Fic: Cure for the Itch
Let's celebrate the weekend in the language of smut! (Stfu, it's totally still the weekend.)
Title: Cure for the Itch
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Warnings: Language, sexuality.
Words: 2,146
Summary: He wants to be close, wants to be buried, to be swallowed whole. (Or, Dean hates witches. Smut ensues. The end.)
Notes: Completely gratuitous sex!pollen fic, for kaylbunny, because some cliches are just fun. Admit it. Turnera diffusa/Damiana is a Central American plant widely known for its aphrodisiac effects.
Just a shift and a flutter, a cloud of diamond dust in the air - then a spark of flame reared up and the quick utterance of an angelic spell, and it's all over.
Ding dong, the witch is not dead but at least sapped of her powers. She's gobsmacked and whining by the time Dean lifts her to her feet. "Get the hell outta here," he says as the blade slices clean through the zipties holding her in place. She wheels on her heel and spits at him, and god he wants to punch her in her stupid witchy face, but Castiel taps her on the forehead and sends her packing in two seconds flat.
"I ha- hate - h-"
The rest of the sentence is lost in a sneeze, a huge explosive thing that has Dean's skull cracking and buzzing. His nose won't quit itching and his eyes are stinging a little, and it's just all so goddamn typical. This is precisely why he -
"I hate fucking witches." When he rubs his eyes enough to clear them, they settle on the boot-streaked lines of a chalk sigil across the carpet, something old that he didn't recognize when Castiel channeled it straight out of his freaky encyclopedia-brain onto the shop floor. He stares at it for a long itchy moment, rubs again, then peels swollen eyes open to look past the yawning shadows of 3 AM and find instead a panting and frowning Castiel, doubled over a cabinet with a hand low on his stomach.
Dean is there, hovering with an edge to his voice and a hand on Castiel's back. "Dude, Cas, hey - what -"
"You need to leave," Castiel says, not that measured impassive rhythm of his, but a ragged groan. It lights Dean up, sets some corner of him ablaze with a slow, deep kind of burn like a promise. He can't explain it and he doesn't want to; he just wants to lean forward and close those few inches, taste the slide of damp skin behind Castiel's ear, lick the low rumble of his voice straight out of his mouth.
So instead of leaving he crowds closer, sealing his front to the long length of tan back before him. Castiel arches against it, finds a rhythm and slides into it, easy, the wind of Dean's arm around his waist pinned in place by the insistent squeeze of his wrist. Dean's hand walks down the slender bow of Castiel's belly, the sharp cut of his hips until it hits home. Castiel's just as hard as Dean is, even though Dean doesn't remember ever getting there, and -
"That bitch," Dean growls against the shell of Castiel's ear. It rewards him a quick gasp and the backward bend of Castiel's head onto his shoulder, the part of his lips a soft slickness that Dean has to taste.
"Turnera diffusa," Castiel sighs, the words just a thin shadow of what they should be. "Damiana - she concentrated...infused it with -"
He cuts the rest to silence, which is all the same because Dean doesn't give a damn about anything but getting his mouth on Castiel's skin right now. Dean's feeling wound tight and like he could lose himself in this, in Castiel rocking back against him and snaking the s-curve of his spine into Dean's chest, rolling and uncoiling and moving so tight against him, like he can't stop, like he wants it.
He pushes at the starched white of Castiel's collar and replaces fabric with mouth. "D'you want it?" he slurs against the flesh there, soft and hot, thudding with a wild beat beneath the flat of his tongue. "Cas?"
"It's...a spell, Dean, it's not...real," Castiel's head quirks sideways to bare more flesh, and either it's a lie or the words out of his mouth are a lie - but Castiel feels real, feels heavy and desperate and hard against him, so Dean is more inclined to believe his body over his words.
He spins Castiel around and pins him in place, hips against hips and it's obvious which one was the liar now. "You're telling me you don't want this?"
It's a tease, one that widens Castiel's eyes and chokes the words up in his throat. Dean tips his head back and bites where he can feel the next lie stirring, breathes in the sharp scent of sweat and flesh and something faintly botanical.
"Dean," is the only response he receives.
Then his hands are on Castiel's hips, hoisting up and positioning him on the countertop, pushing knees apart and tugging at all the fabric he can find. There's a hot flash of breath across his face and Castiel saying his name, then a few fumbled buttons, the zing of a zipper, before Castiel grabs his face and forces him to look straight into those wild, darkened eyes that bleed a little confusion and a hell of a lot of want.
Dean kisses him to shut him up, because this is just some stupid side effect after all. Stupid fucking witch and her stupid fucking sex powder. He doesn't need things like secrets and truths burying themselves between the simple, honest facts that this is just a spell and that it's not real.
The desire's not real, that is. Castiel's skin, his open mouth all wet and inviting not half a foot from Dean's, the lock of his knees around Dean's hips and how hard he is in Dean's hand, these things are real.
It's the want beyond immediate satiation that's a lie, and it's a lie because it has to be.
Dean smothers it all against Castiel's mouth and finds a rhythm-and-twist that makes Castiel's teeth click together, makes his eyes roll back to white and the lashes over them shake and flutter. It's unclear when he got out of his trench coat and fought off his suit jacket and half his shirt too. Dean's brain catches up at the point when Castiel's tie has come loose of its nestled place and his shirt has opened most of the way to reveal a wide v of smooth skin. His belt is jangling at his sides and his pants are open, nudged down just enough, his cock in Dean's hand and his mouth finding Dean's and latching on.
The kiss is a quick and dirty slide of tongues, teeth knocking together with a faint tang of copper, and Dean would venture to say he never knew the meaning of tongue-fucked until he kissed Castiel. He's ravenous and a little clumsy, sighing small hungry noises into it every time he licks forward or switches angles. It's good, Dean thinks. Yeah, it's good, it's really fucking good.
Castiel is really fucking good.
The cabinet is less than friendly as Dean presses himself against it, not so much wanting the pressure as he wants to bury himself as far between the wide spread of Castiel's thighs as he can. He wants to be close, wants to be buried, to be swallowed whole.
And Castiel allows it, locking his heels around Dean's thighs and pulling him in, shoving his chest forward and breaking off with a wet smack to drop his eyes against Dean's shoulder, hiss his breath through the fabric of Dean's shirt that's caught between white knuckles. It's just about the hottest thing ever, Dean thinks, so he rakes through Castiel's hair and pulls him back, says the words in a growl, "I wanna see you."
Tiny creases appear around Castiel's eyes when he squeezes them tighter. The grip he has in Dean's shirt morphs to a persistent downward drag, his mouth drops open in a silent gasp and he comes, slick and sudden in Dean's hand, and that is the hottest thing ever, Dean decides.
Castiel seems not to mind the mess they're making. Instead he's shaking and re-educating himself with the concept of breathing, laboring to draw oxygen from the air hanging thick between them. Dean pulls him back and sets him straight, looks him in the eye and says his name, but Castiel is gone, he's shaken and undone and he doesn't hear it.
Dean shakes him. "I need - Cas, I -"
"I know."
A weak push and Dean is stepping back. His skin is too small and there are jolts like flame scurrying into every corner of his body, licking up from his fingers where they touch Castiel's jaw, his wrists where the pulse is raging, his ribs that feel too brittle, too burned by the blood bubbling in his veins. Then Castiel is grabbing him by the hips and spinning him around with a startling strength and demand, going to his knees and licking at his lips as he works on Dean's fly.
It's clumsy and taking too long, but worth it when his mouth opens around Dean's flesh, wetter and slicker than anything Dean's ever imagined. Dean moans into it and Castiel slides forward again, creates a little suction and goes wild in an instant, hesitation and curiosity splitting apart, peeling back into driven hunger, no real tact but more than enough enthusiasm. It's all just about perfect, the positively wicked slurps and sighs Castiel is making, his hand clamped tight around the back of Dean's thigh, other around the base of his cock, thumbing back where it's most sensitive.
Dean tips forward and watches the slide of his own dick past Castiel's slickened red lips, those eyes like blades cutting into him, pinning him open, catches a breath and forgets how to function, how to exist, how to keep his heart from riding up and going everywhere at once.
He comes almost embarrassingly fast, and would feel bad about not giving a warning if Castiel had shown any degree of caring. But he barely misses a beat before swallowing it down and licking out again, suckling until every drop is spent and Dean can't, he can't -
He spares a moment to think that Castiel doesn't have a gag reflex because he doesn't have any human reflexes because he's not human, but that's a whole 'nother ballgame for another time that he's not even going to skirt right now.
Right now he feels warm and bright and content, like he's been put together just right, like this maybe wasn't all some massive mistake they can blame on the fucking witch and never mention again. Right now Castiel feels alive and buzzing with a certain kind of electricity as he mouths at Dean's stomach. Right now Dean won't cave to the comparisons his brain is making between what Castiel really looks like down there and what he's always thought Castiel would look like down there, because he's not supposed to think things like that - but the truth of it is surprising and sharp, he wants this, and right now Dean refuses to think about that too.
Right now he just wants to sleep.
Effect of the spell, probably.
Castiel climbs up in a long crawl of licks and kisses, the roll of his teeth around a nipple, before he's pushing his tongue into Dean's mouth and holding him firmly in place with two hands behind his ears. It starts in a rage but quickly simmers down, winding out into slow sweeps of tongue and breath, tip of Castiel's tongue touching the roof of Dean's mouth. Castiel holds on until he can't hold on anymore, kisses Dean until he can't kiss him anymore, before he pulls back and tugs the pout of his lower lip between his teeth.
"I -"
He stops to clear his throat before going on, and it's so human and overwhelmed and awkward that Dean laughs a little. Castiel looks surprised.
"I...believe the effects of the spell have been..."
The sentence dies and rears back up as a lazy blur of Castiel's mouth pressed against Dean's, like he can't stay away, can't stop, like the spell is still there even when they both know it's broken.
Dean gasps at the taste of himself still housed in Castiel's mouth, under his tongue, along the smooth white ridge of his teeth. He falls into it, adjusts his breathing and brings his hands up to sweep at Castiel's back, under his skewed shirt where it's still warm and damp.
And if he rests his forehead against Castiel's temple when he pulls back, leaves his eyes shut a little longer than they need to be when Castiel says his name, that's a slice of secrecy that he's going to keep tucked firmly inside, behind excuses of spells and witches and blind black magic. No one ever has to know, no one ever has to see; Dean coils it up and puts it away, buries it inside where he can open it and extract a taste any time, like a junkie hoarding smack, like an addict.
He swallows a mouthful of Castiel's taste, holds a breath of his air inside, and keeps it.
Title: Cure for the Itch
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Warnings: Language, sexuality.
Words: 2,146
Summary: He wants to be close, wants to be buried, to be swallowed whole. (Or, Dean hates witches. Smut ensues. The end.)
Notes: Completely gratuitous sex!pollen fic, for kaylbunny, because some cliches are just fun. Admit it. Turnera diffusa/Damiana is a Central American plant widely known for its aphrodisiac effects.
Just a shift and a flutter, a cloud of diamond dust in the air - then a spark of flame reared up and the quick utterance of an angelic spell, and it's all over.
Ding dong, the witch is not dead but at least sapped of her powers. She's gobsmacked and whining by the time Dean lifts her to her feet. "Get the hell outta here," he says as the blade slices clean through the zipties holding her in place. She wheels on her heel and spits at him, and god he wants to punch her in her stupid witchy face, but Castiel taps her on the forehead and sends her packing in two seconds flat.
"I ha- hate - h-"
The rest of the sentence is lost in a sneeze, a huge explosive thing that has Dean's skull cracking and buzzing. His nose won't quit itching and his eyes are stinging a little, and it's just all so goddamn typical. This is precisely why he -
"I hate fucking witches." When he rubs his eyes enough to clear them, they settle on the boot-streaked lines of a chalk sigil across the carpet, something old that he didn't recognize when Castiel channeled it straight out of his freaky encyclopedia-brain onto the shop floor. He stares at it for a long itchy moment, rubs again, then peels swollen eyes open to look past the yawning shadows of 3 AM and find instead a panting and frowning Castiel, doubled over a cabinet with a hand low on his stomach.
Dean is there, hovering with an edge to his voice and a hand on Castiel's back. "Dude, Cas, hey - what -"
"You need to leave," Castiel says, not that measured impassive rhythm of his, but a ragged groan. It lights Dean up, sets some corner of him ablaze with a slow, deep kind of burn like a promise. He can't explain it and he doesn't want to; he just wants to lean forward and close those few inches, taste the slide of damp skin behind Castiel's ear, lick the low rumble of his voice straight out of his mouth.
So instead of leaving he crowds closer, sealing his front to the long length of tan back before him. Castiel arches against it, finds a rhythm and slides into it, easy, the wind of Dean's arm around his waist pinned in place by the insistent squeeze of his wrist. Dean's hand walks down the slender bow of Castiel's belly, the sharp cut of his hips until it hits home. Castiel's just as hard as Dean is, even though Dean doesn't remember ever getting there, and -
"That bitch," Dean growls against the shell of Castiel's ear. It rewards him a quick gasp and the backward bend of Castiel's head onto his shoulder, the part of his lips a soft slickness that Dean has to taste.
"Turnera diffusa," Castiel sighs, the words just a thin shadow of what they should be. "Damiana - she concentrated...infused it with -"
He cuts the rest to silence, which is all the same because Dean doesn't give a damn about anything but getting his mouth on Castiel's skin right now. Dean's feeling wound tight and like he could lose himself in this, in Castiel rocking back against him and snaking the s-curve of his spine into Dean's chest, rolling and uncoiling and moving so tight against him, like he can't stop, like he wants it.
He pushes at the starched white of Castiel's collar and replaces fabric with mouth. "D'you want it?" he slurs against the flesh there, soft and hot, thudding with a wild beat beneath the flat of his tongue. "Cas?"
"It's...a spell, Dean, it's not...real," Castiel's head quirks sideways to bare more flesh, and either it's a lie or the words out of his mouth are a lie - but Castiel feels real, feels heavy and desperate and hard against him, so Dean is more inclined to believe his body over his words.
He spins Castiel around and pins him in place, hips against hips and it's obvious which one was the liar now. "You're telling me you don't want this?"
It's a tease, one that widens Castiel's eyes and chokes the words up in his throat. Dean tips his head back and bites where he can feel the next lie stirring, breathes in the sharp scent of sweat and flesh and something faintly botanical.
"Dean," is the only response he receives.
Then his hands are on Castiel's hips, hoisting up and positioning him on the countertop, pushing knees apart and tugging at all the fabric he can find. There's a hot flash of breath across his face and Castiel saying his name, then a few fumbled buttons, the zing of a zipper, before Castiel grabs his face and forces him to look straight into those wild, darkened eyes that bleed a little confusion and a hell of a lot of want.
Dean kisses him to shut him up, because this is just some stupid side effect after all. Stupid fucking witch and her stupid fucking sex powder. He doesn't need things like secrets and truths burying themselves between the simple, honest facts that this is just a spell and that it's not real.
The desire's not real, that is. Castiel's skin, his open mouth all wet and inviting not half a foot from Dean's, the lock of his knees around Dean's hips and how hard he is in Dean's hand, these things are real.
It's the want beyond immediate satiation that's a lie, and it's a lie because it has to be.
Dean smothers it all against Castiel's mouth and finds a rhythm-and-twist that makes Castiel's teeth click together, makes his eyes roll back to white and the lashes over them shake and flutter. It's unclear when he got out of his trench coat and fought off his suit jacket and half his shirt too. Dean's brain catches up at the point when Castiel's tie has come loose of its nestled place and his shirt has opened most of the way to reveal a wide v of smooth skin. His belt is jangling at his sides and his pants are open, nudged down just enough, his cock in Dean's hand and his mouth finding Dean's and latching on.
The kiss is a quick and dirty slide of tongues, teeth knocking together with a faint tang of copper, and Dean would venture to say he never knew the meaning of tongue-fucked until he kissed Castiel. He's ravenous and a little clumsy, sighing small hungry noises into it every time he licks forward or switches angles. It's good, Dean thinks. Yeah, it's good, it's really fucking good.
Castiel is really fucking good.
The cabinet is less than friendly as Dean presses himself against it, not so much wanting the pressure as he wants to bury himself as far between the wide spread of Castiel's thighs as he can. He wants to be close, wants to be buried, to be swallowed whole.
And Castiel allows it, locking his heels around Dean's thighs and pulling him in, shoving his chest forward and breaking off with a wet smack to drop his eyes against Dean's shoulder, hiss his breath through the fabric of Dean's shirt that's caught between white knuckles. It's just about the hottest thing ever, Dean thinks, so he rakes through Castiel's hair and pulls him back, says the words in a growl, "I wanna see you."
Tiny creases appear around Castiel's eyes when he squeezes them tighter. The grip he has in Dean's shirt morphs to a persistent downward drag, his mouth drops open in a silent gasp and he comes, slick and sudden in Dean's hand, and that is the hottest thing ever, Dean decides.
Castiel seems not to mind the mess they're making. Instead he's shaking and re-educating himself with the concept of breathing, laboring to draw oxygen from the air hanging thick between them. Dean pulls him back and sets him straight, looks him in the eye and says his name, but Castiel is gone, he's shaken and undone and he doesn't hear it.
Dean shakes him. "I need - Cas, I -"
"I know."
A weak push and Dean is stepping back. His skin is too small and there are jolts like flame scurrying into every corner of his body, licking up from his fingers where they touch Castiel's jaw, his wrists where the pulse is raging, his ribs that feel too brittle, too burned by the blood bubbling in his veins. Then Castiel is grabbing him by the hips and spinning him around with a startling strength and demand, going to his knees and licking at his lips as he works on Dean's fly.
It's clumsy and taking too long, but worth it when his mouth opens around Dean's flesh, wetter and slicker than anything Dean's ever imagined. Dean moans into it and Castiel slides forward again, creates a little suction and goes wild in an instant, hesitation and curiosity splitting apart, peeling back into driven hunger, no real tact but more than enough enthusiasm. It's all just about perfect, the positively wicked slurps and sighs Castiel is making, his hand clamped tight around the back of Dean's thigh, other around the base of his cock, thumbing back where it's most sensitive.
Dean tips forward and watches the slide of his own dick past Castiel's slickened red lips, those eyes like blades cutting into him, pinning him open, catches a breath and forgets how to function, how to exist, how to keep his heart from riding up and going everywhere at once.
He comes almost embarrassingly fast, and would feel bad about not giving a warning if Castiel had shown any degree of caring. But he barely misses a beat before swallowing it down and licking out again, suckling until every drop is spent and Dean can't, he can't -
He spares a moment to think that Castiel doesn't have a gag reflex because he doesn't have any human reflexes because he's not human, but that's a whole 'nother ballgame for another time that he's not even going to skirt right now.
Right now he feels warm and bright and content, like he's been put together just right, like this maybe wasn't all some massive mistake they can blame on the fucking witch and never mention again. Right now Castiel feels alive and buzzing with a certain kind of electricity as he mouths at Dean's stomach. Right now Dean won't cave to the comparisons his brain is making between what Castiel really looks like down there and what he's always thought Castiel would look like down there, because he's not supposed to think things like that - but the truth of it is surprising and sharp, he wants this, and right now Dean refuses to think about that too.
Right now he just wants to sleep.
Effect of the spell, probably.
Castiel climbs up in a long crawl of licks and kisses, the roll of his teeth around a nipple, before he's pushing his tongue into Dean's mouth and holding him firmly in place with two hands behind his ears. It starts in a rage but quickly simmers down, winding out into slow sweeps of tongue and breath, tip of Castiel's tongue touching the roof of Dean's mouth. Castiel holds on until he can't hold on anymore, kisses Dean until he can't kiss him anymore, before he pulls back and tugs the pout of his lower lip between his teeth.
"I -"
He stops to clear his throat before going on, and it's so human and overwhelmed and awkward that Dean laughs a little. Castiel looks surprised.
"I...believe the effects of the spell have been..."
The sentence dies and rears back up as a lazy blur of Castiel's mouth pressed against Dean's, like he can't stay away, can't stop, like the spell is still there even when they both know it's broken.
Dean gasps at the taste of himself still housed in Castiel's mouth, under his tongue, along the smooth white ridge of his teeth. He falls into it, adjusts his breathing and brings his hands up to sweep at Castiel's back, under his skewed shirt where it's still warm and damp.
And if he rests his forehead against Castiel's temple when he pulls back, leaves his eyes shut a little longer than they need to be when Castiel says his name, that's a slice of secrecy that he's going to keep tucked firmly inside, behind excuses of spells and witches and blind black magic. No one ever has to know, no one ever has to see; Dean coils it up and puts it away, buries it inside where he can open it and extract a taste any time, like a junkie hoarding smack, like an addict.
He swallows a mouthful of Castiel's taste, holds a breath of his air inside, and keeps it.