SPN fic: Could I But Hold Thee (the life-art 'verse, Dean/Cas NC-17 AU)

[the_diggler]

Title: Could I But Hold Thee (the life-art 'verse)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, Pamela
Genre: AU, smut, fluff.
Warnings: bottom!Dean, age difference, voyeurism, exhibitionism, rimming, first!time anal.
Word Count: 11,850
Summary: When Castiel is stuck without a model for his life-art class, Dean volunteers. What Dean doesn't know is that Castiel has already been sketching the young barista for months...
Author's Notes: This is something I originally posted on tumblr in around 500 word chunks. It was turning into an epically long piece of smut, so it was just easier for me to deal with it that way lol. And I want to thank tyrana over at tumblr, for all her comments and support on this the whole way through *huggles*
Disclaimer: Supernatural ain't mine. Oh the things I'd do to Dean if it was...



~

How, in the light of morning,
Round me thou glowest,
Spring, thou beloved one!
With thousand-varying loving bliss
The sacred emotions
Born of thy warmth eternal
Press 'gainst my bosom,
Thou endlessly fair one!
Could I but hold thee clasp'd
Within mine arms!
--from Ganymede by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

~

He’s standing on the sidewalk outside The Haven café after an extended lunch break, waiting to cross the road and start the walk back to the University, when he gets the call. His model, Balthazar, has had some kind of life or death emergency and can’t sit for his class today. The very class he was just heading back to set up for.

It puts him in a difficult position. His students are expecting a life-art practical today, but it’s too late to contact any of his other usual models. And his frustration must be quite obvious, because suddenly there’s a voice next to him, asking if he’s alright.

“Cas?” the voice asks again, and when he turns he’s momentarily stunned to see Dean, the young barista from the café, peering at him in concern. And then he can’t find the breath to make words, because even Dean’s concerned face is beautiful.

“You get some bad news or something?” Dean asks, glancing at the phone still clutched in Castiel’s hand.

“Yes,” Castiel replies, finally snapping out of it. “My model just called to inform me he won’t be able to sit for my class this afternoon, and I don’t know anyone else who can do it.”

“Oh, that really sucks.” Dean says, frowning in sympathy.

“Yes, it does,” Castiel echoes, unable to think of anything else to say as he is struck for the millionth time, by how genuinely interested Dean always manages to seem when they talk, even though Dean must have to make small talk with customers all day.

“Well, I should get back,” Castiel sighs, unable to linger any longer, no matter much he wants to. “I should start asking around.”

“I can do it!” Dean blurts suddenly.

“What?!” Castiel practically chokes out in surprise.

“My shift finished over an hour ago anyway, so I’m free,” Dean grins sheepishly.

Castiel’s head tilts in disbelief as his jaw drops open, unable to process what is happening. Not only is Dean offering a solution to Castiel’s predicament, but in doing so he’s freely giving away permission to be sketched, something Castiel’s being doing discreetly since the day he first laid eyes on the young man.

“Are you sure?” he has to ask, still a bit stunned, holding his breath as hope flutters nervously in his stomach.

“It’s just sitting around in my underwear right?” Dean says, shrugging his shoulder nonchalantly. Like it’s nothing. Except that Castiel’s been fantasizing about seeing Dean naked for weeks.

And as if picking up on that thought, a look of alarm suddenly crosses Dean’s face. “I do get to keep my underwear on, right?” he asks.

“Yes, of course,” Castiel rushes to reply. “Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he adds, smiling in what he hopes is an assuring manner, and not the manic amazement he thinks it might actually be. But then Dean smiles back, easy as sunlight, and Castiel’s breath hitches in his throat once again.

“Okay then,” Dean says, gesturing towards the street. “Lead the way.”

~

The walk back to campus is almost surreal. Castiel tries to spend the time filling Dean in on the basic structure of his class and the reasoning behind the need for a live model. He’s always believed the artist should have a strong traditional framework to build on, a solid understanding of the rules of color, lighting, balance and framing that affect all forms of painting and sculpture – even in today’s digital age. But while he truly believes in what he’s saying, at the same time it all feels like a thinly veiled excuse, trying to justify the fact that he’s just some creepy guy who likes to perv on beautiful young men.

But it’s not uncomfortable, far from it in fact, as Dean has established time and again how good he is at making small talk at the café. And maybe that’s why the whole thing feels a little unbelievable. Seeing Dean outside his usual habitat is a little disconcerting. It’s hard to disassociate the young man from that particular setting.

The Haven is one of Castiel’s favorite places to get away from the hustle and bustle of the University for a few hours. It’s close enough to walk there on a nice day, but it’s also just far enough from campus to not be constantly swamped by students, so the regular clientele doesn’t make him feel out of place. And the décor itself seems to reflect this range of attraction - quirky, but not kitchy artefacts adorning the counters, walls covered in the pages of an old book, corners displaying old record albums - the kinds of things older people grew up with and younger people think are retro-cool.

But the café isn’t all show either. The menu is diverse, affordable yet quality, and there’s as much variety in Tea as there is Coffee, which is an important selling point for Castiel. It’s a spacious place, open and bright, conducive to conversation, but still cozy and quiet enough to plug in a laptop and study, pull out the resident chessboard for a game, or sit on the couch and sketch, undisturbed.

So Dean is not the only reason Castiel goes there.

But since he first laid eyes on the young barista, Dean is the only thing he draws.

The shadow of his lashes, the freckles on his face, the bow of his lips, the curve of his back… the lines of his shoulder blades when he’s making coffee, the flex of his forearm when he wipes down the counter, the spark in his eyes when he laughs… and above all, his smile.

That smile. There’s just something about it. Besides being absolutely stunning - well, besides everything about Dean being absolutely stunning - there’s something about the way Dean smiles that makes Castiel feel like it’s just for him.

And maybe it’s Dean’s smile now, that’s throwing him more than anything, being directed at him over and over again, for the longest conversation they’ve had. But Castiel doesn’t care. He’ll take that smile, as many times as Dean wants to give it to him, no matter how many times it makes him lose his train of thought, or trip over his own feet as they make their way to his studio.

He can’t believe how lucky he is.

~

He tries to offer Dean some kind of compensation for his time. He knows Dean works two jobs to take care of his little brother, so Castiel tries to offer the same fee he pays all his models, at the very least. Dean won’t hear of it though. He’s so enthusiastic about the prospect of seeing where Castiel teaches, and sitting in on one of Castiel’s classes, that he insists it’s a fair trade.

Castiel finds it a little hard to swallow at first, but when they finally reach the campus’ studio Dean looks around with such open curiosity at the cluttered workbenches, eagerly examining the waiting easels around the room, and losing himself so completely in the paintings on the walls, that Castiel starts to believe his sincerity.

“Are any of these yours?” Dean asks.

“No,” Castiel smiles regretfully.

“Oh,” Dean says, and Castiel could swear Dean looks a little bit disappointed at that.

Leaving his bag and jacket at his desk, he goes to join Dean by the wall. “These are reprints of some works I’ve always found inspiring,” Castiel explains. “I thought maybe some of the students might find inspiration from them as well.”

“Oh,” Dean says again, but this time he seems more satisfied with the answer, turning to scrutinize the prints with interest again. He stops altogether when he sees the print of a naked youth being embraced mid-flight by a giant eagle, a dog barking at them from below. It’s one of Castiel’s favorites. The young man’s naked skin glows with light, a representation of his beauty, and perhaps signifying his status as a loved object, as the eagle raises him towards the heavens in his talons, the embrace both powerful and erotic at the same time.

Castiel is about to ask Dean if he knows the myth of Zeus and Ganymede, but unfortunately that’s when his students begin filtering into the room, breaking the spell the painting has captured them in.

“Come with me,” he sighs, leading Dean to the supply room at the back of the studio. On the way he grabs the sheet draped over the old chaise lounge by the windows, shaking out the thin layer of dust that’s collected on it. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a robe for you to use, but if you’d like to undress in here, you can use this sheet until the students are ready to begin.”

“Okay sure,” Dean says, taking the offered sheet, and for one wild moment Castiel actually considers staying to watch Dean strip, but thankfully he remembers how entirely inappropriate that would be. He really can’t afford to make Dean any more uncomfortable than he must already be, having never done this before. So instead Castiel shakes off the brief moment of insanity, and goes to his place in front of the class.

When Dean finally re-emerges from the room, robed in the sheet, draped over his shoulder, he looks very much like what Castiel imagines the young greek Ganymede must have looked like to Zeus - the kind of beauty that could enrapture a God. But there’s something inherently boyish about Dean as well, hair mussed from removing his clothes and looking like he just rolled out of bed, and Castiel’s mouth goes dry at all the implications of the image he presents.

He has to swallow hard a couple of times before he can breathe again, let alone speak, asking Dean to take a seat on the chaise until they are ready for him. But as he begins to address his class, he simply cannot keep his eyes away from where Dean sits, in nothing but a thin sheet and his underwear, beautiful and waiting.

~

It’s maybe the hardest lecture Castiel's ever given. Even though it’s a practical session and he only has to talk for a few minutes, refreshing his students on the main topics they covered during their previous theory lesson - he’s nervous as hell, knowing Dean is right there, watching him as avidly as some of his more eager students. Pretty soon he isn’t even sure what he’s saying anymore. His voice sounds like muffled warbling to his own ears, like the teacher from Charlie Brown, wah-wah-wah-ing away.

By the time he's done speaking he is completely out-of-body, his limbs working on automatic as he makes his way over to Dean, or rather, gravitates towards him. And maybe it’s a good thing his brain isn’t fully in charge anymore, or he probably would’ve tripped over himself again when Dean starts sliding the sheet off his shoulders. Thankfully Castiel remains upright, so he doesn’t miss a second, dumbly watching the slow reveal of skin as the sheet pools in Dean’s lap, his fingers twitching to follow the seeming caress of the material on its descent.

Dean blinks up at him through his eyelashes afterwards, something like shy uncertainty in his eyes, and instantly Castiel wants to debauch him in a million different ways. But before he can even begin, Dean asks,

“Should I stand? Or sit? What do you want me to do?”

And Castiel’s mind goes back to that single track, imagining all the different positions he could take Dean in, standing and sitting.

But the question also reminds him if the context they are in, and the waiting eyes behind him, so he forces himself to shake it off and try to behave like the professional he’s supposed to be.

“It might be more comfortable for you to remain seated, but it would be better if you could stretch out a bit,” Castiel replies.

Dean nods, twisting to lift his legs up onto the chaise and leaning back into its pillows. Castiel tries hard not to notice how easily Dean sinks into the couch, the way his whole body opens up from its center, long limbs stretching and unfolding, laying open and inviting.

And then Dean takes up the ends of the sheet, lifting them up towards Castiel in some kind of offer, and once again he aches to take… until Dean speaks again.

“What should I do with this?” he asks, draping one of the ends of the sheet over the back of the chaise and fidgeting with it. Castiel snaps out of his daze again with a small shake of his head, reaching out to take the other end to assist him.

As Castiel leans forward though, he’s assaulted by an entirely different barrage of sensation, when he inhales the scent of Dean’s cologne, or whatever it is he’s wearing. It smells like cinnamon, and coffee, and… motor oil - Nice and naughty all rolled in one - and Castiel finds himself swaying into it, almost pressing his face right into Dean’s neck to breathe it in.

He has to yank himself away, clearing his throat as he busies himself with the sheet again, trying to keep himself just out of smelling distance from Dean’s skin, or else be overwhelmed again.

He just can’t do the same for his eyes though. Dean could be on the other side of a football field, and still Castiel wouldn’t be able to see anything but him, in vivid, exquisite detail.

~

“Make sure you’re comfortable, you’ll be posing for about an hour,” he murmurs, heart pounding in his ears as tries to drape the sheet artfully over Dean’s lap, covering up Dean’s boxer-briefs while leaving as much of his intoxicating skin exposed as possible.

Dean nods, slinging his arms over the back and side of the chaise, providing a bit of support as he relaxes into the position, and Castiel just can’t stop looking. There’s so many freckles, all across Dean’s shoulders, so obvious in the sunlight coming in through the large windows behind him. All the times Castiel’s imagined Dean’s naked shoulders, he’s never imagined that the sun-kissed constellations sprinkled across Dean's cheeks would adorn this part of him as well, and it takes every inch of Castiel’s fraying self-control to not reach out and just… caress them.

Dean looks up at the students setting up around him, biting his lip in what Castiel thinks might be a nervous gesture, and again he has to fight himself from reaching out, wanting nothing more than to sooth his thumb across that plump, rose-bitten flesh. Finally Dean decides to turn his head away, facing the wall covered with paintings instead of the students circled around him, and the position stretches out Dean’s neck, offering up the strong vein and muscle usually hidden under the soft skin there.

“Is this okay?” Dean asks, and Castiel almost wants to smack his palm against his own face. It’s so very beyond okay it’s ridiculous. But instead Castiel just swallows hard, yet again, and nods, hoping his smile comes across as encouraging and not the weak and shaky thing he knows it is.

He fusses with the sheet as long as he can before it starts to look exactly like the stalling it is, and then performs the near impossible feat of pulling himself away from the warmth Dean’s body seems to exude. He retreats all the way to the security of his desk, leaning back on it and crossing his arms tightly around himself, trapping his hands and their wandering urges. He still can’t stop his eyes though, as they sweep across the expanse of Dean’s skin over and over again, hypnotized by the way it glows in the sunlight, the way it moves and breaths, like no drawing ever could.

Suddenly Dean looks at him, and for a second Castiel’s breath is stolen by the flecks of gold in the green of Dean’s eyes, as if they are stealing the sun out of the very sky.

And then Castiel’s breath comes rushing back, along with the sound in the room, when he realizes the reason Dean is looking at him is because one of his students is trying to get his attention, having asked a question and not received any response for quite an obvious amount of time.

He wants to facepalm himself again.

He tries to keep better focus after that, but as he walks through his class, answering questions and checking on his students’ work, everywhere he looks there is Dean, on every page, from every angle, every piece of him being worshiped right there on every canvas.

He wonders if maybe it would’ve been better for his sanity if he’d asked the Janitor to sit for his class instead.

~

When the class is finally over, Castiel’s sigh is perhaps more relieved to find the end of it than when he was a student himself. In fact, he’s envious of his students, because for the past hour they’ve been allowed to sketch Dean openly, in an acceptable context, instead of having to hide what they were doing and look away every time Dean glanced in their direction. Even as a teacher it would’ve been inappropriate for him to spend the time watching Dean, when his attention should be on his students, and it was exhausting trying to stay focused on that when Dean was right there. And practically naked.

As the studio begins to empty out, a few stragglers stop to ask him some questions, and he’s somewhat grateful for the few moments of reprieve before he has to deal with Dean alone again.

But then, as they're talking, he sees another one of his older students approach Dean where he’s still waiting on the chaise, striking up a conversation with him. A very flirtatious conversation, if Pamela’s throaty laugh is anything to go by.

Castiel grits his teeth. It’s not the first time he’s seen someone hit on Dean. It happens a lot at the café. And Dean is so friendly with the clientele to begin with.

And it’s not unheard of for an artist to become enchanted with their model. He himself knows how hard a subject Dean is to resist.

But Pamela chases after anything on two legs. Castiel included, until he’d explained his preferences to her. And Dean is more than just a pretty face. Body. Everything. Not only is Dean beautiful on the outside, but on the inside as well. Down to his very soul, Castiel suspects.

From what Castiel’s learned during their brief conversations at the café, Dean works nights at a garage as well, needing the second job to support his little brother Sam. They’d lost both of their parents, so since Dean was old enough, he’d taken over Sam’s guardianship. And Dean was always going on about how smart Sam was, so very proud of his little brother. So Dean worked hard to make sure Sam got through High School, and would have enough starting money to get to a good University.

The amount of self-sacrifice, and love, and dedication that spoke of always amazed Castiel. And on top of it all, Dean always had a friendly smile for him when he came to the café.

What a man Dean would become one day.

He deserves so much more than the flighty affections of a woman who has only laid eyes on him for less than an hour. And who is probably an inappropriate age for him to begin with. Just as Castiel is.

The rest of his students leave, and as the door closes behind them Dean’s attention is drawn by the sound, and his eyes find Castiel’s again. Pamela says something then that makes Dean blush, and he quickly drops his gaze again as she laughs.

Castiel clears his throat, interrupting their quiet murmuring. It’s not like he has any kind of… claim on Dean, but he sure as hell doesn’t need to watch this in his own classroom.

Pamela raises an eyebrow at him before turning back to give Dean a wide smile. “Well, it was very nice to meet you, Dean,” she says in parting, giving Castiel a knowing leer as she breezes past him to the door. And as she pulls it open to leave, Castiel sees her discreetly turn the lock closed from the inside.

“All yours!” she winks, before the door shuts behind her.

~

And just like that, Castiel is alone in a locked room, with a nearly naked Dean Winchester.

Castiel gulps, and it feels like the sound carries all the way across the silence of the room to where Dean is standing, waiting.

“How did I do?” Dean smiles at him, seemingly oblivious to his nervousness. He returns the smile, mostly relieved that Dean has broken the ice, as he usually does, focusing Castiel’s thoughts into something that can pass as conversation.

“Thank you for helping out today Dean, I really appreciate it. And you did very well. I wish I had a chance to sketch you myself,” he admits honestly, before he can stop himself.

“Really?” Dean grins excitedly. “Well how about now? I’m not working at the garage tonight, so I don’t need to be anywhere anytime soon,” he says, stepping back towards the chaise.

Castiel blinks in shock. He hadn’t planned to ask… well, he hadn’t ever planned to ask… and he’d already been fortunate to have Dean do this much for him.

“Thank you, Dean, really,” Castiel replies, “But I’ve already imposed on you too much.”

“It’s no imposition, Cas!” Dean says grandly. “You’ve already got me here, I’m already undressed, we might as well do it!”

Castiel blinks. Dean’s eyes widen in horror.

“I did not mean for that to sound the way it did,” he cringes, his face reddening.

Castiel can’t help but laugh at that, and Dean smiles gratefully at him when he does. With their mutual embarrassment broken, Castiel sighs indulgently, realizing this is probably the only opportunity he’ll ever get to do this, to be able to sketch and stare at Dean openly, without having to hide or feel ashamed at what he’s doing. At the very least, the change would be a welcome relief.

“Alright,” Castiel says. “Why not?” he grins, gesturing at the couch. Dean shoots him another excited smile and sits down on the chaise again, carefully arranging himself as Castiel sets up one of the easels.

When Castiel looks up again he almost drops the charcoal in his hand. This time, Dean has chosen to change his position. He isn’t sitting up and looking away at the wall anymore. Instead he’s lying on his side across the chaise, resting his head on the crook of his elbow, and staring directly at Castiel.

“Is this okay?” Dean asks when Castiel sees him.

Castiel swallows hard, for what seems like the millionth time that day, before sighing to the heavens for help. But when he looks at Dean again, lying there so patiently, so perfect, the artist in him realizes this opportunity is too good to rush or half-ass.

“Just a second,” Castiel murmurs, standing up and looking at the windows. The sun had been good for his class earlier, bright enough to illuminate every angle of Dean’s body, but it had also made for very flat lighting, and Castiel wanted more dimension to work with. There’s a standing lamp behind Dean, so he turns that on before going to the windows and closing the heavy drapes across them.

He sits down at the easel before he looks up again, and he’s glad he’s sitting when he sees the effect the lighting has had on his subject. Dean’s skin is now awash with golden light from the lamp, shadows curling around his body, as if embracing him, accentuating his lines and dips, lengthening his lashes and hooding his eyes. Castiel’s breath catches in his throat at the sight.

It’s obvious how much more intimate the setting has become, both with the lighting and Dean’s changed position, but Castiel doesn’t care how it may look. It’s exactly what he’s always tried to capture in his drawings. It’s exactly how he always imagines Dean.

It should be cooler in the room now that the sun is blocked out, but instead Castiel feels warmer, and he has to loosen his tie a little before he raises his charcoal again. Taking a deep breath, he begins to draw.

~

This is what Castiel does. This is what he knows. The feel of charcoal in his hand, the scratch of it against the paper before him, creating lines and curves that he’s been aching to touch for so long… and now can, in a way. A thumb across Dean’s hip, fingertips across his cheek, brushing down the shadows in the dip of his collar… Safe in this comfort zone, there is no need for words, no need for small talk, just the silence of their shared breaths as Castiel’s eyes are finally allowed to look their fill, and Dean returns his gaze, unwavering.

At other times, with other models, perhaps Castiel would’ve carried on some banter, cracked a few corny jokes to help make the situation more comfortable, but it seems completely unnecessary with Dean. It could have been awkward, given Castiel’s desire for the young man, but perhaps now, because he doesn’t have to divert his eyes and hide it, it no longer burdens him or creates a barrier between them.

And perhaps because of this, it seems his desire increases exponentially, with every passing second, and he begins to envision ridiculous things as he looks into Dean’s eyes. Things like watching Dean pleasure himself, right there on the chaise for him to see, or spreading Dean open and taking him, over every possible surface in the room. Or perhaps even taking Dean back to his home studio, and making love to him in front of the giant mirror there, so they can both see everything. Then perhaps taking Dean to his bed, his shower afterwards, sharing his clothes, sharing his closet space, watching tv together, making love on the couch, making dinner in the kitchen, that magnificent car in his garage… But it’s when he imagines making love to Dean in the backseat, Dean looking up at him and saying, “Put your hands on me, Cas,” when Castiel throws down his charcoal with a disdainful huff, covering his eyes with his hand and massaging his temples in frustration.

“Cas? What’s wrong?” Dean asks, his voice worried, the sheet swishing loudly along the chaise as he quickly sits up.

“I just need a minute,” he sighs.

“Can I do anything?” Dean asks quietly. He sounds tentative, almost nervous, and Castiel sighs again, realizing how Dean might be interpreting his actions. He removes his hand from his eyes, and the anxiety on Dean’s face is evident, his posture tense as his hands twist in the sheet at his waist.

“I’m sorry, Dean. You’re doing great.” You’re perfect. “I’m just feeling a bit… blocked,” he smiles wanly, as close to the truth as it can be.

Dean relaxes a bit at that, but the concern never really leaves his eyes, and seeing that warms Castiel immeasurably. Although he really shouldn’t let it. As nice as it is to know Dean cares, he really needs to keep his reactions to the young man under control.

“Can I… Do you mind if I take a look?” Dean asks, gesturing at his sketch. “I mean, I know you’re private about your work and all, but people have been drawing me all afternoon and I’m really curious—“

“What?” Castiel interrupts. “What makes you think I’m private about my work?” he asks, confused.

“Well… You never let anyone at the café see what you’re drawing. I just assumed…”

“Of course,” Castiel huffs to himself. He never let anyone at the café see that he was drawing Dean.

Dean looks at him strangely at that, so he quickly plasters on a smile again, “I mean, of course you can look, Dean,” he says, trying to cover up his momentary fumble.

Dean grins and hops up off the chaise, wrapping the sheet around his waist as he walks over, and Castiel takes a deep breath, steeling himself for Dean’s reaction.

~

When Dean sees what Castiel’s drawn, he goes completely still, the grin dropping from his face as he sucks in a sharp breath of surprise. Castiel has taken some liberties with the realism of the setting, and it’s nowhere near finished, but the general idea is obvious.

Most of Dean’s form is already there, all the lines and curves of his body, though Castiel hasn’t drawn the sheet yet. He’s spent more time on Dean’s face, trying to capture the perfect bow of his lips, every curl of every eyelash, and the shadows they create, the expression in Dean eyes… But it’s not that part of the sketch Castiel’s worried about. He’s had plenty of practice drawing Dean before, even though Dean doesn’t know it.

It’s the rest of the sketch Castiel is nervous about. Instead of drawing the chaise and the rest of the background as it is, Castiel has drawn a large, reclining eagle, taking inspiration from the painting that had so enchanted Dean earlier that afternoon. One of the bird’s wings is curved above Dean’s body, feathertips extended, only just touching Dean’s skin, and arranged in such a way that they seem to be source of shadows around Dean’s body that were originally made by the angle of the lamp. The other wing is drawn where the chaise should be, creating the illusion that Dean is resting on its bed of feathers, pressed close to the bird’s chest.

The way the eagle is looking down at Dean, combined with the way its wing hovers around Dean’s body, it seems like the eagle is protecting him, or about to embrace him, or both, Castiel can’t decide. And he thinks that may be a pretty revealing interpretation of his own desires toward Dean at the moment.

“Cas…” Dean breathes quietly, “Wow…”

Dean glances quickly at the print of Zeus and Ganymede on the wall, before he looks back at Castiel’s sketch, a small smile unmistakably blossoming on his lips.

“Do you know the greek myth of Ganymede?” Castiel ventures. Dean shakes his head, not taking his eyes away from the sketch.

“Ganymede was a young sheep-herder,” Castiel explains, “who was so beautiful, the god Zeus came down in the form of an eagle to steal him away to Olympus, where he made Ganymede his immortal lover, and cupbearer to the gods.”

“Like his own personal barista?” Dean grins a little.

“Yes,” Castiel chuckles, relieved. He wasn’t quite sure how Dean would take the inherently homoerotic story, or his affinity to it, but it seems Dean doesn’t mind at all.

“But didn’t Zeus have a wife or something?” Dean asks, frowning at the picture.

“Yes he did,” Castiel replies. “And she wasn’t happy about the whole affair. So Zeus ended up setting Ganymede in the stars, as the constellation Aquarius.”

“Huh,” Dean huffs thoughtfully. “I’m an Aquarius,” he says.

“Are you?” Castiel smiles at the coincidence.  Dean looks down at him then, sudden seriousness in his eyes, and Castiel’s smile falters.

“You’re not married are you?” Dean asks, completely unabashedly.

“…No?” Castiel squawks, utterly taken by surprise.

“Good,” Dean replies.

~

Castiel’s heart begins pounding in his ears. With one question, Dean has all but propositioned him, and it’s so unexpected, he doesn’t know how to react. The way Dean is looking at him right now, he knows he could easily pull Dean into his lap and have his way with the young man. The door is locked, there’s probably hardly anyone left in the building at this time in the afternoon, and Dean is so close, Castiel can practically taste Dean’s skin already.

But to his utter dismay, Dean steps back, out of reach, and keeps going back until he’s right up against the chaise again.

And then, to Castiel’s utter shock, Dean shimmies out of his boxer-briefs behind the sheet, and lets them drop to the floor.

Castiel’s jaw drops just as far, and he is still in shock when Dean eases down on the chaise again, arranging himself in the same supine position as before, but this time threading the sheet through his legs - still covering himself, but now exposing the entire line of his hip. Just like the painting on Castiel's wall.

Castiel very nearly groans out loud. He wants to bury his face in that hip, worship it with his lips and tongue and teeth, kiss and lick and nibble his way inwards along that line to Dean’s center, where he can begin worshiping all over again.

“Do you want to keep going?” Dean asks quietly, and Castiel could swear his eyes are darker now, pupils dilated with desire that Castiel now knows might rival his own. A desire that has been steadily building over the last hour, just the two of them together in the studio, artist and subject. No, it’s been building since before then, since Castiel’s class earlier, but constrained by the presence of his students. No. It’s been weeks, months for Castiel, watching and wanting and just waiting for some sign that Dean might be able to handle his affections.

And here it seems, not only can Dean handle it, but is inviting it, laying himself out to be taken at Castiel’s leisure.

Yet somehow Castiel doesn’t feel like he has any control over the situation at all. The way Dean has so thoroughly bewitched him, Dean is clearly the one with all the power here.

Castiel does the only thing he can do. Taking a deep breath, he picks up his charcoal, and begins to draw again, adding the lines that had been covered before. His fingers brush over the new contours, almost caress-like, desirous of the real thing. But this time he no longer feels the weight of denial, because it seems the real thing is merely waiting for him to touch, enticing him to it, all but daring him to remove the last barrier of a sheet between them.

And what a thin barrier it is. Even in the soft glow of the lamp Castiel can see the outline of Dean’s flesh underneath, and under Castiel’s gaze it begins to rise, and harden, until the shape of it is unmistakable, and beautiful.

Castiel feels himself responding, and he squirms in his chair, trying to adjust. His self-control begins to crumble though, after so long, and in the face of such… desire. In a matter of seconds it becomes very obvious he’s aroused, and Dean looks at him pointedly, smirking when he sees.

That’s when Dean pulls the sheet away.

~

It's as if it moves in slow-motion, the way the material slithers across Dean's skin, rustling as it falls, so loud in the silence of the room. Until finally, the sheet is entirely gone, pooled in heap on the floor, and Dean is completely, gloriously, naked.

Something like a whimper, or a sob, escapes Castiel's throat then, unable to help himself.

The charcoal falls from his fingers, cracking apart on the ground.

And as it shatters, so do the last remnants of his self-control.

Standing up off his chair, he walks towards the chaise in a daze, drawn by the golden glow of Dean’s skin, and the welcoming heat in Dean’s eyes. He crawls onto the foot of the chaise, slowly, over the length of Dean’s legs, waiting, hovering in the warmth from Dean’s body. It is thick and heady and an almost tangible cushion to lay upon, as he takes in the sight of Dean’s lashes up close, hooded over the dark irises of Dean’s eyes, the bed of freckles across his cheeks, and the parted, waiting lips beneath. He stares and he stares and he stares, tasting Dean’s breath, heavy on his tongue, until finally, Dean grabs the loose length of his tie, pulling him down into a crushing kiss.

Castiel groans, collapsing against Dean in stages. First on his knees, stunned and humbled by the feel of Dean’s lips against his own, finally, perfectly, worshiping Dean’s mouth, speaking prayers against the caress of his tongue. His hips are the next to fall, drawn to Dean’s center, his groan returned as the proof of Dean’s desire presses against his own, insistent and strong, demanding the push and pull of the oldest of dances. And then his chest, his heart, pounding in its cage, settling on top of Dean’s body to find its answering pulse, its synchronous breath, poured back and forth between their lips into each other, over and over again.

He is wrapped up in Dean’s arms, Dean’s legs, Dean’s hands in his hair, holding him close and warming him through the very touch of his skin. It’s all he ever wants. And yet, it’s not nearly enough.

He wants to taste Dean as well. His eyelids, his eyelashes, the freckles on his cheeks, the tip of his nose, the line of his jaw, the shell of his ear, the hidden skin behind it… and when his lips finally follow that pathway to Dean’s neck, Dean gasps his name in such a way that he wants to catch the sound in his fingers and press it to his lips as well.

He does the next best thing, and nips his way down Dean’s throat, sucking at Dean’s clavicle, and the surprised moan Dean makes vibrates deep inside Castiel’s mouth, right against his tongue, and it’s as close as he can get.

His mouth takes over, nipping and nibbling across Dean’s shoulders, devouring every inch of that golden skin, hungry for so long. He can feel every shaky breath in Dean’s chest, every soft gasp and sigh against his lips, and he is sure he returns them, pressed into Dean’s collarbone, lost in Dean’s scent, that impossibly perfect mixture of boy and man at the same time. Dean’s skin, just the same, both soft and young and unmarked by anything other than that blanket of freckles, sheathing the hard planes of a growing man.

His thumbs brush across perfect, rosebud nipples, long hardened in the cool air of the room, and Dean hisses in a surprised breath, his back arching into the touch, begging for more. And there is so much more. Fingers, nails, lips, teeth, teasing and tasting until Dean is writhing, his soft-skinned hardness nudging into Castiel’s chest, reminding him of its presence, its need.

Inevitably, Castiel is lost to that need, swooping down to press his lips to that waiting flesh, cradling it in his palm as he tongues its length. Dean’s hand falls into his hair as a curse fall from his lips, his hips circling, thrusting inside Castiel’s mouth and demanding rhythm. Castiel denies him nothing, spreading Dean’s thighs father apart and swallowing down more skin, nose buried in Dean’s intoxicating scent.

He needs more, and Dean is spread open for him, just waiting to be sampled. So he noses downward, licking, kissing, lapping at that perfect, pink entrance, and Dean cries out, bucking up beneath him. Castiel licks there again, raising his eyes this time and watching as waves of pleasure roll through Dean’s body in the golden light, his face awash with the surprise of sudden ecstasy. He is so beautiful, so responsive… except when Castiel circles his tongue there again, and Dean’s body all but quakes beneath him, he finally realises that Dean is maybe… too responsive.

“Dean,” he says softly, calling his attention, and it takes a few deep breaths before Dean stills himself enough to meet Castiel’s gaze. His eyes are almost wild, so completely blown with lust, that Castiel guesses the answer ever before he asks, “Has anyone ever done this for you before?”

Dean shakes his head minutely, and Castiel doesn’t know how to react, overwhelmed by the admission, desire and lust and the need to possess warring with his conscience.

“Dean,” he swallows tightly, “Have you ever been with a man before?”

It takes longer for Dean to answer this time, but the response is the same, a small, short shake of his head, that leaves Castiel both reeling with want, and chastened by reality.

He sits up on the chaise, turning away from Dean and dropping his head in his hands.

~ split in two parts due to LJ post length restrictions