Every fertile inch (1/6)
Every fertile inch.
a March-Stalkers Mighty extra
Pairings: Castiel/Dean. Background Charlie/Anna, and Gabriel/Sam very-very-preslash, though Gabriel is busily denying it.
Rating: Explicit (this chapter the least so).
Genre and tropes: Fluff, pwp, domesticity, basically these are just pwp extras of these two figuring sex out.
Word count: 45000. It was originally meant to be no more than 5k per chapter. :(
Spoilers: None.
Summary: There is no plot. Six scenes, from the first six weeks after Castiel and Dean get engaged, of them working out how that whole sex thing happens. These will be posted whenever I feel like writing them - probably one every one or two weeks - and it shouldn't be necessary to have read the main story to understand, because basically all you need to know is 'confused virgins'. And also cuddles.
ETA, after finishing: I failed at the whole 'no plot' thing. Just so you know.
Warnings: Awkward semi-virgin-and-increasingly-less-virginal-as-they-progress sex? Both are very enthusiastic and interested but they don't really have access to much relevant information.
AO3 link.
***
CALIBAN
I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ th’ island;
And I will kiss thy foot: I prithee, be my god.
The Tempest, William Shakespeare, II.ii.
***
Week 1.
19 kalends Septembris (August 14).
Dean was maybe a little bit obsessed.
He’d been leaning here on this wall for a good twenty minutes. Stone digging into his elbows? No big deal. Chevy getting bored with him and wandering off to see if she could find anything disgusting to eat near the chicken yards? Well, she’d come back when he called. Leapfrog needed exercise before the sun went down? Dean would worry about that any minute now. Just as soon as he managed to get his eyes back under control. Right now they were kind of busy.
Over by the woodshed, Castiel knelt down and hefted the next log up onto his shoulder. It was about as thick around as Dean’s waist, twice as long as Sam, and Castiel handled it as if it were a third of that size. It took obvious effort: the muscles bunched intriguingly in his back, his wings spread a bit as he rose to his feet to help with the balance, and after however long he’d been at it the skin of his bare torso was gleaming with sweat. But he wasn’t struggling either: his movements as he hoisted it above his head and passed it up to Victor and Rufus in the loft of the shed were strong and smooth.
There was a dark smudge on Castiel’s left side, slanting down over his ribs to the line of his belt. Dirt, or maybe the charcoal from where the smaller branches had been seared off some of the logs. It drew Dean’s eyes, highlighted the powerful curve of Castiel’s waist as he moved. It made Dean think of pressing the pads of his fingers in there and watching the shapes they’d make.
It made Dean think of exploring.
And also sex. Because everything was making him think of sex these last few days. No, seriously, everything. On the way over here Chevy had whipped around to worry an itch at the base of her tail. Dean had got distracted thinking about the faint graze of Castiel’s teeth at the top of his spine last night, after they’d finally crept home and curled up around each other in Dean’s bed (their bed). Then he’d gotten distracted by wondering what that might feel like at the other end of his spine, and - yeah.
Distracted.
Victor and Rufus were hauling the log away into the darkness of the loft, and Castiel’s head was tipped back, watching. Curious, and patient, and Dean knew just the expression he’d have on his face right now. That faintly puzzled blank-slate look that he went back to when he had nothing better to do, with a bit of softness around the edges of the eyes because he thought humans were fascinating, and the furrow of earnestness between his eyebrows just in case there was some important secret meaning behind stacking logs that he hadn’t caught up with yet.
Hell. Dean couldn’t even see it and he wanted to grin at it and brush at it with his thumb.
This whole letting himself be in love business was actually kind of awesome. Even if Sam said it made him beam like a pig who’d got into the cider.
Rufus and Victor came back empty-handed, and Castiel brushed his hands on his thighs and crouched down, to haul up the last of the logs to them. And, wow, Dean had never been mesmerised by the curve of another person’s back before.
Almost every time he and Castiel had been... well, all up close with each other, and definitely every time in the last few days since that first time when they’d actually progressed to up close without clothes, it had been in the dark. In Dean’s bedroom, or last night in the oak grove with just the teasing glimmer of the moon and stars and the distant red glow of the bonfire. Which wasn’t really fair, because Castiel could see better than Dean in the dark, so Castiel had seen Dean properly.
Dean curled his hand tight around his own forearm.
He had mapped out Castiel’s back in the dark, quite a few times, with fingertips and hands and the possessive wrap of an arm. He’d hauled Castiel on top of him and swept his fingers up and down to bump clumsily against the edge of a wing or tangle in his hair, and he’d lain propped up next to him on an elbow and explored the familiar and the strange parts of it at careful leisure with the pads of his fingers. He knew already how many vertebrae to count down from the knob of the neck until he met the flare of the broad, hard wing muscles under the flesh. He knew the shape of the socket joint in the base of his shoulder blade where the bone of the wing attached, and the soft brush of down feathers that came just after that, the sort of broad V-shape they made across Castiel’s back between his wings and trailing a little way down his spine. He knew the way, when Castiel got tense, it bunched up nastily in his shoulders (both sets of shoulders) but also further down, halfway down the ribcage, where the lower wing muscles swept down to anchor into the muscles of his belly and hips.
Dean had never explored it in the light, though. And he’d never explored it with intent, deliberately seeking out those noises that he’d stumbled on by accident, from time to time. And there was a whole lot more to Castiel’s body than just his back.
Dean really wanted to get his hands all over Castiel.
Castiel’s wings twitched as he slapped at some insect on the back of his neck, and the sun scribbled warm, damp patterns in the flash of sweaty muscle lines between the shadow of his wings. Dean’s mouth felt thick and heavy with saliva. He realised, with interest, that he knew what normal sweat tasted like, but not the sweat that was pooling right there at the base of Castiel’s spine. The sweat on Castiel’s back (when he sweated a lot, anyway) was usually mixed at least a bit with preening oil. Which Dean had had all over his fingers plenty of times, because Castiel liked it when Dean reached the difficult spots for him, and because of that one time last night when...
He shuffled a bit on the spot, thighs shifting in interesting ways against each other and hips rocking curiously against the memory of just how that had felt. The weird slick burn of a finger - Castiel’s finger, which was - intriguing, and a bit embarrassing, because Dean was pretty sure he wouldn’t have done that sober but it had been bonfire night, and they’d had a few, and Castiel was his and he’d been feeling pretty fucking on top of the world, honestly, and it hadn’t been bad. Just - well, weird, with his body trying to push it back out (which was gross too, if you thought about it), but with Castiel’s mouth pressing hot and eager against his thigh and his stomach and his dick the oddness of that finger had tipped the whole thing into something exciting and new, a bit of fuck-the-world and a bit of I-would-let-you-do-anything and a whole lot of Cas-I-need-to-come-right-now.
And doing the same for Castiel...
Dean had got the impression that Castiel had enjoyed it, really enjoyed it. Like it was something he really wanted to give Dean, like it wasn’t weird for him, and (with the way his mouth had gaped open and the tiny, incredulous sounds he’d made) like nobody had mentioned just how good it was. And it had been a bit freaky from Dean’s side, and he was still kind of embarrassed looking back on it, and if he hadn’t been on a buzz there probably would have been more of a “you want me to put my finger where?” moment, but... shit, the sweet heady smell of that oil and of Castiel, all of him, all over Dean’s hand, the slickness of his dick (and the flavour and weight of that in Dean’s mouth!). And then there had been the heavy musk of sweat and... other things, a combination that did Dean’s head in, but the slipperiness of his fingers gleaming where the moonlight caught them, and the cant of Castiel’s hips like he really really wanted, and the quiver of his skin under Dean’s fingertips (sensitive skin, delicate skin in places where Dean had never touched anyone else and hardly ever himself), and the broken growl of his voice when he began to demand, and, hell, the heat and the strength of his body clamping down around Dean’s intruding finger. Like it didn’t know whether it wanted to push him out, or keep him inside forever.
Dean shifted his hips again, for a different reason.
Victor was hanging out of the loft hatch, one hand wrapped around the lintel and body casually angled out into space, saying something to Castiel that Dean couldn’t hear. Castiel was replying, a gruff wry rumble that made Dean’s over-sensitised dick twitch and made him want to lean forward and join in, even if they were talking about something really boring, like wood lice. So composed he looked, and his wings settled around his shoulders just this side of relaxed, not loose and easy like they were when it was just Dean and Castiel. The lines of him were all stark and bold, and Dean wanted all at once to capture that in charcoal and to get his hands all over Castiel and destroy it, turn him into melted delicious watercolours.
Castiel turned his head, and caught Dean’s eyes.
He didn’t look at all surprised to find Dean there, watching. The sneaky son of a bitch. Probably flexing and stretching just to get his attention. Dean could totally get behind that.
Dean wiggled his eyebrows and went for a nice grin, cheeky and suave. He was kind of befuddled in the head, though, and he got the feeling he missed it by a long shot and made it pretty damn obvious what he was really thinking about.
... Castiel blushed. He actually blushed.
Wow. Dean was the smoothest thing ever.
He hopped over the wall and sauntered towards them, all casual and cool and smirking.
Castiel gave him the annoyed look that meant he thought Dean was being ridiculous and was trying not to smile about it, and turned back to reply to whatever Victor had just said about timber weathering or what the hell ever, Dean didn’t care.
He knocked his shoulder in against Castiel’s, nice and friendly, and crept his hand up to nestle in the slick hollow of Castiel’s back, out of Victor’s sight.
“Sure,” he replied amiably enough to whatever Victor had just asked him to lend a hand with tomorrow, and “It’ll have to be morning, though - me and Sammy and Cas, we’re riding out after lunch, see if we can catch wind of anything stirring out there.” Castiel’s wing shifted a bit behind Dean’s shoulder as Victor replied and turned away to get on with it, and Dean just wanted to get his hands all over him dammit was that too much to ask. Also, wow, apparently there was only one thing he could think about any more, and it was pretty damned heady.
Dean leaned in, so his mouth was almost brushing against the shell of Castiel’s ear.
“Didn’t know you could blush,” he murmured, to make him blush again.
Castiel’s eyes skittered away and focussed on the ground, just as Dean got poked in the shoulder by a wing wrist. “Be quiet, Dean,” he muttered gruffly. Then he hooked his fingers into the back of Dean’s belt.
Dean swallowed.
Castiel’s eyes were doing that really hot, intense burny thing, angled sideways at Dean from under his eyelashes, and damn, Dean was pretty sure it was only meant to be girls who knew how to work eyelashes but he sure as hell wasn’t complaining.
“You are deliberately provoking me,” Castiel observed, thoughtful and cool as anything except for the uncertain, hopeful creases around his eyes.
“Damn straight,” Dean breathed shakily against the corner of Castiel’s jaw. Then he pulled back. “And, hey! I’m not the one prancing around shirtless here.”
That earned him his favourite warm tilt at the corners of Castiel’s mouth, and an angel tugging him pointedly into the empty carpentry hut abutting the wood shed, and the thrilled, incredulous stutter of Castiel’s breath as Dean shoved him up against the wall and went in for a hungry kiss.
He didn’t get to explore Castiel properly that time. They didn’t even get around to shucking their clothes. It was just hasty kissing, hot and heavy and sweet, and the hard clutch of Castiel’s hands all over him, and the shock of discovering that their bodies just knew how to move against each other, and the weight of Castiel’s breath and mouth and dark wings looming forward as if they wanted to engulf Dean, and the shivery little sounds that Castiel made just before he stiffened and went limp against Dean.
They made up for it that evening, though. Dean got all three lanterns and some candles and put them all in his bedroom, and they took their time with wandering hands and lingering kisses and the slow, luxurious slide of skin against skin.
Next chapter.
a March-Stalkers Mighty extra
Pairings: Castiel/Dean. Background Charlie/Anna, and Gabriel/Sam very-very-preslash, though Gabriel is busily denying it.
Rating: Explicit (this chapter the least so).
Genre and tropes: Fluff, pwp, domesticity, basically these are just pwp extras of these two figuring sex out.
Word count: 45000. It was originally meant to be no more than 5k per chapter. :(
Spoilers: None.
Summary: There is no plot. Six scenes, from the first six weeks after Castiel and Dean get engaged, of them working out how that whole sex thing happens. These will be posted whenever I feel like writing them - probably one every one or two weeks - and it shouldn't be necessary to have read the main story to understand, because basically all you need to know is 'confused virgins'. And also cuddles.
ETA, after finishing: I failed at the whole 'no plot' thing. Just so you know.
Warnings: Awkward semi-virgin-and-increasingly-less-virginal-as-they-progress sex? Both are very enthusiastic and interested but they don't really have access to much relevant information.
AO3 link.
***
CALIBAN
I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ th’ island;
And I will kiss thy foot: I prithee, be my god.
The Tempest, William Shakespeare, II.ii.
***
Week 1.
19 kalends Septembris (August 14).
Dean was maybe a little bit obsessed.
He’d been leaning here on this wall for a good twenty minutes. Stone digging into his elbows? No big deal. Chevy getting bored with him and wandering off to see if she could find anything disgusting to eat near the chicken yards? Well, she’d come back when he called. Leapfrog needed exercise before the sun went down? Dean would worry about that any minute now. Just as soon as he managed to get his eyes back under control. Right now they were kind of busy.
Over by the woodshed, Castiel knelt down and hefted the next log up onto his shoulder. It was about as thick around as Dean’s waist, twice as long as Sam, and Castiel handled it as if it were a third of that size. It took obvious effort: the muscles bunched intriguingly in his back, his wings spread a bit as he rose to his feet to help with the balance, and after however long he’d been at it the skin of his bare torso was gleaming with sweat. But he wasn’t struggling either: his movements as he hoisted it above his head and passed it up to Victor and Rufus in the loft of the shed were strong and smooth.
There was a dark smudge on Castiel’s left side, slanting down over his ribs to the line of his belt. Dirt, or maybe the charcoal from where the smaller branches had been seared off some of the logs. It drew Dean’s eyes, highlighted the powerful curve of Castiel’s waist as he moved. It made Dean think of pressing the pads of his fingers in there and watching the shapes they’d make.
It made Dean think of exploring.
And also sex. Because everything was making him think of sex these last few days. No, seriously, everything. On the way over here Chevy had whipped around to worry an itch at the base of her tail. Dean had got distracted thinking about the faint graze of Castiel’s teeth at the top of his spine last night, after they’d finally crept home and curled up around each other in Dean’s bed (their bed). Then he’d gotten distracted by wondering what that might feel like at the other end of his spine, and - yeah.
Distracted.
Victor and Rufus were hauling the log away into the darkness of the loft, and Castiel’s head was tipped back, watching. Curious, and patient, and Dean knew just the expression he’d have on his face right now. That faintly puzzled blank-slate look that he went back to when he had nothing better to do, with a bit of softness around the edges of the eyes because he thought humans were fascinating, and the furrow of earnestness between his eyebrows just in case there was some important secret meaning behind stacking logs that he hadn’t caught up with yet.
Hell. Dean couldn’t even see it and he wanted to grin at it and brush at it with his thumb.
This whole letting himself be in love business was actually kind of awesome. Even if Sam said it made him beam like a pig who’d got into the cider.
Rufus and Victor came back empty-handed, and Castiel brushed his hands on his thighs and crouched down, to haul up the last of the logs to them. And, wow, Dean had never been mesmerised by the curve of another person’s back before.
Almost every time he and Castiel had been... well, all up close with each other, and definitely every time in the last few days since that first time when they’d actually progressed to up close without clothes, it had been in the dark. In Dean’s bedroom, or last night in the oak grove with just the teasing glimmer of the moon and stars and the distant red glow of the bonfire. Which wasn’t really fair, because Castiel could see better than Dean in the dark, so Castiel had seen Dean properly.
Dean curled his hand tight around his own forearm.
He had mapped out Castiel’s back in the dark, quite a few times, with fingertips and hands and the possessive wrap of an arm. He’d hauled Castiel on top of him and swept his fingers up and down to bump clumsily against the edge of a wing or tangle in his hair, and he’d lain propped up next to him on an elbow and explored the familiar and the strange parts of it at careful leisure with the pads of his fingers. He knew already how many vertebrae to count down from the knob of the neck until he met the flare of the broad, hard wing muscles under the flesh. He knew the shape of the socket joint in the base of his shoulder blade where the bone of the wing attached, and the soft brush of down feathers that came just after that, the sort of broad V-shape they made across Castiel’s back between his wings and trailing a little way down his spine. He knew the way, when Castiel got tense, it bunched up nastily in his shoulders (both sets of shoulders) but also further down, halfway down the ribcage, where the lower wing muscles swept down to anchor into the muscles of his belly and hips.
Dean had never explored it in the light, though. And he’d never explored it with intent, deliberately seeking out those noises that he’d stumbled on by accident, from time to time. And there was a whole lot more to Castiel’s body than just his back.
Dean really wanted to get his hands all over Castiel.
Castiel’s wings twitched as he slapped at some insect on the back of his neck, and the sun scribbled warm, damp patterns in the flash of sweaty muscle lines between the shadow of his wings. Dean’s mouth felt thick and heavy with saliva. He realised, with interest, that he knew what normal sweat tasted like, but not the sweat that was pooling right there at the base of Castiel’s spine. The sweat on Castiel’s back (when he sweated a lot, anyway) was usually mixed at least a bit with preening oil. Which Dean had had all over his fingers plenty of times, because Castiel liked it when Dean reached the difficult spots for him, and because of that one time last night when...
He shuffled a bit on the spot, thighs shifting in interesting ways against each other and hips rocking curiously against the memory of just how that had felt. The weird slick burn of a finger - Castiel’s finger, which was - intriguing, and a bit embarrassing, because Dean was pretty sure he wouldn’t have done that sober but it had been bonfire night, and they’d had a few, and Castiel was his and he’d been feeling pretty fucking on top of the world, honestly, and it hadn’t been bad. Just - well, weird, with his body trying to push it back out (which was gross too, if you thought about it), but with Castiel’s mouth pressing hot and eager against his thigh and his stomach and his dick the oddness of that finger had tipped the whole thing into something exciting and new, a bit of fuck-the-world and a bit of I-would-let-you-do-anything and a whole lot of Cas-I-need-to-come-right-now.
And doing the same for Castiel...
Dean had got the impression that Castiel had enjoyed it, really enjoyed it. Like it was something he really wanted to give Dean, like it wasn’t weird for him, and (with the way his mouth had gaped open and the tiny, incredulous sounds he’d made) like nobody had mentioned just how good it was. And it had been a bit freaky from Dean’s side, and he was still kind of embarrassed looking back on it, and if he hadn’t been on a buzz there probably would have been more of a “you want me to put my finger where?” moment, but... shit, the sweet heady smell of that oil and of Castiel, all of him, all over Dean’s hand, the slickness of his dick (and the flavour and weight of that in Dean’s mouth!). And then there had been the heavy musk of sweat and... other things, a combination that did Dean’s head in, but the slipperiness of his fingers gleaming where the moonlight caught them, and the cant of Castiel’s hips like he really really wanted, and the quiver of his skin under Dean’s fingertips (sensitive skin, delicate skin in places where Dean had never touched anyone else and hardly ever himself), and the broken growl of his voice when he began to demand, and, hell, the heat and the strength of his body clamping down around Dean’s intruding finger. Like it didn’t know whether it wanted to push him out, or keep him inside forever.
Dean shifted his hips again, for a different reason.
Victor was hanging out of the loft hatch, one hand wrapped around the lintel and body casually angled out into space, saying something to Castiel that Dean couldn’t hear. Castiel was replying, a gruff wry rumble that made Dean’s over-sensitised dick twitch and made him want to lean forward and join in, even if they were talking about something really boring, like wood lice. So composed he looked, and his wings settled around his shoulders just this side of relaxed, not loose and easy like they were when it was just Dean and Castiel. The lines of him were all stark and bold, and Dean wanted all at once to capture that in charcoal and to get his hands all over Castiel and destroy it, turn him into melted delicious watercolours.
Castiel turned his head, and caught Dean’s eyes.
He didn’t look at all surprised to find Dean there, watching. The sneaky son of a bitch. Probably flexing and stretching just to get his attention. Dean could totally get behind that.
Dean wiggled his eyebrows and went for a nice grin, cheeky and suave. He was kind of befuddled in the head, though, and he got the feeling he missed it by a long shot and made it pretty damn obvious what he was really thinking about.
... Castiel blushed. He actually blushed.
Wow. Dean was the smoothest thing ever.
He hopped over the wall and sauntered towards them, all casual and cool and smirking.
Castiel gave him the annoyed look that meant he thought Dean was being ridiculous and was trying not to smile about it, and turned back to reply to whatever Victor had just said about timber weathering or what the hell ever, Dean didn’t care.
He knocked his shoulder in against Castiel’s, nice and friendly, and crept his hand up to nestle in the slick hollow of Castiel’s back, out of Victor’s sight.
“Sure,” he replied amiably enough to whatever Victor had just asked him to lend a hand with tomorrow, and “It’ll have to be morning, though - me and Sammy and Cas, we’re riding out after lunch, see if we can catch wind of anything stirring out there.” Castiel’s wing shifted a bit behind Dean’s shoulder as Victor replied and turned away to get on with it, and Dean just wanted to get his hands all over him dammit was that too much to ask. Also, wow, apparently there was only one thing he could think about any more, and it was pretty damned heady.
Dean leaned in, so his mouth was almost brushing against the shell of Castiel’s ear.
“Didn’t know you could blush,” he murmured, to make him blush again.
Castiel’s eyes skittered away and focussed on the ground, just as Dean got poked in the shoulder by a wing wrist. “Be quiet, Dean,” he muttered gruffly. Then he hooked his fingers into the back of Dean’s belt.
Dean swallowed.
Castiel’s eyes were doing that really hot, intense burny thing, angled sideways at Dean from under his eyelashes, and damn, Dean was pretty sure it was only meant to be girls who knew how to work eyelashes but he sure as hell wasn’t complaining.
“You are deliberately provoking me,” Castiel observed, thoughtful and cool as anything except for the uncertain, hopeful creases around his eyes.
“Damn straight,” Dean breathed shakily against the corner of Castiel’s jaw. Then he pulled back. “And, hey! I’m not the one prancing around shirtless here.”
That earned him his favourite warm tilt at the corners of Castiel’s mouth, and an angel tugging him pointedly into the empty carpentry hut abutting the wood shed, and the thrilled, incredulous stutter of Castiel’s breath as Dean shoved him up against the wall and went in for a hungry kiss.
He didn’t get to explore Castiel properly that time. They didn’t even get around to shucking their clothes. It was just hasty kissing, hot and heavy and sweet, and the hard clutch of Castiel’s hands all over him, and the shock of discovering that their bodies just knew how to move against each other, and the weight of Castiel’s breath and mouth and dark wings looming forward as if they wanted to engulf Dean, and the shivery little sounds that Castiel made just before he stiffened and went limp against Dean.
They made up for it that evening, though. Dean got all three lanterns and some candles and put them all in his bedroom, and they took their time with wandering hands and lingering kisses and the slow, luxurious slide of skin against skin.
Next chapter.