on the bright side, there isn't a bright side - 4
Once you get past the initial confusion and the unbearable pain and the need to sleep twenty-three hours a day, recovery is actually insanely boring. Dean’s been here before, more times than he cares to count, and it’s always the same: maybe you enjoy the break at first, a few days of getting to lie around in bed while everyone else runs around doing stuff, but after that you’re too mended to want to sleep all day yet too unwell to be able to get out of bed and do anything interesting, so it just sucks.
Sam has him doing research, which is a nice thought to keep him included in their hunting except for the fact that Dean hates doing research. When he’s trying to read the dull books Sam gives him from the library he can rarely make it through two chapters without regressing to drawing stick-figure flip-book-sequences in the corners of the pages, and when he’s using Sam’s laptop he inevitably ends up playing Tetris. Cas tries to help as well, spending whatever time he can spare by Dean’s bed reading Harry Potter to him (Dean would feel flattered that Cas has gone all the way back to start at the first book for him if he didn’t think Cas was just using this as an excuse to re-read the series). He’s not particularly (or, like, at all) interested in Harry Potter but it’s nice anyways, just being able to listen to Cas’s gravelly voice without having to pay attention to all of the words.
After a while it becomes clear that somehow, incredibly, Sam’s campaign to make Cas sexually autonomous has not lost its fire. Dean had figured that by this time either Sam had decided the plan had been successful and his work here was done, or he’d given the angel up as a lost cause; but when the three of them finally acknowledge the need to go grocery shopping and Sam keeps trying to convince Dean to come along with him, accented by bonus significant looks and pointedly raised eyebrows, Dean finally clues in to what’s going on.
He glares at Sam in an attempt to communicate how fucking messed up this whole situation is, and Sam stares right back in a way that say it’s Cas, we gotta do things differently with him, and Dean makes a face to indicate not this differently, thank you very much, he can just jerk off in the shower like the rest of us if he wants to, and Dean hasn’t quite had time to decipher the look Sam’s giving him in reply when Cas says aloud, “There seems to be a high level of nonverbal communication going on right now. Can someone please explain what’s happening?”
“Oh, I just think it would be good for Dean to get out of the motel for a while. You know, stretch his legs and stuff. Get some fresh air,” Sam says quickly.
It’s a hard argument to fight against-until Dean points out that if he gets out of bed for more than five minutes he will either collapse or puke, probably both, to which Sam is forced to agree before storming out the door on his own.
“Sorry to disrupt your, ah, private time,” says Dean awkwardly once his younger brother has left.
“It’s okay,” says Cas, sounding neither uncomfortable nor particularly put out.
“Do you actually, um…” Dean clears his throat, which has suddenly gone dry. It’s just out of curiosity, he tells himself firmly. Just to check if Sam is actually accomplishing anything. “Do you actually use any of the, you know. The things?” His instinctive glance towards the all-too-familiar red-and-black bag sitting innocuously in the corner serves to clarify the admittedly kind of ambiguous question.
This time it’s Castiel’s turn to look awkward. “Um, well, not…not exactly, no. I mean, I looked at the instructions, but they seemed a little too complicated so, um…”
Okay, you got your answer. Now change the subject. Say something else. Anything else. Talk about baseball-nothing suggestive about baseball. Unless you try really hard. Which you won’t, obviously, because you and Cas are. Just. Friends.
“What about just, like, on your own?” asks Dean’s treacherous mouth.
“Once,” Cas admits wretchedly, and Dean’s pretty sure this is the only guy on the planet who’s actually feeling guilty about not masturbating. “It didn’t work very well. I don’t think I did it right.” While Dean’s wondering what the hell Cas ended up doing, he adds, “Please don’t tell Sam. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“Deal…but seriously? Once? That’s not even…like, you’ve definitely had a boner more than once, and you’re telling me you don’t…?”
“Usually I just sort of wait for it to stop.”
“Wow. Just…wow."
End of conversation. Baseball, remember? It’s time to talk about baseball. Ask if he’s ever seen a game. Explain the rules. Anything. Just stop asking about his dick.
“I could give you hand, if you wanted,” Dean offers.
What? No! Stop!
“Show you what to do,” he extrapolates.
Stop. Come on! Baseball!
“Just so that you can, you know, do it on your own, I mean,” he adds, to be clear.
Stopstopstopstopstop!
“No pressure or anything,” he finishes, successfully having dug himself as deep a hole as possible. “I mean it’s your call.”
Cas looks at him with his head tilted to the side as he considers what Dean’s said.
“Okay,” he agrees finally, as if Dean has offered to help him re-paint the walls of his kitchen or something. “Thanks.”
“Okay,” Dean echoes. Is this actually happening? It can’t actually be happening. No way. “Cool. So, like…now?”
“Sure. Oh, but… I’m not…” He gestures vaguely to the general area of his crotch.
“Yeah, no worries. Just, um, come over here.”
Cas comes to sit on the edge of Dean’s bed, hands folded neatly in his lap. Dean can’t help thinking that what Sam was doing was totally normal in comparison to this, which is wrong in so many ways he doesn’t even know where to start. He should back out now, pretend the whole thing was a joke or pretend to fall asleep and say it was just the concussion talking or pretend to be possessed by rabid homosexual phantom unicorns or something, there’s still time to back out-
“If you want me to stop just let me know, okay?” is what he says instead.
“Okay,” says Cas.
Still with a surreal sense of how the fuck is this actually happening, Dean hauls himself upright. It takes a second for the wave of nausea that hits him to pass before he can crawl over to Cas, and he can’t help wishing he were actually well enough to enjoy this (not that he ought to be enjoying it at all since it’s just a favour for Cas, just him helping out a friend). The fact that his heart has apparently decided to start a really bad, really loud garage band in his chest isn’t helping matters any, either.
Somehow he manages to clamber on to straddle Cas’s lap, resting his forehead against the angel’s for a moment while he recovers his balance in a gesture that’s a little more intimate than he intended. He’s not really sure how to start-well, obviously he knows how to start, what to do, but should he say something? Is Cas expecting Dean to talk him through the whole thing? He’s not going to want to take notes or anything, is he? No, of course not. That’s stupid. Though he knows well enough not to put anything past Cas… goddamnit, if you’re actually going to do this just start already.
Gently he pries Cas’s hand apart-they’re twined pretty tightly together, and along with the glint of panic in his eyes Dean realizes the guy must be kind of nervous-and moves them out of the way. Cas sets them awkwardly beside him on the bed, clearly not knowing at all what the hell he’s supposed to be doing; Dean almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous it all is. This whole thing is undoubtedly the most awkward experience he has ever or will ever have in his entire life, even if he somehow becomes immortal and goes on to have hundreds of other awkward experiences involving women’s lingerie and the President of the United States and a banana on live television (and he is definitely holding the concussion responsible for that dream, Jesus Christ). He’d definitely laugh if he weren’t involved because, come on, it’s kind of hilarious from an outsider’s point of view; but from an insider’s point of view it’s stupid and uncomfortable and a little bit mortifying and also kind of crazy how much he wants to touch Cas right now.
So he does, reaching down gingerly to palm Cas’s crotch through the thick denim of his jeans. It takes a very awkward few moments, and Dean starts to worry that an atmosphere of such astronomic awkwardness is enough to deter a boner completely so he’ll just sit here groping Cas uselessly until Sam gets back; but then Cas makes a small noise in the back of his throat and spreads his legs slightly to allow Dean better access. Okay. This is working. They’re actually getting somewhere.
Next step-he has to adjust his own position and hope that Cas doesn’t feel his hard-on, because friends giving friends obliging hand-jobs shouldn’t get hard-ons from doing so-Dean flicks open the button at the top of Cas’s jeans and slips his hand inside, underneath the band of his underwear to dig his fingers gently through the coarse hair until his hand wraps around the base of his cock.
“Gimme a hand here,” he murmurs, trying not to think about the fact that he’s currently holding an angel of the Lord’s dick. “Get your pants off. Just down to the knees is fine.” So Cas nods, apparently currently lacking the ability to speak, and squirms out of his jeans until they’ve slipped down to pool around his ankles.
He slides his thumb down the underside, telling himself he doesn’t want to go too fast and freak Cas out but mostly just wanting to be able to relish this moment since it’ll probably (definitely, since this is just a one-time favour for a friend, remember?) never come again. Cas is pretty damn hard by now, he can tell by touch alone, and if he looks down…he shouldn’t look down, though, this is just a favour, remember, so don’t look… just start stroking, nice and slow now and shit his cock is hot. Dean’s almost surprised there’s still enough blood in his body to put that gorgeous pink flush in his cheeks.
“Like this…you paying attention?” Cas nods again, a little more lazily this time, and the fact that his eyelids are drooping half shut makes Dean think he’s probably lying. His thumb presses at the slit, collecting the liquid that’s already started to leak out and smearing it over the head to slick it down, painting hot stripes down the sides; what he really wants to do more than anything right now is use his tongue instead, suck Cas back as far as he can take him and just let him fuck his mouth so hard he won’t be able to speak properly for a week, but since this is supposed to be a practical demonstration and he’s almost certain Cas can’t suck his own dick he doesn’t exactly have a legitimate excuse to try that out. He pushes that thought away-this is about Cas, not about him, at all-and wraps his whole hand around Cas’s cock, adding a twisting motion as he continues the up-and-down. “Nice, right?”
“Yes,” Cas breathes, head rolling back to expose the pale skin of his neck stretched tight over his throat. It’s too perfect, too white and untouched; Dean wants to lick, kiss, bite, suck, anything, to see bruises blooming there and know they’re from him and to taste Cas’s skin-and that kind of freaks him out, to think that about Cas, except he’s turned on like crazy right now and okay, maybe he kind of likes to bite so that’s probably all it is. Just another sex thing. “Dean, Dean…”
His grip tightens slightly to add more pressure, still soaking up the heat of all that blood flow. “I know, I know, it’s good. I’m adding the other hand now, can you feel? Can you feel what I’m doing?” He reaches behind his cock-he can’t help looking down just to see what he’s doing and Jesus, Cas looks fucking gorgeous with all those veins swollen red and purple and the head soaking wet-to roll Cas’s balls in his other hand. They’re heavy, way heavier than he expected, so clearly Cas wasn’t kidding about the once-and-it-didn’t-really-work thing. “Shit, you’re ready for this. But you gotta do a little more, come on…move with me, I know you want to, it’ll feel even better, promise…”
He hardly has to finish speaking before Cas is rolling his hips up into Dean’s hand, arms bracing himself behind his back to get more leverage as he fucks into the man’s grip, and the moan that slips between Cas’s slightly parted lips seems to resonate in Dean’s own cock, which is currently protesting the blatant and extremely unfair show of favouritism taking place while it is in need of just as much attention. “Yeah, that’s right,” says Dean, and he might be embarrassed about how much it sounds like he’s panting (because he basically is) except that from how Cas is snapping his hips forward now and still gasping his name in a way that really shouldn’t be as sexy as it is he’s almost certain Cas is way too far gone to notice anything except the fuck-all amazing touch setting all the nerve endings in the vicinity on fire.
“Dean, Dean, please…”
“Yeah, I got you, don’t worry. You’re almost there, come on now…”
It’s ending too fast-not surprising, all things considered, but Dean still almost wants to cry like a child who’s having his new favourite toy taken away over the fact that he will probably never get to hold Cas’s hot, heavy, fucking wet cock again. Not cry over the fact that he and Cas will try to go back to being just friends, obviously, since they still are just friends and any non-friendship-related feelings towards him are strictly physical. Just cry over the fact that Cas’s body is so Greek-god fantastic (from the waist down, at least, and by the way how unfair is it that Dean only got to play with a half-naked angel) it ought to be, like, a national monument or something. The eighth wonder of the world. On the cover of the next issue of National Geographic as the single irrefutable proof to support Darwin’s theory of evolution. That’s how Dean feels about it, anyways. Vaguely he wonders when the body of the one-time angel with a poker eternally rammed up his ass got so damn sexy, because he’s almost one hundred percent certain he didn’t pop a boner the first time Cas walked into that barn (almost. Not completely. If he did, though, he was definitely too terrified to notice).
He’d slow down except that he doesn’t think he can anymore, what with the way his blood is pounding and the way he’s practically getting himself off as well just by doing this and, oh yeah, the way Cas isn’t awkward at all anymore because he’s too busy moaning and thrusting and basically discovering for the first time what Dean and Sam and every other male in the history of the world discovered when they were thirteen and yeah, it’s really fucking hot to watch. To do-because shit, he’s doing this, isn’t he? He’s actually doing this to Cas. So instead Dean finds himself speeding up, realizing belatedly that he stopped giving Cas instructions a while ago thereby kind of failing at the whole pretense of presenting the guy with a proper demo, not that he cares anymore because he’s currently massaging Cas’s balls, and definitely not that Cas could possibly care since his vocabulary suddenly seems to be limited to the words “Dean”, “please”, and “more”.
And then suddenly Cas is arching his back, pushing into Dean more urgently as his eyes snap open so that Dean is forced to acknowledge that the only thing he likes better than Cas’s blue eyes is Cas’s blue-ringed almost black eyes, and he’s coming in long, hot spurts. Dean keeps jerking him off right to the end, in theory due to the fact that clearly Cas’s pipes really needed to be cleaned (and if it means he gets to keep holding the guy’s cock, well then, so much the better). Eventually Cas collapses on the bed, thoroughly spent, to stare up at Dean in barely masked awe. “I didn’t…I didn’t know it felt like, like…that,” he says breathlessly.
“Pretty good, huh?” Dean agrees weakly. He hopes Cas can’t see the wet spot on the front of his boxers from his own leaking cock, still rock hard and demanding urgent attention. He’s also trying not to throw up, because the way his heart is racing from getting Cas off seems to be resonating unpleasantly in his still-fucked-up body-it figures his one opportunity to try anything with Cas happens when he feels like he got hit by a truck (again).
Doing his best to ignore his insistent boner he slides off Cas’s lap and crawls back into bed, hoping Sam returns soon (though maybe after Cas gets his pants back on and one of them cleans the jizz off the sheets); Cas may be riding out the post-first-orgasm haze, but Dean’s fairly certain that once he recovers a little things are going to go right back to being awkward as hell. Oh, sure, they’ll get back on track-after all it was just a friendly hand-job, nothing serious (right?)-but what exactly are you supposed to say to your best friend after you’ve just considerately jerked him off?
“And you can just…do it to yourself?” Cas asks, still apparently caught up in the wondrous discovery he’s just been assisted in making.
“Yep,” says Dean.
“Whenever you like?”
“Well, doing it in public is generally frowned upon…but yeah, basically.”
“It wasn’t like that when I did it,” says Cas, sounding somewhat resentful.
“”I guess you just need some practice, then.” Dean closes his eyes. He’s still feeling kind of sick, which he thinks might partly have something to do with an overwhelming sense of guilt, and right now he can’t help wishing Cas were someplace far, far away so he wouldn’t have to think about what he’s just done or deal with the inevitable, looming awkwardness.
Except he’s forgetting that Cas is, well, Cas. That Cas doesn’t have any idea this is less-than-normal behaviour for two people who are both sober and are supposed to be just friends. That Cas kind of has a ridiculous amount of faith in Dean, so if Dean says he’s just helping him out Cas assumes crazily that Dean must just be helping him out. So once he’s recovered Cas cleans up, since one look at Dean seems to tell him Dean’s in no state to do it even if he doesn’t know exactly why not, and puts his pants back on, and by the time Sam gets back Cas is sitting cross-legged beside Dean on the bed and they’re watching an old episode of Star Trek just because it’s on so what the hell.
Sam looks from Dean to the TV and back. Cas of course has already unwittingly established a reputation for innate geekiness, but Dean makes a big deal of at least pretending to be above all that. “They were out of toothpaste, Captain Kirk,” he says, beginning to unpack everything the store hadn’t been out of. Seriously-toothpaste? How does that even happen? Maybe word about the oncoming Armageddon has leaked out and people have decided to start stockpiling already. Except that’s stupid, because who the hell stockpiles toothpaste when the world is ending? Christ.
“This is Voyageur, dumbass,” Dean shoots back without looking away from the screen. “And I guess we’ll just have to get it someplace else, then.”
Sam makes a scathing remark about Dean’s closeted love of Star Trek, Dean shoots back pointing out he’s pretty sure he’s seen Sam’s old Yoda t-shirt lurking in the bottom of Sam’s bag so how about he shuts up, Cas cuts in wondering what a Vulcan is and also could they possibly go get burgers soon; and just like that, it’s back to normal. Apparently Dean’s just gotten the sexual equivalent of the get-out-of-jail-free card in Monopoly-get one free hand-job without ruining your friendship. But that’s it, just one. It happened, it was awesome, he’ll probably get off to the memory for a good few weeks at least-but it’s over. Done. Just one. Cas can do it himself now, after all. He doesn’t need Dean’s help, and with Sam around he’ll be sure to get ample opportunity to practice. Just one.
Continue...
Sam has him doing research, which is a nice thought to keep him included in their hunting except for the fact that Dean hates doing research. When he’s trying to read the dull books Sam gives him from the library he can rarely make it through two chapters without regressing to drawing stick-figure flip-book-sequences in the corners of the pages, and when he’s using Sam’s laptop he inevitably ends up playing Tetris. Cas tries to help as well, spending whatever time he can spare by Dean’s bed reading Harry Potter to him (Dean would feel flattered that Cas has gone all the way back to start at the first book for him if he didn’t think Cas was just using this as an excuse to re-read the series). He’s not particularly (or, like, at all) interested in Harry Potter but it’s nice anyways, just being able to listen to Cas’s gravelly voice without having to pay attention to all of the words.
After a while it becomes clear that somehow, incredibly, Sam’s campaign to make Cas sexually autonomous has not lost its fire. Dean had figured that by this time either Sam had decided the plan had been successful and his work here was done, or he’d given the angel up as a lost cause; but when the three of them finally acknowledge the need to go grocery shopping and Sam keeps trying to convince Dean to come along with him, accented by bonus significant looks and pointedly raised eyebrows, Dean finally clues in to what’s going on.
He glares at Sam in an attempt to communicate how fucking messed up this whole situation is, and Sam stares right back in a way that say it’s Cas, we gotta do things differently with him, and Dean makes a face to indicate not this differently, thank you very much, he can just jerk off in the shower like the rest of us if he wants to, and Dean hasn’t quite had time to decipher the look Sam’s giving him in reply when Cas says aloud, “There seems to be a high level of nonverbal communication going on right now. Can someone please explain what’s happening?”
“Oh, I just think it would be good for Dean to get out of the motel for a while. You know, stretch his legs and stuff. Get some fresh air,” Sam says quickly.
It’s a hard argument to fight against-until Dean points out that if he gets out of bed for more than five minutes he will either collapse or puke, probably both, to which Sam is forced to agree before storming out the door on his own.
“Sorry to disrupt your, ah, private time,” says Dean awkwardly once his younger brother has left.
“It’s okay,” says Cas, sounding neither uncomfortable nor particularly put out.
“Do you actually, um…” Dean clears his throat, which has suddenly gone dry. It’s just out of curiosity, he tells himself firmly. Just to check if Sam is actually accomplishing anything. “Do you actually use any of the, you know. The things?” His instinctive glance towards the all-too-familiar red-and-black bag sitting innocuously in the corner serves to clarify the admittedly kind of ambiguous question.
This time it’s Castiel’s turn to look awkward. “Um, well, not…not exactly, no. I mean, I looked at the instructions, but they seemed a little too complicated so, um…”
Okay, you got your answer. Now change the subject. Say something else. Anything else. Talk about baseball-nothing suggestive about baseball. Unless you try really hard. Which you won’t, obviously, because you and Cas are. Just. Friends.
“What about just, like, on your own?” asks Dean’s treacherous mouth.
“Once,” Cas admits wretchedly, and Dean’s pretty sure this is the only guy on the planet who’s actually feeling guilty about not masturbating. “It didn’t work very well. I don’t think I did it right.” While Dean’s wondering what the hell Cas ended up doing, he adds, “Please don’t tell Sam. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“Deal…but seriously? Once? That’s not even…like, you’ve definitely had a boner more than once, and you’re telling me you don’t…?”
“Usually I just sort of wait for it to stop.”
“Wow. Just…wow."
End of conversation. Baseball, remember? It’s time to talk about baseball. Ask if he’s ever seen a game. Explain the rules. Anything. Just stop asking about his dick.
“I could give you hand, if you wanted,” Dean offers.
What? No! Stop!
“Show you what to do,” he extrapolates.
Stop. Come on! Baseball!
“Just so that you can, you know, do it on your own, I mean,” he adds, to be clear.
Stopstopstopstopstop!
“No pressure or anything,” he finishes, successfully having dug himself as deep a hole as possible. “I mean it’s your call.”
Cas looks at him with his head tilted to the side as he considers what Dean’s said.
“Okay,” he agrees finally, as if Dean has offered to help him re-paint the walls of his kitchen or something. “Thanks.”
“Okay,” Dean echoes. Is this actually happening? It can’t actually be happening. No way. “Cool. So, like…now?”
“Sure. Oh, but… I’m not…” He gestures vaguely to the general area of his crotch.
“Yeah, no worries. Just, um, come over here.”
Cas comes to sit on the edge of Dean’s bed, hands folded neatly in his lap. Dean can’t help thinking that what Sam was doing was totally normal in comparison to this, which is wrong in so many ways he doesn’t even know where to start. He should back out now, pretend the whole thing was a joke or pretend to fall asleep and say it was just the concussion talking or pretend to be possessed by rabid homosexual phantom unicorns or something, there’s still time to back out-
“If you want me to stop just let me know, okay?” is what he says instead.
“Okay,” says Cas.
Still with a surreal sense of how the fuck is this actually happening, Dean hauls himself upright. It takes a second for the wave of nausea that hits him to pass before he can crawl over to Cas, and he can’t help wishing he were actually well enough to enjoy this (not that he ought to be enjoying it at all since it’s just a favour for Cas, just him helping out a friend). The fact that his heart has apparently decided to start a really bad, really loud garage band in his chest isn’t helping matters any, either.
Somehow he manages to clamber on to straddle Cas’s lap, resting his forehead against the angel’s for a moment while he recovers his balance in a gesture that’s a little more intimate than he intended. He’s not really sure how to start-well, obviously he knows how to start, what to do, but should he say something? Is Cas expecting Dean to talk him through the whole thing? He’s not going to want to take notes or anything, is he? No, of course not. That’s stupid. Though he knows well enough not to put anything past Cas… goddamnit, if you’re actually going to do this just start already.
Gently he pries Cas’s hand apart-they’re twined pretty tightly together, and along with the glint of panic in his eyes Dean realizes the guy must be kind of nervous-and moves them out of the way. Cas sets them awkwardly beside him on the bed, clearly not knowing at all what the hell he’s supposed to be doing; Dean almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous it all is. This whole thing is undoubtedly the most awkward experience he has ever or will ever have in his entire life, even if he somehow becomes immortal and goes on to have hundreds of other awkward experiences involving women’s lingerie and the President of the United States and a banana on live television (and he is definitely holding the concussion responsible for that dream, Jesus Christ). He’d definitely laugh if he weren’t involved because, come on, it’s kind of hilarious from an outsider’s point of view; but from an insider’s point of view it’s stupid and uncomfortable and a little bit mortifying and also kind of crazy how much he wants to touch Cas right now.
So he does, reaching down gingerly to palm Cas’s crotch through the thick denim of his jeans. It takes a very awkward few moments, and Dean starts to worry that an atmosphere of such astronomic awkwardness is enough to deter a boner completely so he’ll just sit here groping Cas uselessly until Sam gets back; but then Cas makes a small noise in the back of his throat and spreads his legs slightly to allow Dean better access. Okay. This is working. They’re actually getting somewhere.
Next step-he has to adjust his own position and hope that Cas doesn’t feel his hard-on, because friends giving friends obliging hand-jobs shouldn’t get hard-ons from doing so-Dean flicks open the button at the top of Cas’s jeans and slips his hand inside, underneath the band of his underwear to dig his fingers gently through the coarse hair until his hand wraps around the base of his cock.
“Gimme a hand here,” he murmurs, trying not to think about the fact that he’s currently holding an angel of the Lord’s dick. “Get your pants off. Just down to the knees is fine.” So Cas nods, apparently currently lacking the ability to speak, and squirms out of his jeans until they’ve slipped down to pool around his ankles.
He slides his thumb down the underside, telling himself he doesn’t want to go too fast and freak Cas out but mostly just wanting to be able to relish this moment since it’ll probably (definitely, since this is just a one-time favour for a friend, remember?) never come again. Cas is pretty damn hard by now, he can tell by touch alone, and if he looks down…he shouldn’t look down, though, this is just a favour, remember, so don’t look… just start stroking, nice and slow now and shit his cock is hot. Dean’s almost surprised there’s still enough blood in his body to put that gorgeous pink flush in his cheeks.
“Like this…you paying attention?” Cas nods again, a little more lazily this time, and the fact that his eyelids are drooping half shut makes Dean think he’s probably lying. His thumb presses at the slit, collecting the liquid that’s already started to leak out and smearing it over the head to slick it down, painting hot stripes down the sides; what he really wants to do more than anything right now is use his tongue instead, suck Cas back as far as he can take him and just let him fuck his mouth so hard he won’t be able to speak properly for a week, but since this is supposed to be a practical demonstration and he’s almost certain Cas can’t suck his own dick he doesn’t exactly have a legitimate excuse to try that out. He pushes that thought away-this is about Cas, not about him, at all-and wraps his whole hand around Cas’s cock, adding a twisting motion as he continues the up-and-down. “Nice, right?”
“Yes,” Cas breathes, head rolling back to expose the pale skin of his neck stretched tight over his throat. It’s too perfect, too white and untouched; Dean wants to lick, kiss, bite, suck, anything, to see bruises blooming there and know they’re from him and to taste Cas’s skin-and that kind of freaks him out, to think that about Cas, except he’s turned on like crazy right now and okay, maybe he kind of likes to bite so that’s probably all it is. Just another sex thing. “Dean, Dean…”
His grip tightens slightly to add more pressure, still soaking up the heat of all that blood flow. “I know, I know, it’s good. I’m adding the other hand now, can you feel? Can you feel what I’m doing?” He reaches behind his cock-he can’t help looking down just to see what he’s doing and Jesus, Cas looks fucking gorgeous with all those veins swollen red and purple and the head soaking wet-to roll Cas’s balls in his other hand. They’re heavy, way heavier than he expected, so clearly Cas wasn’t kidding about the once-and-it-didn’t-really-work thing. “Shit, you’re ready for this. But you gotta do a little more, come on…move with me, I know you want to, it’ll feel even better, promise…”
He hardly has to finish speaking before Cas is rolling his hips up into Dean’s hand, arms bracing himself behind his back to get more leverage as he fucks into the man’s grip, and the moan that slips between Cas’s slightly parted lips seems to resonate in Dean’s own cock, which is currently protesting the blatant and extremely unfair show of favouritism taking place while it is in need of just as much attention. “Yeah, that’s right,” says Dean, and he might be embarrassed about how much it sounds like he’s panting (because he basically is) except that from how Cas is snapping his hips forward now and still gasping his name in a way that really shouldn’t be as sexy as it is he’s almost certain Cas is way too far gone to notice anything except the fuck-all amazing touch setting all the nerve endings in the vicinity on fire.
“Dean, Dean, please…”
“Yeah, I got you, don’t worry. You’re almost there, come on now…”
It’s ending too fast-not surprising, all things considered, but Dean still almost wants to cry like a child who’s having his new favourite toy taken away over the fact that he will probably never get to hold Cas’s hot, heavy, fucking wet cock again. Not cry over the fact that he and Cas will try to go back to being just friends, obviously, since they still are just friends and any non-friendship-related feelings towards him are strictly physical. Just cry over the fact that Cas’s body is so Greek-god fantastic (from the waist down, at least, and by the way how unfair is it that Dean only got to play with a half-naked angel) it ought to be, like, a national monument or something. The eighth wonder of the world. On the cover of the next issue of National Geographic as the single irrefutable proof to support Darwin’s theory of evolution. That’s how Dean feels about it, anyways. Vaguely he wonders when the body of the one-time angel with a poker eternally rammed up his ass got so damn sexy, because he’s almost one hundred percent certain he didn’t pop a boner the first time Cas walked into that barn (almost. Not completely. If he did, though, he was definitely too terrified to notice).
He’d slow down except that he doesn’t think he can anymore, what with the way his blood is pounding and the way he’s practically getting himself off as well just by doing this and, oh yeah, the way Cas isn’t awkward at all anymore because he’s too busy moaning and thrusting and basically discovering for the first time what Dean and Sam and every other male in the history of the world discovered when they were thirteen and yeah, it’s really fucking hot to watch. To do-because shit, he’s doing this, isn’t he? He’s actually doing this to Cas. So instead Dean finds himself speeding up, realizing belatedly that he stopped giving Cas instructions a while ago thereby kind of failing at the whole pretense of presenting the guy with a proper demo, not that he cares anymore because he’s currently massaging Cas’s balls, and definitely not that Cas could possibly care since his vocabulary suddenly seems to be limited to the words “Dean”, “please”, and “more”.
And then suddenly Cas is arching his back, pushing into Dean more urgently as his eyes snap open so that Dean is forced to acknowledge that the only thing he likes better than Cas’s blue eyes is Cas’s blue-ringed almost black eyes, and he’s coming in long, hot spurts. Dean keeps jerking him off right to the end, in theory due to the fact that clearly Cas’s pipes really needed to be cleaned (and if it means he gets to keep holding the guy’s cock, well then, so much the better). Eventually Cas collapses on the bed, thoroughly spent, to stare up at Dean in barely masked awe. “I didn’t…I didn’t know it felt like, like…that,” he says breathlessly.
“Pretty good, huh?” Dean agrees weakly. He hopes Cas can’t see the wet spot on the front of his boxers from his own leaking cock, still rock hard and demanding urgent attention. He’s also trying not to throw up, because the way his heart is racing from getting Cas off seems to be resonating unpleasantly in his still-fucked-up body-it figures his one opportunity to try anything with Cas happens when he feels like he got hit by a truck (again).
Doing his best to ignore his insistent boner he slides off Cas’s lap and crawls back into bed, hoping Sam returns soon (though maybe after Cas gets his pants back on and one of them cleans the jizz off the sheets); Cas may be riding out the post-first-orgasm haze, but Dean’s fairly certain that once he recovers a little things are going to go right back to being awkward as hell. Oh, sure, they’ll get back on track-after all it was just a friendly hand-job, nothing serious (right?)-but what exactly are you supposed to say to your best friend after you’ve just considerately jerked him off?
“And you can just…do it to yourself?” Cas asks, still apparently caught up in the wondrous discovery he’s just been assisted in making.
“Yep,” says Dean.
“Whenever you like?”
“Well, doing it in public is generally frowned upon…but yeah, basically.”
“It wasn’t like that when I did it,” says Cas, sounding somewhat resentful.
“”I guess you just need some practice, then.” Dean closes his eyes. He’s still feeling kind of sick, which he thinks might partly have something to do with an overwhelming sense of guilt, and right now he can’t help wishing Cas were someplace far, far away so he wouldn’t have to think about what he’s just done or deal with the inevitable, looming awkwardness.
Except he’s forgetting that Cas is, well, Cas. That Cas doesn’t have any idea this is less-than-normal behaviour for two people who are both sober and are supposed to be just friends. That Cas kind of has a ridiculous amount of faith in Dean, so if Dean says he’s just helping him out Cas assumes crazily that Dean must just be helping him out. So once he’s recovered Cas cleans up, since one look at Dean seems to tell him Dean’s in no state to do it even if he doesn’t know exactly why not, and puts his pants back on, and by the time Sam gets back Cas is sitting cross-legged beside Dean on the bed and they’re watching an old episode of Star Trek just because it’s on so what the hell.
Sam looks from Dean to the TV and back. Cas of course has already unwittingly established a reputation for innate geekiness, but Dean makes a big deal of at least pretending to be above all that. “They were out of toothpaste, Captain Kirk,” he says, beginning to unpack everything the store hadn’t been out of. Seriously-toothpaste? How does that even happen? Maybe word about the oncoming Armageddon has leaked out and people have decided to start stockpiling already. Except that’s stupid, because who the hell stockpiles toothpaste when the world is ending? Christ.
“This is Voyageur, dumbass,” Dean shoots back without looking away from the screen. “And I guess we’ll just have to get it someplace else, then.”
Sam makes a scathing remark about Dean’s closeted love of Star Trek, Dean shoots back pointing out he’s pretty sure he’s seen Sam’s old Yoda t-shirt lurking in the bottom of Sam’s bag so how about he shuts up, Cas cuts in wondering what a Vulcan is and also could they possibly go get burgers soon; and just like that, it’s back to normal. Apparently Dean’s just gotten the sexual equivalent of the get-out-of-jail-free card in Monopoly-get one free hand-job without ruining your friendship. But that’s it, just one. It happened, it was awesome, he’ll probably get off to the memory for a good few weeks at least-but it’s over. Done. Just one. Cas can do it himself now, after all. He doesn’t need Dean’s help, and with Sam around he’ll be sure to get ample opportunity to practice. Just one.
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