Touch Me if You Dare
Title: Touch Me if You Dare
Author: apodiopsys aka Amanda
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Castiel
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: do not own the characters don't steal the nonexistant plot etc etc title and cut to For All Those Sleeping
A/N: So... apparently being sick makes me cranks out PWPs. And this time they happen to be Destiel? New fandoms and characters are scary ass shit. Like. Yeah. Uh so first Destiel etc. This is scary I'm going to hide.
Everything about Cas on the surface is gloriously, fabulously simple. He says what he thinks, kisses like he means it. He says, “Dean,” and lifts his head, electric blue eyes staring into hazel ones and Dean knows what he wants, knows what he means and what he needs. The way he leaves a careful touch to the back of Dean’s neck when they stop in a bar for a beer after a case is exactly what it looks like: a signal to everyone else there that Dean belongs to him, pure and simple. They belong to each other, and it’s as easy as that, as easy to see as the Castiel’s handprint on his shoulder. Their knees bump under the table, Dean’s hands curled loosely around a perspiring glass, water dripping down the sides and over his fingers, leaving drops of clear liquid gathered on his skin. Cas notices; he wants to lick it off, take Dean’s hand and put his fingers in his mouth, drag his tongue across sweat-salty skin until it’s wet - not from water dripping off of a half-filled glass of beer, but from the saliva in his mouth.
This isn’t the time or place for that. He watches Dean wipe his hand on his faded blue jeans and then lift the glass to his lips, watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks the last part of the beer, putting the pint back down on the table with a clink. “Sammy,” he starts, and then blinks and looks around, trying to spot his brother who apparently can now pull vanishing acts.
“Sam is with a girl,” Cas says, and then points at the bar where he’s leaned up against it, head ducked as he talks to a pretty blond girl, one hand holding his drink and the other touching her arm. “He said that he’d be back sometime tomorrow morning and that we had the room to ourselves tonight.” He doesn’t miss the way that Dean’s eyebrows raise, a slow grin spreading across his lips. The words sly dog don’t even make their way out of his mouth before he says, “Let’s go.” Their hands find each other effortlessly, their bodies flawlessly in sync with each other. Dean’s hand rests on Cas’ lower back, pressing tight, clear over the loose trench coat. The car engine isn’t even on before he’s loosening his tie (more so than it already is) and tossing it in the back seat.
The motel is nearby, not even a five minute drive. They could have walked the distance, in theory, but they didn’t, so they drive back four and a half minutes with Pink Floyd filling the silence. There’s an empty space for them in front of the door. The car stops and Castiel makes to open the door when Dean says, “Wait,” and turns, curving his hand around the back of his neck so he can pull him back in, press his lips against the angel’s and kiss him.
The thing is, it’s the surface that’s simple, the way he kisses and dresses and enunciates his words perfectly. He misses dumb references to pop culture and has no idea who Britney Spears is. Dean loves him, simply put, he loves him. He doesn’t lock the Impala, just closes the door and pulls the motel room key out of his pocket. Castiel pushes him against the door before they’re even properly in the room. His weight pushes it closed and the keys fall out of his grip, falling with a clang to a cheaply carpeted floor. He kisses his lips; his nose and his cheek and his jaw, scalding kisses that burn white hot and remind him of the sun. He slides his hands up his chest, pushes the tan jacket off his Castiel’s shoulders so it gets caught around his arms where they’re bracketing him in against the door. “Cas,” he sighs into his mouth, and then pushes him back, letting the jacket fall and pool on the floor so that he can start to unbutton the white shirt, mouthing at his neck and whispering secrets in his ear.
“Please,” Cas says in return, granting a wish and promising him everything, again and again and again. Dean’s lips touch his skin; his hands push him down on the bed and pull at his shirt so it falls open at his sides. Teeth scrape gently against his collarbone, a soft noise pulling out of his throat as Dean sucks a mark just under where they dip together, in a place where no-one else will see it but him. His tongue rubs over it, slow and careful, making Cas shiver and pull Dean closer. They move further up the bed, until he’s leaning against the pillows and the headboard and Dean is on top of him - over him and above him and all around him, one thigh in between his legs as he moves in a slow rocking motion. They fit against each other, and into each other and with each other, halves of a perfect whole: angel and human creating one flawless being that moves together like machinery.
Dean sits up, shrugs his jacket off and tosses it to the floor, a white t-shirt joining it seconds later. Cas’ clothes land next to his, and Dean traces his bare chest with his lips, mapping out familiar skin again as his tongue dips into his navel and leaves a trail of wet that cools rapidly as air touches it. “Please,” he asks again, sliding his hands down muscled arms, fingers closing around his wrists as he pulls them towards his waist. They know what to do, fingers undoing his leather belt and then the button and zipper. He pulls his cock out and Castiel’s breath disappears in a hiss, still not used to being allowed simple pleasures like this. When he shared the body with Jimmy he didn’t feel things like this - he didn’t hurt, didn’t feel pain or pleasure, only had vague glimpse at what it could be like. This is the magnified and solidified version of what he saw and it makes his head spin in circles until he’s dizzy with it.
“Hey,” Dean’s mouth moves against his jaw, stubble coarse against his lips. “Come back to me,” he whispers. “We’ve got all night.” His hand slows, and then disappears altogether, forcing a whine out of Castiel. His familiar weight disappears off him along with his hand and Cas opens his eyes (didn’t realize he’d closed them) to see Dean kneeling by the duffel bag. He uses this moment to slide off the slacks, the grey boxer-briefs he had underneath; Castiel sucks two fingers into his mouth and moves his legs so they’re bent at the knee, feet planted against the mattress. The breath that Dean sucks in when he turns around is hard, seeing his angel spread out on the mattress like that as he finger fucks himself. His fingers are already slicked up when he kneels in between his legs, and he presses one in alongside the others before Cas even realizes that he’s there.
“Oh,” he moans, and he pulls his own out because Dean’s are so much better. He stretches him carefully, always carefully, thoroughly, until Cas is pressing back down into it like that’s all he’s got left. Dean pulls his fingers out, wipes them on the sheets and Cas is much, much faster than he is, sitting up and ripping the condom packet open. The slide of latex over his dick is good, it’s good because Cas is doing it and anything that Cas does is good. “Let me,” he says, voice rough in a way that makes Dean look up as he makes them switch positions so that he’s the one leaning against the headboard.
Castiel fits himself above him with his legs folded on either side of his thighs. “Jesus, Cas.” Dean breathes, chest tightening as he’s guided inside, as he sinks down until he can’t anymore, filled up up up to the hilt. He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, lips brushing against Dean’s forehead and eyebrows as he collects himself, pulls himself together because it’s always so much more and so much more intense when he’s on top. There’s leverage where he puts his hands on his shoulders, one hand closer to his neck, thumb pressing to his collarbone. The other one slides lower, fitting over his mark from where he dragged him out of Hell.
The thing is, he likes having the control when he’s on top like this, he likes being able to decide how fast or slow or hard they go. “So good,” Dean gasps brokenly in his ear when he slides back down, one hand holding onto the headboard next to where he’s leaned up against. His other one scratches short nails up Castiel’s back, creating red lines and marks that prove that he’s been there, that Cas belongs to someone, belongs to him. His hand slides up into his hair, tangling into dark strands to pull at as he tips his hips up to meet him halfway.
“Fuck - fuck, fuck,” the angel whimpers, and this is the only place - when he’s being fucked and torn apart at the seams - that Dean hears him swear like that, and it makes him feel proud, because he’s doing it, he’s making this servant of God swear like a sailor and ask for things he didn’t know were possible. He curls his hand around Cas’ cock, jerking him off to a beat that counters the way that his hips work against him. Dean watches the way he bites his lip and tips his head back, falling apart underneath his touch, and he leans forward and bites his neck and feels him shake and jerk and come, white streaking his hand and his chest.
Dean flips them over so Castiel is on his back again, fucking into him slowly. He likes it like this, when Cas has just come so he’s a little sensitive and everything feels good and glows at the edges. He’s loose and pliant, taking whatever Dean gives him with a soft and quiet moan, arms linked around his neck as he holds him close. It doesn’t take long for Dean to come too, Cas, Cas, Cas falling from his lips like a mantra in the middle of the night.
He collapses on top of him, just breathing until Cas pushes weakly at his shoulder and says, “Dean, I can't breathe.” Castiel bites his lip when he pulls out, dragging the covers back up the bed as he ties off the condom and chucks it in the garbage can, fitting his hands around Cas’ hips so he can pull him back against his chest. He’s tired, the manly kind who sleeps after sex and eats after sleeping. A kiss is pressed into the back of Castiel’s hair, and Dean mumbles something - illogical and un-understandable, something that Cas doesn’t catch and doesn’t care about enough to ask for again. “Sleep,” he says, tangling his fingers with Dean’s. They do.
Author: apodiopsys aka Amanda
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Castiel
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: do not own the characters don't steal the nonexistant plot etc etc title and cut to For All Those Sleeping
A/N: So... apparently being sick makes me cranks out PWPs. And this time they happen to be Destiel? New fandoms and characters are scary ass shit. Like. Yeah. Uh so first Destiel etc. This is scary I'm going to hide.
Everything about Cas on the surface is gloriously, fabulously simple. He says what he thinks, kisses like he means it. He says, “Dean,” and lifts his head, electric blue eyes staring into hazel ones and Dean knows what he wants, knows what he means and what he needs. The way he leaves a careful touch to the back of Dean’s neck when they stop in a bar for a beer after a case is exactly what it looks like: a signal to everyone else there that Dean belongs to him, pure and simple. They belong to each other, and it’s as easy as that, as easy to see as the Castiel’s handprint on his shoulder. Their knees bump under the table, Dean’s hands curled loosely around a perspiring glass, water dripping down the sides and over his fingers, leaving drops of clear liquid gathered on his skin. Cas notices; he wants to lick it off, take Dean’s hand and put his fingers in his mouth, drag his tongue across sweat-salty skin until it’s wet - not from water dripping off of a half-filled glass of beer, but from the saliva in his mouth.
This isn’t the time or place for that. He watches Dean wipe his hand on his faded blue jeans and then lift the glass to his lips, watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks the last part of the beer, putting the pint back down on the table with a clink. “Sammy,” he starts, and then blinks and looks around, trying to spot his brother who apparently can now pull vanishing acts.
“Sam is with a girl,” Cas says, and then points at the bar where he’s leaned up against it, head ducked as he talks to a pretty blond girl, one hand holding his drink and the other touching her arm. “He said that he’d be back sometime tomorrow morning and that we had the room to ourselves tonight.” He doesn’t miss the way that Dean’s eyebrows raise, a slow grin spreading across his lips. The words sly dog don’t even make their way out of his mouth before he says, “Let’s go.” Their hands find each other effortlessly, their bodies flawlessly in sync with each other. Dean’s hand rests on Cas’ lower back, pressing tight, clear over the loose trench coat. The car engine isn’t even on before he’s loosening his tie (more so than it already is) and tossing it in the back seat.
The motel is nearby, not even a five minute drive. They could have walked the distance, in theory, but they didn’t, so they drive back four and a half minutes with Pink Floyd filling the silence. There’s an empty space for them in front of the door. The car stops and Castiel makes to open the door when Dean says, “Wait,” and turns, curving his hand around the back of his neck so he can pull him back in, press his lips against the angel’s and kiss him.
The thing is, it’s the surface that’s simple, the way he kisses and dresses and enunciates his words perfectly. He misses dumb references to pop culture and has no idea who Britney Spears is. Dean loves him, simply put, he loves him. He doesn’t lock the Impala, just closes the door and pulls the motel room key out of his pocket. Castiel pushes him against the door before they’re even properly in the room. His weight pushes it closed and the keys fall out of his grip, falling with a clang to a cheaply carpeted floor. He kisses his lips; his nose and his cheek and his jaw, scalding kisses that burn white hot and remind him of the sun. He slides his hands up his chest, pushes the tan jacket off his Castiel’s shoulders so it gets caught around his arms where they’re bracketing him in against the door. “Cas,” he sighs into his mouth, and then pushes him back, letting the jacket fall and pool on the floor so that he can start to unbutton the white shirt, mouthing at his neck and whispering secrets in his ear.
“Please,” Cas says in return, granting a wish and promising him everything, again and again and again. Dean’s lips touch his skin; his hands push him down on the bed and pull at his shirt so it falls open at his sides. Teeth scrape gently against his collarbone, a soft noise pulling out of his throat as Dean sucks a mark just under where they dip together, in a place where no-one else will see it but him. His tongue rubs over it, slow and careful, making Cas shiver and pull Dean closer. They move further up the bed, until he’s leaning against the pillows and the headboard and Dean is on top of him - over him and above him and all around him, one thigh in between his legs as he moves in a slow rocking motion. They fit against each other, and into each other and with each other, halves of a perfect whole: angel and human creating one flawless being that moves together like machinery.
Dean sits up, shrugs his jacket off and tosses it to the floor, a white t-shirt joining it seconds later. Cas’ clothes land next to his, and Dean traces his bare chest with his lips, mapping out familiar skin again as his tongue dips into his navel and leaves a trail of wet that cools rapidly as air touches it. “Please,” he asks again, sliding his hands down muscled arms, fingers closing around his wrists as he pulls them towards his waist. They know what to do, fingers undoing his leather belt and then the button and zipper. He pulls his cock out and Castiel’s breath disappears in a hiss, still not used to being allowed simple pleasures like this. When he shared the body with Jimmy he didn’t feel things like this - he didn’t hurt, didn’t feel pain or pleasure, only had vague glimpse at what it could be like. This is the magnified and solidified version of what he saw and it makes his head spin in circles until he’s dizzy with it.
“Hey,” Dean’s mouth moves against his jaw, stubble coarse against his lips. “Come back to me,” he whispers. “We’ve got all night.” His hand slows, and then disappears altogether, forcing a whine out of Castiel. His familiar weight disappears off him along with his hand and Cas opens his eyes (didn’t realize he’d closed them) to see Dean kneeling by the duffel bag. He uses this moment to slide off the slacks, the grey boxer-briefs he had underneath; Castiel sucks two fingers into his mouth and moves his legs so they’re bent at the knee, feet planted against the mattress. The breath that Dean sucks in when he turns around is hard, seeing his angel spread out on the mattress like that as he finger fucks himself. His fingers are already slicked up when he kneels in between his legs, and he presses one in alongside the others before Cas even realizes that he’s there.
“Oh,” he moans, and he pulls his own out because Dean’s are so much better. He stretches him carefully, always carefully, thoroughly, until Cas is pressing back down into it like that’s all he’s got left. Dean pulls his fingers out, wipes them on the sheets and Cas is much, much faster than he is, sitting up and ripping the condom packet open. The slide of latex over his dick is good, it’s good because Cas is doing it and anything that Cas does is good. “Let me,” he says, voice rough in a way that makes Dean look up as he makes them switch positions so that he’s the one leaning against the headboard.
Castiel fits himself above him with his legs folded on either side of his thighs. “Jesus, Cas.” Dean breathes, chest tightening as he’s guided inside, as he sinks down until he can’t anymore, filled up up up to the hilt. He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, lips brushing against Dean’s forehead and eyebrows as he collects himself, pulls himself together because it’s always so much more and so much more intense when he’s on top. There’s leverage where he puts his hands on his shoulders, one hand closer to his neck, thumb pressing to his collarbone. The other one slides lower, fitting over his mark from where he dragged him out of Hell.
The thing is, he likes having the control when he’s on top like this, he likes being able to decide how fast or slow or hard they go. “So good,” Dean gasps brokenly in his ear when he slides back down, one hand holding onto the headboard next to where he’s leaned up against. His other one scratches short nails up Castiel’s back, creating red lines and marks that prove that he’s been there, that Cas belongs to someone, belongs to him. His hand slides up into his hair, tangling into dark strands to pull at as he tips his hips up to meet him halfway.
“Fuck - fuck, fuck,” the angel whimpers, and this is the only place - when he’s being fucked and torn apart at the seams - that Dean hears him swear like that, and it makes him feel proud, because he’s doing it, he’s making this servant of God swear like a sailor and ask for things he didn’t know were possible. He curls his hand around Cas’ cock, jerking him off to a beat that counters the way that his hips work against him. Dean watches the way he bites his lip and tips his head back, falling apart underneath his touch, and he leans forward and bites his neck and feels him shake and jerk and come, white streaking his hand and his chest.
Dean flips them over so Castiel is on his back again, fucking into him slowly. He likes it like this, when Cas has just come so he’s a little sensitive and everything feels good and glows at the edges. He’s loose and pliant, taking whatever Dean gives him with a soft and quiet moan, arms linked around his neck as he holds him close. It doesn’t take long for Dean to come too, Cas, Cas, Cas falling from his lips like a mantra in the middle of the night.
He collapses on top of him, just breathing until Cas pushes weakly at his shoulder and says, “Dean, I can't breathe.” Castiel bites his lip when he pulls out, dragging the covers back up the bed as he ties off the condom and chucks it in the garbage can, fitting his hands around Cas’ hips so he can pull him back against his chest. He’s tired, the manly kind who sleeps after sex and eats after sleeping. A kiss is pressed into the back of Castiel’s hair, and Dean mumbles something - illogical and un-understandable, something that Cas doesn’t catch and doesn’t care about enough to ask for again. “Sleep,” he says, tangling his fingers with Dean’s. They do.