inform me in email.
Title: Won't You Please, Please?
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel (sort of)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,865
Summary: When he thinks about it-which he doesn’t, often, because frankly he doesn’t have a ton of time for deep introspection these days-he might even say he and Castiel are friends. Allies, without a doubt. But it never occurred to him that Castiel might care enough to worry about Dean in any sense beyond “don’t let him die or get possessed by an arrogant dick of an archangel.”
For the prompt from hunters_retreat:
Frankly, this habit the angels have of popping into the middle of his dreams is starting to piss Dean the fuck off. It’s always the good dreams, too-ones where he’s fishing, or in the middle of, you know, other relaxing things. Things involving strippers and the occasional pair of pink satin panties. The angels never seem to bother interrupting him when he’s in the middle of a lovely stroll down memory lane with Alistair and his knife collection, though, god or who-the-fuck-ever forbid.
Which is why, when Castiel shows up right in his face, just as Dean’s about to hit the pennant-winning home run against Manu Ginobli (what? It’s a dream, last time he was pitching to Wayne Gretzky, which was even better) Dean decides he’s had enough and doesn’t bother to pull his swing.
“Dean, you’re dreaming,” says Cas as the bat goes right through his head without hitting any resistance.
“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.” Dean lets the bat fall and it disappears the way things do in dreams (bats, strippers, his last little bit of alone time, apparently). “What do you want, Cas? I’m kind of in the middle of my beauty sleep, here.”
“I am…worried about you.”
“You’re-what?” That doesn’t even make sense. Since when does Castiel-well, Dean knows Cas cares about him (and Sam) in his own sort-of-angelic way. When he thinks about it-which he doesn’t, often, because frankly he doesn’t have a ton of time for deep introspection these days-he might even say he and Castiel are friends. Allies, without a doubt. But it never occurred to him that Castiel might care enough to worry about Dean in any sense beyond “don’t let him die or get possessed by an arrogant dick of an archangel.”
Castiel is still standing in front of him, but suddenly he’s right in front of him, like the personal space issues they’ve discussed don’t count when Cas is inside Dean’s head. Maybe they don’t, because for some reason Dean isn’t feeling the vague discomfort he usually does when he’s suddenly forced into way too close an encounter with Castiel’s pores.
Nor does he feel the urge to lean back or put a piece of furniture between them that he normally does when Cas stares at him like this; when he’s suddenly uncomfortably aware that Castiel has really pretty blue eyes and he smells kind of like cinnamon gum and that Dean doesn’t exactly hate either of those things at all.
Castiel is standing very close to him and staring at him with his pretty blue eyes and there’s a tiny frown line between right between his eyebrows. Dean is just going to blame this sudden desire to run his tongue over the groove of that tiny frown on the fact that this is a dream and weird things happen in dreams. This is no weirder than dreaming about playing baseball against Manu Ginobli, okay?
“I am worried about you,” Cas says again, and runs a finger over Dean’s forehead in a gesture like the one he makes when he knocks a human out for the count-except this is very gentle, more like a caress, and Dean doesn’t fall asleep (or stop dreaming, at least) but he does have to fight the urge to close his eyes and lean into Cas’s hand.
“Why?” he asks, and his voice is unexpectedly soft and sleep-rough in his throat.
“You seem…lost. More lost than before, that is.” In the way that sometimes happens in dreams, all of Dean’s senses seem to be in overdrive all of a sudden. He can smell Cas’s cinnamon-gum breath and feel its slightly wet warmth against his face. He can feel the brush of Cas’s trench coat against his hands where they hang at his sides. He can feel the rumble of Cas’s voice in his chest as he steps so close he’s almost standing on top of Dean. In the way of dreams, he also knows with perfect clarity what is about to happen, like he can see into the future of his own imagination, at least.
He knows that Castiel is about to cup his cheek in one palm and kiss him, very softly and sweetly. He knows that he is about to let Castiel do this, that he is going to close his eyes and lean into the hand on his cheek and open his mouth to Castiel’s tongue and grip the lapels of Castiel’s trench coat in his hands and pull Castiel against his body.
He knows this is going to happen, so instead he keeps his eyes open and clenches his hands into fists and takes a step backward, away from Castiel.
“So, what?” he asks, and lifts his chin so Castiel has to look up at him just that little bit more than usual. “You thought you’d kiss me and make it all better?”
Castiel tilts his head and looks confused, and kind of sad. “No,” he says. “But I want to help. You…asked…for help and I don’t know what else to do.”
Without walking, Cas is suddenly right there in Dean’s personal space again. He puts one hand on Dean’s arm and leans in, slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare Dean away. Cas leans up and whispers in Dean’s ear: “How can I help you, Dean? Let me help you.”
Dean feels something crack inside his chest and he shudders, a soft “yes” sliding out of him before he realizes he’s given in.
“Thank you,” breathes Castiel, and then his tongue is in Dean’s ear and his arms are sliding around Dean’s waist and Dean moans and captures Castiel’s mouth with his own.
Again in the way of dreams, they’re suddenly no longer standing at home plate, but Castiel is lying stretched out on the pitcher’s mound, Dean lying on top of him, still kissing, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. Then suddenly Castiel is naked and Dean is sitting up, pulling off his Yankee’s uniform (cleats conveniently gone already) and falling back on to Castiel’s chest, loving the feel of skin against skin, sucking and biting the delicate spot right under Castiel’s chin.
Cas’s hands are running up and down Dean’s back and over his sides and chest and he digs his nails in, hard, when Dean sucks one nipple between his lips and then nips at it. Cas gasps out “Dean!” and his hips thrust up and suddenly they’re rutting against each other shamelessly, biting and sucking, scratching and clutching, rolling over and over in the grass and dirt of Dean’s imaginary Yankee stadium.
When they finally roll to a stop, Castiel is on top, his tongue deep inside Dean’s mouth, Dean’s legs tight around his waist and their hands in each other’s hair, holding tight. Castiel’s hips are rolling down into Dean’s, his cock sliding in the groove between Dean’s hip and thigh, his balls rubbing gently against Dean’s on every other thrust. Dean feels pinned down, still out of control, and desperate for more, more, more. He sucks on Castiel’s tongue, holds it between his teeth and bites down, not gently at all. He scratches his nails up Castiel’s back and spreads his legs wider around Castiel’s hips and meets him thrust for thrust. He tears his mouth from Castiel’s and presses it to his throat, his shoulder, bites down when an unexpectedly brutal thrust from Castiel almost knocks the wind out of him.
He doesn’t even realize the grunts and groans and cries of “Please, please, I want, God…” are coming from him until Castiel slows his movements to an almost gentle, but still overpowering, series of rolls and presses, his cock nudging the space behind Dean’s balls teasingly.
“Do you want this, Dean? Do you want me?” Cas whispers against his ear. He follows the whisper with his tongue, licking into the sensitive whorls of his ear and Dean shudders and moans. But all he can manage to say is “please, God please, unh” in response.
Cas doesn’t stop his movements, but they get softer, lighter, until Dean thinks he’s going to lose his mind if Cas doesn’t get with the program already and move. He can’t think, he can’t move himself, he’s pinned beneath Cas’s weight and helpless and loving it, but he needs more, now or he thinks he’s going die. And if he dies in a dream he could die in real life, right? Dean doesn’t really want to find out, so he needs Cas to move again, right now.
But Cas isn’t, he’s almost completely stopped, except for his lips, brushing lightly over his ear, the side of his head, his face. Dean turns his head, blindly seeking Cas’s lips and he groans when Cas’s teeth close over his lower lip and bite down, then let go with a long, slow suck. Castiel grinds his hips down, slow and hard and Dean’s eyes fly open and he stares into his blue, blue eyes and thrusts his hips back just as hard.
Castiel runs a finger over Dean’s lower lip and lets the tip slide in a millimeter or so. “Dean,” he says softly. “I need you to say it. Tell me you want it; you want me.” His finger slides out and Cas’s mouth moves to Dean’s ear again and he whispers “Say yes, Dean. I need to hear you say yes.”
He punctuates this with a sharp thrust of his hips and Dean feels like he’s had the wind knocked out of him, hears himself saying “Yes, yes god, please yes, Cas” like it’s someone else saying it.
But then, then oh god it’s so good. There’s no more buildup, no preparation-it’s his dream after all, no need for KY or whatever-there’s just Castiel, spreading Dean’s legs a little more, pushing his knees up and then Castiel’s cock, sliding inside him, stretching him, possessing him.
Castiel is holding him open and pounding into him and it’s so fucking good and right and Dean doesn’t want to ever wake up. He just wants to stay like this, open, taking it, feeling Castiel’s cock right up inside him, thrusting against that spot inside him that makes the lights flash behind his eyes. He’s not even holding on to Cas anymore, his hands are over his head, gripping handfuls of grass to keep from sliding over the ground. Castiel’s hands are tight on his thighs, he’d have bruises for days if this were really happening. Dean can’t stop moaning and talking, now, saying “Yes, yes, god Cas don’t stop, please don’t stop, yes, yes YES.”
Castiel is talking, too, gasping out between breaths “Yes, Dean, that’s it, you’re so gorgeous, so beautiful when you say yes. You see, Dean, that’s all you had to do to let me help you, all you had to do was say yes, and do you see? Do you understand how good it is, how good it will be? It will be glorious Dean, I promise, all you have to do is say yes…”
At these words, Dean begins to come, cock untouched, writhing down onto the angel inside him. He opens his eyes, and it is not Castiel looking back at him this time.
**end**
Notes: Title from the Beatles' song "Help". Unbeta'ed, because doctors make the worst patients, okay? If you see any egregious errors, feel free to inform me in email.