Fic: American as Apple Pie (Dean/Castiel)
*facepalm* I don't even know, you guys.
Title: American as Apple Pie
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Genre: Dean/Castiel ridiculous smutty crack
Spoilers: Nonspecific S4
Warnings: Um. Let’s just say, if you are a big supporter of the Flag Protection Act or similar, you will not like this story.
Length: ~2,300 words
Summary: Dean saves the world the same way he entered it: buck naked.
Author’s Note: This is all aesc’s fault. She wanted naked Dean wrapped in the American flag. Uh…she got it? It should also be noted: when this story is not aesc’s fault, it is siriaeve’s.
American as Apple Pie
Dean saves the world the same way he entered it: buck naked.
The fight over, he lays down his sword, dirty and bloodstained and still, yup, naked. Castiel, sensing a potentially awkward post-averted-apocalypse moment, quietly walks over with the first available piece of fabric (his own coat having been ripped to shreds by the corporeal extension of his wings): an American flag.
The angel may have a sharp eye for potential blasphemies, but he’s apparently kind of blind to their patriotic counterparts.
No mind. Dean wraps himself gratefully in the stars and stripes, shivering a little now as the adrenaline fades. He’s grinning, though. He turns to Sam. “Dude,” he says, “I’m Superman.”
“I thought you were Batman.”
The grin widens. “I’m Batman’s raw sex appeal combined with Superman’s unstoppable awesome.”
Sam makes a face. “I take it back. I want to join forces with Lucifer. Hell on Earth may be preferable to you being smug for all eternity.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sam catches Castiel’s frown. “What? Too soon?”
Castiel shakes his head, as if in response to another question entirely. “We should leave this place,” he says. He still looks solemn-like he’s the only one not riding the “We just saved the world!” high.
“Cas. Come on.” Dean walks up to him: he’s abandoned his experiment with tucking the flag around his waist like a towel, and has it draped over his shoulders like a prize fighter’s cape; this does little to help with the problem of hiding what the fabric was intended to hide. “We did it, Cas!” Dean says, grinning dopily, and Castiel feels his own mouth give a worrying twitch. “We won, and without you, we never-”
Castiel grabs his wrist, suddenly, tightly. “We need to leave this place,” he repeats, desperation creeping into his voice, and then suddenly desire becomes action: they are gone, they are in a field, and Castiel is bearing Dean down onto the ground, the piece of red, white, and blue silk spreading below them like a blanket.
“Uh…” says Dean, needing a moment to catch up. Castiel looms above him, the look in his eyes bright and sharp, his wings arching out like a dark canopy. He is a strange mixture, in that moment, of otherworldliness-freaking wings-and something wholly tangible, earthbound. “I’m sorry,” Castiel says, his voice low, “I couldn’t wait another second.”
Dean maybe got hit in the head a few times in between having his clothes burned away by Lucifer’s unholy hellfire; he’s still not quite getting it. “Another second to-?” he starts, dumbly, and then Castiel raises his hand to his face and licks a long, wet stripe down his palm. Which he then wraps firmly and intently around Dean’s cock.
Oh. Well, that answers that question, then.
Castiel is suddenly all over him, his restraint having burst with tsunami-like force. He seems intent on caressing every inch of Dean’s skin, his mouth and his tongue and even the tips of his hair brushing across everything from Dean’s stomach to his collarbone to the fleshy rise of skin just above his armpit. Dean wonders, vaguely, if Castiel is admiring his own handiwork: Dean is here now because of him. Dean is moaning and writhing and making little choked, cut-off gasps as an angel nips and sucks and bites and steadily jerks him off, all because of Castiel. That’s just…wow. Too fucking much.
Of course, the whole world, now, is only here because of Dean, and he’s really gonna try not to get cocky, but when the currently available representation of the world is Castiel, stretched out above him with the tattered remains of his shirt hanging in pieces off his slimly muscled chest; with his wings rising and falling with his hitching breath, beating the air; with an expression of shocky, almost painful-looking desire on his face, flushing across his cheeks, leaving him trembling and hard and human against Dean, for Dean-well, it’s hard not to feel cocky about that.
Dean rocks his hips up into Castiel’s eager fist, then reaches up and grabs hold of the steadfast stripe of Cas’ tie. He pulls him down until they’re breathing the same air, until Cas’ hot pants are warm against his cheek. Their stubble scrapes together and they both moan, Dean’s cock pulsing in Castiel’s hand. Dean sucks in a shaky breath. “Been wanting it a long time, huh?” he whispers in Cas’ ear. “Been wanting me. Waiting. Holding back. Keeping those clever hands to yourself until you just. Couldn’t. Take it. Any-”
“Dean,” Cas growls, and it’s as if the word itself has actual force: as if it is Castiel’s voice, and not his preternaturally swift hands, that grab Dean’s wrists and pin them at his sides, that spread-eagle him while Castiel perches above him, straddling Dean with his wings rearing up above their heads.
Dean laughs and grunts, trying to find something to rub his cock against, now that he’s lost the warmth and pressure of Castiel’s hand. “Take off your damn pants.”
Castiel looks down at him through his eyelashes; the pants disappear with barely a whisper. Dean’s cock is happily introduced to Cas’ own straining one; Dean suspects that they will become fast friends. “Nice,” he says. “Now that’s a use of angel mojo I can get behind. Gets rid of that awkward question of when to take off your socks.”
“Dean?” Castiel manages to look both lustful and somewhat exasperated.
“Yeah?”
“Stop talking.”
Unfortunately, Dean has never been very good at following orders, and he’s not about to start now. He wraps a leg around Cas’ hip to encourage their bump and slide, their desperately eager grind, and as they rock together-Castiel’s feathers occasionally sweeping down to brush against Dean’s bent knee, across the firm muscle of his calf-a steady stream of filth starts to burble out of Dean’s mouth. He can’t help it: if he kept quiet, if he bit his lip, he thinks he’d go supernova, erupt with light like an angel regaining its grace. And he’s got all the grace he needs right here in Castiel, in his wide pianist’s hands wrapping around Dean’s wrists, and his sweet swollen mouth raising welts along the curve of Dean’s throat. So forget about free will-he’s got no choice but to say, “Fuck, Cas, yes” and “Touch me, come on, I need your mouth,” and “Do it, I want you to-put it in me, goddammit, I know it’s what you want, I need you to fuck me, now” until he’s not sure if he’s begging or granting permission. Can’t know when all Cas can seem to manage is “Dean, Dean, Dean” and a slick finger winding its way between their bodies and pushing against his ass.
He’s not sure who shudders more when it finally breaches him, when it slips inside-him or Cas, though Castiel certainly looks wrecked, just from this, an almost-innocent brush of a fingernail around the outside of his hole, an exploratory push and Castiel’s wide, intent eyes above him. Dean’s crumpling silk between his hands, his back sliding up and down on the slick fabric, but he tears himself away, reaches up and grabs Castiel’s cheek, holds him steady. “Yes,” he says, “please,” and arches up eagerly into the burn and stretch, into the look in Cas’ eyes before his lashes flutter closed and he slides into Dean with a combination of human passion and angelic certainty.
Castiel feels huge inside him, as big as the world; and Dean feels full of everything he saved: each blade of grass, every rustling leaf, all the pounding oceans. It’s all in him and he can hold it all, take it all, beg for more-tightening his grip on Cas’ back, urging him deeper, clawing at his shoulder blades and the juts of hollow bone that extend beyond them, arching up toward the bright blue morning that Dean spread across the sky.
Dean arches up off their makeshift blanket, off the ground, and he’s so full of sensation, of Castiel, that it takes him several long moments to realize that he’s really up off the ground, hovering in the air like in some crazy movie possession. Castiel seems blithely unaware, blind to anything but Dean, and Dean himself can barely register more than, Okay, floating, before Castiel’s thrusts spark something inside him and Castiel’s fingers glide over the head of his dick, and Castiel’s wings unfurl to new lengths with a crack that seems to split the air. Or maybe that’s Cas’ shout, loud enough to shatter glass and so sweet to Dean’s ears now that he shudders and comes with nothing but the empty air and Castiel’s strong hands to cushion his fall.
When he comes to himself again they are trailing silk as they drift back toward the ground. Castiel looks as dazed as Dean feels; he moves a hand to cradle Dean’s neck as they touch down, but beyond that he seems incapable. So they continue to lie together, Castiel half on top of Dean, their spent cocks languid between their legs. Dean figures it’s a good thing the angel’s not that heavy. He figures he probably wouldn’t mind if he was.
He is, finally, speechless.
And in fact, it is Castiel who breaks the silence first: lifting his head suddenly, he looks down at Dean and does something that, in the aftermath of airborne orgasms, shouldn’t seem wondrous. But it is.
Castiel laughs.
It rises up out of him, slowly: first a smile, breaking like a sunrise across his face, and then a slow, burbling chuckle, passing all the way through him, making the skin crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Dean just lies there, astonished; and then he threads his fingers through Castiel’s hair, pulls his mouth down and kisses him, again and again, because he thinks the world was so very worth saving, if only just for this.
“Sam’s really going to be wondering where the hell we are,” Dean says, a considerable amount of time later. “He’s going to think you spirited me away to have your wicked way with me.”
“I did spirit you away to have my wicked way with you,” Castiel says.
“Also he owes me pie,” Dean says, moving on to the heart of the issue. “I deserve celebratory world-saving pie.”
“That and more,” says Castiel, and Dean’s momentarily worried that he broke his angel and made him all mushy, but then wings flap and the world spins and Dean’s standing in a motel room he honestly never expected to live to see again, which is probably why he left wet towels all over the bathroom floor. He uses one of them to wipe himself clean, relieved that he doesn’t have to face the question of whether he’d have been willing to use the American flag for that purpose, and when he steps back out into the main room, Castiel is back, looking as pristine and polished as ever. Well, aside from the fact that his tie is still askew-and Dean’s pretty sure that’s a hickey making itself known on his neck.
Dean pulls on fresh jeans and a t-shirt; Castiel watches him. When Dean looks at the angel out of the corner of his eye, he can almost still see the shadow of wings, scraping the low motel ceiling. Castiel looks smaller now that they’re gone, put away-more contained, less like a creature capable of being moved by great passions. And yet there is still something, a glint in his bottomless blue eyes… Dean drops the hem of his shirt and steps closer. Castiel doesn’t back away from this invasion of personal space, but in some way curves his body, making space for Dean’s, all seemingly without moving at all. Kissing Castiel, touching him, somehow seems dirtier when they’re both fully clothed. Dean likes it.
Anyone who ever said that Dean moves solely on base impulses wouldn’t believe the willpower it takes to break away, or that he does it. “Sam,” he says, and Castiel nods, and then they’re back in the shadow of the ruined church. Sam is sitting awkwardly on an upturned urn, frowning and dejectedly texting someone. He looks up at them and raises an eyebrow. “Have fun?”
The elaborate story Dean had concocted about Important Angel Business (yeah-in his pants) dies on his lips. “Yes,” he manages, with some dignity.
Sam stands up. “Are you two sure you’ve finished blowing off steam? You don’t need more time? ’Cause I could just, you know, wait here.”
Dean puts on his best stern older brother face. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, Sammy.”
“I thought that was puns.”
“I thought it was your face.”
Both Winchesters stop and turn to stare at Castiel. For a moment, he looks excessively pleased with himself; then serenity glides back over his features like a mask. “I believe pie is at this point traditional.”
Dean claps his hands together. “Pie will always be a traditional part of celebrating Dean Winchester Day.”
“Dean Winchester Day?” Sam is indignant-he helped saved the world too, dammit, and even managed to hold onto his underwear in the process.
Dean shrugs. “The name’s negotiable. The pie isn’t.”
“What about the sex?” Castiel whispers, pressing close to him.
“That,” Dean declares, “is the most sacred and important aspect of Dean Winchester Day. I hope Chuck’s really clear on that part.”
As Chuck’s subsequent therapy bills prove, he is. And thus it is written. And so have we have celebrated Winchesternalia ever since.
Not to mention Flag Day.
Uh…Happy Fourth of July, everyone! Please don’t hurt me.
Title: American as Apple Pie
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Genre: Dean/Castiel ridiculous smutty crack
Spoilers: Nonspecific S4
Warnings: Um. Let’s just say, if you are a big supporter of the Flag Protection Act or similar, you will not like this story.
Length: ~2,300 words
Summary: Dean saves the world the same way he entered it: buck naked.
Author’s Note: This is all aesc’s fault. She wanted naked Dean wrapped in the American flag. Uh…she got it? It should also be noted: when this story is not aesc’s fault, it is siriaeve’s.
American as Apple Pie
Dean saves the world the same way he entered it: buck naked.
The fight over, he lays down his sword, dirty and bloodstained and still, yup, naked. Castiel, sensing a potentially awkward post-averted-apocalypse moment, quietly walks over with the first available piece of fabric (his own coat having been ripped to shreds by the corporeal extension of his wings): an American flag.
The angel may have a sharp eye for potential blasphemies, but he’s apparently kind of blind to their patriotic counterparts.
No mind. Dean wraps himself gratefully in the stars and stripes, shivering a little now as the adrenaline fades. He’s grinning, though. He turns to Sam. “Dude,” he says, “I’m Superman.”
“I thought you were Batman.”
The grin widens. “I’m Batman’s raw sex appeal combined with Superman’s unstoppable awesome.”
Sam makes a face. “I take it back. I want to join forces with Lucifer. Hell on Earth may be preferable to you being smug for all eternity.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sam catches Castiel’s frown. “What? Too soon?”
Castiel shakes his head, as if in response to another question entirely. “We should leave this place,” he says. He still looks solemn-like he’s the only one not riding the “We just saved the world!” high.
“Cas. Come on.” Dean walks up to him: he’s abandoned his experiment with tucking the flag around his waist like a towel, and has it draped over his shoulders like a prize fighter’s cape; this does little to help with the problem of hiding what the fabric was intended to hide. “We did it, Cas!” Dean says, grinning dopily, and Castiel feels his own mouth give a worrying twitch. “We won, and without you, we never-”
Castiel grabs his wrist, suddenly, tightly. “We need to leave this place,” he repeats, desperation creeping into his voice, and then suddenly desire becomes action: they are gone, they are in a field, and Castiel is bearing Dean down onto the ground, the piece of red, white, and blue silk spreading below them like a blanket.
“Uh…” says Dean, needing a moment to catch up. Castiel looms above him, the look in his eyes bright and sharp, his wings arching out like a dark canopy. He is a strange mixture, in that moment, of otherworldliness-freaking wings-and something wholly tangible, earthbound. “I’m sorry,” Castiel says, his voice low, “I couldn’t wait another second.”
Dean maybe got hit in the head a few times in between having his clothes burned away by Lucifer’s unholy hellfire; he’s still not quite getting it. “Another second to-?” he starts, dumbly, and then Castiel raises his hand to his face and licks a long, wet stripe down his palm. Which he then wraps firmly and intently around Dean’s cock.
Oh. Well, that answers that question, then.
Castiel is suddenly all over him, his restraint having burst with tsunami-like force. He seems intent on caressing every inch of Dean’s skin, his mouth and his tongue and even the tips of his hair brushing across everything from Dean’s stomach to his collarbone to the fleshy rise of skin just above his armpit. Dean wonders, vaguely, if Castiel is admiring his own handiwork: Dean is here now because of him. Dean is moaning and writhing and making little choked, cut-off gasps as an angel nips and sucks and bites and steadily jerks him off, all because of Castiel. That’s just…wow. Too fucking much.
Of course, the whole world, now, is only here because of Dean, and he’s really gonna try not to get cocky, but when the currently available representation of the world is Castiel, stretched out above him with the tattered remains of his shirt hanging in pieces off his slimly muscled chest; with his wings rising and falling with his hitching breath, beating the air; with an expression of shocky, almost painful-looking desire on his face, flushing across his cheeks, leaving him trembling and hard and human against Dean, for Dean-well, it’s hard not to feel cocky about that.
Dean rocks his hips up into Castiel’s eager fist, then reaches up and grabs hold of the steadfast stripe of Cas’ tie. He pulls him down until they’re breathing the same air, until Cas’ hot pants are warm against his cheek. Their stubble scrapes together and they both moan, Dean’s cock pulsing in Castiel’s hand. Dean sucks in a shaky breath. “Been wanting it a long time, huh?” he whispers in Cas’ ear. “Been wanting me. Waiting. Holding back. Keeping those clever hands to yourself until you just. Couldn’t. Take it. Any-”
“Dean,” Cas growls, and it’s as if the word itself has actual force: as if it is Castiel’s voice, and not his preternaturally swift hands, that grab Dean’s wrists and pin them at his sides, that spread-eagle him while Castiel perches above him, straddling Dean with his wings rearing up above their heads.
Dean laughs and grunts, trying to find something to rub his cock against, now that he’s lost the warmth and pressure of Castiel’s hand. “Take off your damn pants.”
Castiel looks down at him through his eyelashes; the pants disappear with barely a whisper. Dean’s cock is happily introduced to Cas’ own straining one; Dean suspects that they will become fast friends. “Nice,” he says. “Now that’s a use of angel mojo I can get behind. Gets rid of that awkward question of when to take off your socks.”
“Dean?” Castiel manages to look both lustful and somewhat exasperated.
“Yeah?”
“Stop talking.”
Unfortunately, Dean has never been very good at following orders, and he’s not about to start now. He wraps a leg around Cas’ hip to encourage their bump and slide, their desperately eager grind, and as they rock together-Castiel’s feathers occasionally sweeping down to brush against Dean’s bent knee, across the firm muscle of his calf-a steady stream of filth starts to burble out of Dean’s mouth. He can’t help it: if he kept quiet, if he bit his lip, he thinks he’d go supernova, erupt with light like an angel regaining its grace. And he’s got all the grace he needs right here in Castiel, in his wide pianist’s hands wrapping around Dean’s wrists, and his sweet swollen mouth raising welts along the curve of Dean’s throat. So forget about free will-he’s got no choice but to say, “Fuck, Cas, yes” and “Touch me, come on, I need your mouth,” and “Do it, I want you to-put it in me, goddammit, I know it’s what you want, I need you to fuck me, now” until he’s not sure if he’s begging or granting permission. Can’t know when all Cas can seem to manage is “Dean, Dean, Dean” and a slick finger winding its way between their bodies and pushing against his ass.
He’s not sure who shudders more when it finally breaches him, when it slips inside-him or Cas, though Castiel certainly looks wrecked, just from this, an almost-innocent brush of a fingernail around the outside of his hole, an exploratory push and Castiel’s wide, intent eyes above him. Dean’s crumpling silk between his hands, his back sliding up and down on the slick fabric, but he tears himself away, reaches up and grabs Castiel’s cheek, holds him steady. “Yes,” he says, “please,” and arches up eagerly into the burn and stretch, into the look in Cas’ eyes before his lashes flutter closed and he slides into Dean with a combination of human passion and angelic certainty.
Castiel feels huge inside him, as big as the world; and Dean feels full of everything he saved: each blade of grass, every rustling leaf, all the pounding oceans. It’s all in him and he can hold it all, take it all, beg for more-tightening his grip on Cas’ back, urging him deeper, clawing at his shoulder blades and the juts of hollow bone that extend beyond them, arching up toward the bright blue morning that Dean spread across the sky.
Dean arches up off their makeshift blanket, off the ground, and he’s so full of sensation, of Castiel, that it takes him several long moments to realize that he’s really up off the ground, hovering in the air like in some crazy movie possession. Castiel seems blithely unaware, blind to anything but Dean, and Dean himself can barely register more than, Okay, floating, before Castiel’s thrusts spark something inside him and Castiel’s fingers glide over the head of his dick, and Castiel’s wings unfurl to new lengths with a crack that seems to split the air. Or maybe that’s Cas’ shout, loud enough to shatter glass and so sweet to Dean’s ears now that he shudders and comes with nothing but the empty air and Castiel’s strong hands to cushion his fall.
When he comes to himself again they are trailing silk as they drift back toward the ground. Castiel looks as dazed as Dean feels; he moves a hand to cradle Dean’s neck as they touch down, but beyond that he seems incapable. So they continue to lie together, Castiel half on top of Dean, their spent cocks languid between their legs. Dean figures it’s a good thing the angel’s not that heavy. He figures he probably wouldn’t mind if he was.
He is, finally, speechless.
And in fact, it is Castiel who breaks the silence first: lifting his head suddenly, he looks down at Dean and does something that, in the aftermath of airborne orgasms, shouldn’t seem wondrous. But it is.
Castiel laughs.
It rises up out of him, slowly: first a smile, breaking like a sunrise across his face, and then a slow, burbling chuckle, passing all the way through him, making the skin crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Dean just lies there, astonished; and then he threads his fingers through Castiel’s hair, pulls his mouth down and kisses him, again and again, because he thinks the world was so very worth saving, if only just for this.
“Sam’s really going to be wondering where the hell we are,” Dean says, a considerable amount of time later. “He’s going to think you spirited me away to have your wicked way with me.”
“I did spirit you away to have my wicked way with you,” Castiel says.
“Also he owes me pie,” Dean says, moving on to the heart of the issue. “I deserve celebratory world-saving pie.”
“That and more,” says Castiel, and Dean’s momentarily worried that he broke his angel and made him all mushy, but then wings flap and the world spins and Dean’s standing in a motel room he honestly never expected to live to see again, which is probably why he left wet towels all over the bathroom floor. He uses one of them to wipe himself clean, relieved that he doesn’t have to face the question of whether he’d have been willing to use the American flag for that purpose, and when he steps back out into the main room, Castiel is back, looking as pristine and polished as ever. Well, aside from the fact that his tie is still askew-and Dean’s pretty sure that’s a hickey making itself known on his neck.
Dean pulls on fresh jeans and a t-shirt; Castiel watches him. When Dean looks at the angel out of the corner of his eye, he can almost still see the shadow of wings, scraping the low motel ceiling. Castiel looks smaller now that they’re gone, put away-more contained, less like a creature capable of being moved by great passions. And yet there is still something, a glint in his bottomless blue eyes… Dean drops the hem of his shirt and steps closer. Castiel doesn’t back away from this invasion of personal space, but in some way curves his body, making space for Dean’s, all seemingly without moving at all. Kissing Castiel, touching him, somehow seems dirtier when they’re both fully clothed. Dean likes it.
Anyone who ever said that Dean moves solely on base impulses wouldn’t believe the willpower it takes to break away, or that he does it. “Sam,” he says, and Castiel nods, and then they’re back in the shadow of the ruined church. Sam is sitting awkwardly on an upturned urn, frowning and dejectedly texting someone. He looks up at them and raises an eyebrow. “Have fun?”
The elaborate story Dean had concocted about Important Angel Business (yeah-in his pants) dies on his lips. “Yes,” he manages, with some dignity.
Sam stands up. “Are you two sure you’ve finished blowing off steam? You don’t need more time? ’Cause I could just, you know, wait here.”
Dean puts on his best stern older brother face. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, Sammy.”
“I thought that was puns.”
“I thought it was your face.”
Both Winchesters stop and turn to stare at Castiel. For a moment, he looks excessively pleased with himself; then serenity glides back over his features like a mask. “I believe pie is at this point traditional.”
Dean claps his hands together. “Pie will always be a traditional part of celebrating Dean Winchester Day.”
“Dean Winchester Day?” Sam is indignant-he helped saved the world too, dammit, and even managed to hold onto his underwear in the process.
Dean shrugs. “The name’s negotiable. The pie isn’t.”
“What about the sex?” Castiel whispers, pressing close to him.
“That,” Dean declares, “is the most sacred and important aspect of Dean Winchester Day. I hope Chuck’s really clear on that part.”
As Chuck’s subsequent therapy bills prove, he is. And thus it is written. And so have we have celebrated Winchesternalia ever since.
Not to mention Flag Day.
Uh…Happy Fourth of July, everyone! Please don’t hurt me.