Porn and shaving. Shaving porn.
Title: Unguarded
Author: Sparseparsley
Rating: NC-17
Genre/Pairing: PWP, Dean/Cas
Wordcount: 3500, holy shit.
Spoilers: Inspired by the stills from 5.04, so up to those. See the cut for spoilery summary and notes.
Warnings: Sex, cussing, metaphors, Dean says 'baby' a lot.
Feedback: Yuhuh, please.
Summary: It’s the future. Cas needs a shave. Dean just needs.
Thanks: To ibroketuesday for not liking Castiel's future!scruff and causing me to think of ways to make the beard a good thing. Also thanks to Misha and Jensen because God Damn.
Author's Note: More fic, God help me. And it's porn, God help us all. I started this after the release of the 5.04 stills but before the preview clip (ORGY!) so it’s basically a take on a world that 5.04 could have been. Like an AU of an AU of an AU (wrapped in a taco). I think I may have tried to do a little too much with it, and the porn outweighs the not-porn, which I've heard is a bad habit to fall in to. Some liberties were taken with the whole How To Shave thing. There are a few guys out there who do it with only water, but apparently the other guys think they're nuts. Shaving has fandom wars, who knew?
ALSO, I WAS TOTALLY GOING TO HAVE A BETA, I SWEAR. It's just that I forgot I'm out of town from Thursday to Sunday and I kind of wanted to have this posted before I pussied out the next episode aired. I didn't think anyone would appreciate me breathing down their neck ('Are you done yet? How bout now? Well?').
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Lift your chin.”
Dean tilts his own head up in demonstration and waits expectantly. Castiel lifts an eyebrow instead, and one corner of his mouth. The expression says 'Yes, I know, we’ve done this before', but he says nothing. He lifts his chin obediently.
“Really got away from you this time, huh?.”
They’re in a musty bedroom two storeys up and they’re alone. Not so alone that they can’t hear the others, but enough so that it’s a rare thing. Castiel sits on a low dresser set against a wall, his legs spread wide through the dust. Dean stands between his knees. A towel and a bowl of warm water sit to one side, chipped white enamel that someone scavenged from a hospital before they made it here. They could do this in the bathroom but water is more precious these days, there's no point in running a tap. Two heavy looking guns sit on the other side of the dresser. No point in being stupid, either.
“You look like a fuckin’ hippy.” Dean pulls a straight razor from his back pocket, handle scuffed but wide blade shining when he flips it open one handed. Showing off a little, maybe. He swishes the blade through the water, once to get it ready and a few more times because, he says, that's how his dad did it.
Castiel huffs in amusement, lowering his head a little to catch Dean’s eyes. “If you want me to stop it from growing again, you’re free to say so. You would be lying, but you’re free to say so.”
Dean's callused thumb is under Cas’ chin, blunt nail catching on the wiry hair there as he lifts up, angling Cas’ head back farther than before. Neither of them are really sure that Castiel could stop his hair from growing any more, or his skin from tanning, or his feet from aching after too much time in boots. They’re not sure and they don’t talk about it the way they don’t talk about a lot of things (a lot of people).
“Hey. There’s no talking during sharp object near skin time, remember?” Dean waves the blade at him like an admonishing finger, eyebrows arched in the universal sign for ‘Don’t make me tell you again’.
Castiel smiles, his voice low and slightly strained from the position. “I remember.”
His face is still warm and pink from the heated towel they used earlier to soften the beard. A generator and an electric stove, who says there aren't any miracles any more? Dean likes to talk about how scratchy Cas’ hair is here, rough where the rest of him is (was) fine and soft. Cas likes to give him whisker rash in the most uncomfortable places when he says that.
Dean repositions his hand, holding skin tight for the first pass of the blade under Cas’ ear. It’s slow, dragging, and a little more uncomfortable than it should be, no one has time to hunt down a non-essential like shaving cream. But it gets the job done and Cas likes the sandpaper sound, likes all the things that connect him to this body more and more.
Those are the only sounds for a while, sandpaper rasp as Dean shaves him with short coaxing strokes, a whisper as the blade is cleaned against the yellowed towel, the tick of metal on metal in the wash basin.
They don’t get to do this often anymore. Not the shaving, though Dean would argue that too, he's never been much of a beard man, but the rest. The things that aren't fighting or fucking, both hard necessities now. This close quiet is good, it’s the best, but it’s a luxury. It is luxurious to exist with and in each other like this, to share the same small space and give and take comfort like it was a thing you could breathe. To rest.
Dean is close to done with Cas’ neck before anyone speaks again, fingers shifting and tugging with every scrape of the blade. After every stroke he turns the hand holding the razor and draws a knuckle down each new patch of skin, checking the smoothness. He presses gently on a tender spot just under Cas’ jaw.
“Nice hickey.”
“Thank you.”
“Playing creepy cult leader with your harem again?” The touch of the razor returns, but slower now, Dean is infinitely more careful as Cas’ throat hums against the blade.
“No, I believe you were playing ‘Let’s not get out of bed’ again, a game which you have yet to win. And they are seekers of enlightenment, not a harem.”
Dean is watching the blade closely, his tone distracted. “Uh huh. Seekers of your pants.”
“Jealousy is unbecoming on you, Dean.”
Dean pauses, and blinks, holding the razor away for a moment. His eyes meet Cas' as a grin overtakes him, huge and leering. “Maybe, but if I was on you I’d un-be coming too.”
Castiel laughs (more and more), dropping his head back to a normal angle and then farther, resting his forehead against Dean’s. He puts one hand behind Dean’s head and, gripping the scruff of hair there, shakes him lightly. “That was a defiling of humor, even for you.”
Dean’s grin changes, going softer and brighter. “Oh what the fuck do you know, you like knock knock jokes. Now shut up, you’re gonna mess me up.”
Castiel complies, sitting straight and schooling his features into serenity. Dean starts again, fingers pressing on Cas’ jaw to tilt his head, drawing careful paths over the tightened skin of his cheek. Dean’s focus is almost a physical thing, the weight of his eyes intently mapping each new swath of clean, damp skin. Castiel can feel his breath there, ghosting over his cheeks, warm but cooling fast. It is a singular sensation.
The quiet gathers for a while.
“Just about there, do the lip thing.”
It would be entertaining to watch Dean demonstrate and Castiel considers asking. Thinks about saying 'Lip thing?' and feigning that special brand of confusion that he'd had once, before Dean showed him the way of things. But the atmosphere is intimate and silent and besides, Dean figured out he was faking it last time and left him with something called a ‘soul patch’. Castiel doesn’t want to repeat that experience.
Instead, he draws his lips together, hiding them behind his teeth and thrusting his chin forward, an offering. Dean finishes quickly, first under his nose and then the last patch of hair over his chin. Eyes flicker over Castiel’s face, Dean checking his work as he dries the razor and bends it shut.
“Alright, as sexy as the lipstick face is, I think we’re done.” He doesn’t seem to be listening to himself though, running his fingertips over cheeks and a mouth he already knows are smooth.
Castiel nods and tried to look agreeable, but his hands are on Dean’s hips and he is pushing them back to fit one leg between Dean's thighs. Dean is half hard and Castiel presses his knee against it. A loud breath hisses out through Dean's nose as he closes his eyes, razor clunking on the dresser when he puts one hand down to lean on.
“Are we done?”
Cas can feel himself hardening too, though he would be fine with what they’ve already had tonight. He enjoys the sex, revels in it, but he hasn’t had it long enough to need it like Dean needs it. And Dean does need it sometimes, though more often what he needs is to want and to get something without having to give something else up to get it.
Dean has leaned forward, pressing farther into Cas’ knee and speaking low and hopeful against his ear. “We got time?”
“If you’re quick.” Cas believes he can hear Dean’s smile even before he feels the puff of a quiet laugh against his face.
“You calling me a quick draw? Cause I will get you going and then leave you here. Don’t fuckin’ tempt me.”
Castiel moves one hand from Dean’s hip to grip his shoulder, kneeding the firm muscle there before he follows the line of an arm down and rests his own hand on top of Dean's. He squeezes once. “You know I don’t tempt, Dean. What I ask for has no price. Put your hands on me.”
Dean draws in another deep breath and nods, taking a step back and leaving Cas with a muttered ‘just a sec’. He moves quickly, slipping the razor into his back pocket with one hand and pulling his over-shirt off his shoulder with the other. He’s wearing a faded grey t-shirt underneath, it stretches with him as he throws the shirt over the frame of a nearby chair. The water basin is next, set on the floor next to them where it won’t get in anyone’s way.
Cas, meanwhile, has been working at buttons, opening his own flannel shirt and showing a wide strip of skin from neck to belly. He is working the few buttons on his jeans when Dean rises up from the floor again, eyes following that line of exposed flesh as he does. Dean stops halfway up and makes a hungry sound. He grabs at the dresser's edge and leans his upper body in between Cas’ legs, presses his face against ribs, mouth open with sucking kisses. Cas’ knuckles tremble against Dean’s chest and fumble over the last button.
“Dean, please, your hands.”
Dean nods against him again and pulls back, standing straight. He crowds close, weaving his fingers in with Cas’. “Okay, okay, I’m doing it, let me do it.”
Castiel pulls his hands out from under Dean’s and grasps at his face, palms to jaw, pulling him in to a hard kiss. Dean grunts from the force and happily shoves tongue against tongue. There is a high noise in Cas' throat, not a whine, more demanding than that. Dean pulls his mouth away with a gasp. “Yeah, workin' on it...but I gotta be able to see what I’m doing.”
Cas' fingers push back over Dean’s ears and into his hair, pulling him forward again, but gentler this time. He lays closed mouth kisses against Dean’s hairline and rubs a newly smooth cheek along his forehead while Dean finally, finally, gets the last button on his pants opened. Dean has the zipper down and is palming his cock before he even has a chance to say thank you.
“Christ. Christ. I don’t know how the fuck you can go commando in jeans that are too big for you and then get bitchy when I call you a tease.” Dean is tugging on Castiel's jeans with his other hand, not trying to get them off, just loosening them, giving himself a little more room. He puts one hand behind Cas, flat against the small of his back. With a tug, Cas is closer to the edge of the dresser, legs spread rudely wide, knees bent, heels trying to find purchase against the rattling drawers of the dresser. “Lean back.”
Castiel leans back, shoulders and head against the dark wall behind him. “It was te- ...tempt.” Dean has him in hand again, and is dragging a thumb back and forth over the aching head of his cock. “Oh...not tease. What...what you called me.” He is breathless, stretched back like this, and straining to keep his hands on the other man. “Dean. I can't reach you like this.”
“It's okay. It's okay. We'll get to me.” The hand at Cas' back slides lower, shoving and lifting against his ass to press his cock hard into Dean's grip. “I fucking guarantee that we will get to me.” He takes his hand back and licks his palm fast before wrapping it around hard flesh again. “Just. This first. Stay there.”
Castiel's hands fall back to the edge of the dresser. “Yes.” The first true stroke is slow, reverent, and his breath stutters. This will be short. “Yes. Please.” His head thumps against the wall as the hand on his cock speeds up. Dean has a technique of tightening his fingers as they pass over the head, gathering slickness, and a divine sort of twist on the way back down. It is..“...wonderful!”
“Yeah, baby, talk to me.” Dean sighs roughly and rests his head against Castiel's chest. His breathing is deep and hard, but slow, controlled. It must be harder to keep a rhythm like this, that fine pattern of squeeze and twist faltering, but the confining weight of Dean over him has Castiel panting and reaching towards completion.
“Dean! Please...” A wet gasp. “I...!” Need. How can he ever think he doesn’t need this? He needs it like air, like water, shelter. “...mercy!” Dean moans and grinds his own hips against the dresser and it must be uncomfortable but that doesn't seem to matter. "Dean!"
It's close, so close now, and Dean's hands upon him are an agony as much as they are a swift pleasure. "Mercy, Dean, please...have...!" His spine curves, muscles shivering, slick with sweat. "...please...I can't...suffer!" His eyes refuse to open, traitorous. Dean's careful breathing fails and Castiel hears broken promises spill forth. His hands lose their grip on the dresser edge and fly up, arms wrapping around Dean's neck and shoulders, pulling him down, heaving himself up, it doesn't matter. "Mercy...Dean...God!" He can't breathe. He can't breathe.
He breaks, fists tight and trembling against Dean's back. He is gasping as he comes, spilling over Dean's hand and the frictionless glide of fingers makes it all too much for a moment, blinding. It's over quickly, though, or at least it always seems to be quick when it's done. During, in the desperate rigid moment of orgasm, everything seems strangely endless.
Every part of him relaxes at once, after, and he slouches back against the wall, legs hanging and arms sliding down until his hands hang lightly on Dean's shoulders. Dean is shaking.
"God, baby, I told you....said I'd do it for you...love the way you sound when you come...Cas...fuck, Cas."
Castiel can feel the tension of Dean's need in the bunched shoulders and in the body that still moves between his knees. "Yes." He can't catch his breath, but he must. "You...you were merciful." Dean's distracted laugh makes him smile. "Worshipful. I can be too. Tell me what you want."
"Anything." Dean lifts his head, and Cas can see the awe of lust in his eyes, unhidden and burning. "Fuck, I don't care. Touch me." But he's lying, Cas can see it in the way his wide eyes flicker unbidden down to Cas' mouth. It's not hands that Dean wants.
"Stand up." Castiel pushes at Dean's shoulders until he obeys and, with what he considers a great personal effort, Cas drags himself up to a sitting position. Dean is a sight before him, t-shirt sticking with liquid stains, hair dark and spiked with sweat. The push of his cock against the zipper of his jeans is obvious, painfully so. This, Cas thinks, will be short too.
The floor is unsteady under Castiel's feet when he slides off the dresser, but he won't be standing long. He tucks himself back into his pants, carefully, and the roughness of seams on oversensitive flesh makes him shudder. Dean is unhelpful, he's only gotten as far as wiping his hand against his belly, spreading more stains. He is too close and Castiel has to slide down his body to kneel, hands to Dean's powerful thighs for support.
"Oh yeah, fuck, you have the best ideas." Dean's voice is dark as he shifts to widen his stance, opening his own pants, pulling at his briefs and shoving them down far enough to free himself. His cock is flushed and bobbing and Castiel puts one flat palm to it, trapping it against his lower stomach, holding, worshiping.
"Christ, please...fuck." Dean's hips roll against him. "...c'mon, baby. I didn't tease you."
Dean tends to revert a little in these moments, returning to single nights with convenient women, creating intimacy where there was none. Cas is 'Baby' then, or 'Sweetheart'. And on one memorable occasion when he’d had to hide desperate laughter against Dean's back, he had been 'Angel'.
Mercy, he offered, and he gives it, replacing his palm with a hot swipe of tongue. Dean moans in relief. He licks again, holds Dean steady in his hand and sucks gently at the base, then harder just below the head. He can feel the pulse of blood against his tongue, divine life. Hands settle in his hair, smoothing and petting.
"Jesus yes, that's...good...awesome...c'mon baby...c'mon." Of the two of them, Dean is the quieter one. Filthier, but quieter, a learned behavior that he says he's happy Cas never had time to develop. Dean is all whispers and harsh breathing until the end; low, pained groans. "C'mon....Cas, baby, suck me...I want it...fuck, I want it."
Castiel tilts his head back, he wants to see Dean first, wants to say...something. Wants Dean to know that he reveres this as he reveres every part and moment of Dean, that they are temples unguarded and open to each other. But the moment passes and Dean perhaps would have been unappreciative ('Jesus, Cas, don't talk Bible when you've got your face in my crotch!') any way. He only stares and Dean stares back, the haze of sex in his eyes starting to clear as he takes a breath to speak. Cas gives him no time, though, turns back and wraps his mouth around hot flesh.
"Wh...uh! Shit! Fuck yes, please." Castiel doesn't waste any time and he isn't gentle. Careful of course, yes, always careful in the places Dean is most vulnerable, but not gentle. He brings Dean in between his lips over and over, eyes closed, one hand at the base to keep him still while the other grips and digs at Dean's thigh.
His head works against Dean's body and he knows what Dean sees. Dark hair rocking forward and back, cock disappearing faster now, easier with spit-slick lips. He works his tongue against the silky skin on every forward motion, and sucks hard with every retreat. Dean's hips are starting to buck, out of rhythm and involuntary. Dean's throat catches on short and gasping moans.
“...oh fuck...oh fuck....uh! ...fucking God baby I'm close....I'm...Jesus, Cas....fuck...Cas! Please, baby!” The fingers in his hair tighten and he takes the hint, stopping with his mouth covering only the head of Dean's cock, cheeks hollowed and lips tight, tongue rolling against the sensitive underside. The first surge of fluid spreads hot over his tongue and Dean is loud now, each breath out is an 'ah!' of tension and release as he comes.
The taste is a strange thing, common to all men but still uniquely Dean, and Castiel swallows it with sinful familiarity. Dean's hips still and his hands fall to the dresser to steady himself as the last drops pour forth. “Cas.” Then a hand is in Castiel's hair again, caressing down over smooth cheek and jaw. Cas lets Dean's softening cock slip from between his lips as fingers cup gently under his chin and tilt up. “Hey.”
“Hello, Dean” He is calm and satisfied, looking up with warm eyes. Dean sighs and starts sinking to the floor before Cas gets two hands on his thighs again to arrest the movement. “Don't. You'll take forever getting up again.” His voice is rough. Rougher.
“Spoilsport. Get up here then.” Dean helps him to his feet with a firm grip on his elbow. “Not like we have to hurry now any way, pretty sure they heard you.” Dean is smirking as he tucks himself back into his pants.
“Don't be smug. It's very distracting.” Cas' arms curl around Dean's waist and Dean's are around his shoulders. They kiss slow and dirty, with Castiel biting and Dean moaning at the taste of himself on Cas' tongue. They pull apart only far enough for Dean to tilt his head and scrape blunt teeth over Cas' shaven chin. Castiel's voice is reluctant. “We should go.”
“Fine, fine.” They stay together for another long moment, though, content. “Fine, do your shirt up and grab the guns, would ya?” Dean pulls his t-shirt off and lays it with the towel on the dresser, trading it for the shirt he tossed away earlier. “You know I missed a spot, right?”
Castiel throws him a questioning look as he gathers their belongings.
“On your neck, left side. I missed a spot.” Dean touches his own face and Castiel mirrors him, feeling the small patch of beard there.
Dean is already reaching into his pocket for the razor when Castiel speaks. “Oh. It's too bad we missed that.” He turns his head towards the door. “We'll have to come back later so you can fix it.” His eyes shift back to Dean like an echo from years ago. Mischievous. 'Just so you understand.'
“That's unfortunate. Don't forget the water.”