Fic: It's pleasant down that way, too, part 18b/? in Oz
It's pleasant down that way, too
1800 words, SPN Dean/Castiel slash. Spoilers for all of season 4.
Thanks to kayote_pb_rl for agreeing to take part in my madness!
Continuing my Welcome to Oz series. Master post of links here.
Dean wakes up in the morning with a painful crick in his neck and a bony knee (that’s not his)
It's pleasant down that way, too
Saturday
Dean wakes up in the morning with a painful crick in his neck and a bony knee (that’s not his) digging into his thigh. As he blinks the sleep away, the events of the previous night come back to him in a swirl.
He stares down at Castiel, who is fast asleep, head resting on Dean’s chest, limbs wrapped up around him like an octopus.
“Shit,” Dean says very softly as he tries to take stock of the situation. There’s dried come on his stomach, his legs, and the couch, Dean’s left arm is numb under the weight of Castiel’s shoulder crushing it, and Dean really needs to pee. He carefully extricates himself from Castiel’s grip and falls off the couch gracelessly. Castiel, naturally, doesn’t even stir through all of this.
Dean picks his wrinkled clothing off the floor and decides against putting it back on, balling it all up in his hands instead. He’s about to leave the room when he looks back to Castiel, who is naked and shivering minutely now that Dean’s body is no longer generating any heat for him. Dean sighs to himself and grabs a spare blanket from the bedroom, returning to lay it carefully over Castiel.
Dean goes upstairs, dumps his dirty laundry in the hamper, and steps into the shower. Despite the twinges throughout his body from sleeping on the uncomfortable couch (again, Jesus, you’d think he’d learned his lesson the first week in Mountaindale), he feels satiated, filled with the glorious after-sex buzz he hasn’t had a fix of in too damn long.
At some point during the shower, however, Dean’s mind conjures up a less fun topic: the morning after conversation. He’s not a fan of the questions that arise, such as: ‘what the hell does this mean?’ and, ‘what now?’, and tries to shove them away. Unfortunately for Dean, the questions stubbornly refuse to be banished and merely return with additional thoughts like: ‘huh, we live together and can have sex anytime we want, isn’t that convenient?’ and ‘hey, the sex was pretty good, I wouldn’t mind doing that again’. Dean looks down in disbelief at his treacherous dick, which has already begun to show some interest in this last line of thought, and tries to will it down. Naturally, it totally ignores him.
However persistent the thoughts and questions are, Dean refuses to answer them. Maybe Castiel will fall from the couch, hit his head, and suffer from selective memory loss. Maybe he’ll decide to move out. Maybe this whole situation will simply resolve itself without Dean having to think about it, or worse, talk about it.
Dean gets out of the shower, changes into sweatpants and a T-shirt, and goes downstairs. Castiel’s sleeping away, a fact Dean’s incredibly relieved about as he heads into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and pulls out bacon and eggs; the morning after sex he always gets these intense cravings for protein, or carbs, or whatever. This time, it's protein.
He’s just started frying up the bacon when Castiel walks into the kitchen, completely naked and a thoroughly debauched mess. It’s kind of hot, seeing the evidence of what they did together still splashed across Castiel’s stomach and legs, hotter still because Castiel seems totally unashamed and makes no move to cover up.
“I’m making bacon and eggs,” Dean says, and it’s weird, but at the same time it’s still Cas. “Want some?”
Castiel’s expression is unreadable as he nods. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says, and then disappears upstairs.
Dean forces himself to focus on the bacon, even as his dick twitches to life again at the idea of Castiel under a stream of hot water in their glass cube shower. Dean almost burns himself (and the bacon) before he gets a hold of his concentration again, and starts scrambling the eggs.
He’s done with everything when Castiel reappears, washed and dressed. Dean splits the eggs evenly between two plates and brings them over to the table while Castiel pours them both coffee.
Once they sit down, Dean becomes acutely aware that Castiel is watching him, waiting for him to say something. He resolutely refuses to make eye contact, instead choosing to dump almost an entire shaker of salt onto his eggs and cut into his bacon ruthlessly. The silence stretches out unbearably, and it becomes clear that Castiel isn’t going to say anything until Dean does. Finally, Dean can’t take it anymore and says the first thing that pops into his head, which unfortunately turns out to be, “Remember how much you hated coffee the first time you tried it?”
Castiel tone implies that he thinks Dean’s gone crazy. “I remember.”
“Funny how things change,” Dean finishes lamely, and begins shoveling eggs into his mouth to prevent more idiocy from spewing forth. This is why he doesn’t get breakfast with people the morning after; he never knows what to say if he isn’t playing the part of the astronaut with his last night on earth or secret agent off to save the world. When’s it’s just Dean, it always sucks.
“Dean,” Castiel says, and something in his voice convinces Dean to tear himself away from his food and look up. The eggs on Castiel’s plate are virtually untouched and he’s only picking at his bacon-and Dean knows for a fact that Castiel loves bacon. “I don’t know what’s happening,” Castiel whispers in the direction of his plate.
“Me neither,” Dean says, and all of a sudden, the delicious eggs in his mouth have no flavor.
Castiel nods like that was the answer he was expecting, and continues picking at his bacon. Dean swallows his last bite of his tasteless eggs and gets up. He goes over to the sink to wash off his plate and tries to think of something to say, but his mind is a big blank spot. He’s turning off the water when Castiel comes up behind him, slides his hands under Dean’s shirt over his stomach, and then under the waistband of his sweatpants.
“I don’t think I can-” Castiel’s voice is hot and warm in Dean’s ear, and his dick already hard against Dean’s ass. “I want--”
“Yeah,” Dean sighs, and his sweatpants seem to magically fall down his hips before Castiel’s hand wraps around his cock firmly. Dean braces himself against the edge of the sink, and feels his knees go slightly weak as Castiel coaxes his dick to full hardness.
It’s better this time: Castiel’s not half asleep, and he’s paying more attention to Dean’s responses, varying the speed and grip until Dean’s moaning. After some experimentation, Castiel gets the rhythm and pressure just right, and Dean’s unabashedly fucking himself into Castiel’s fist, Castiel’s cock a faint and promising pressure against his ass. Dean comes hard, leaning heavily against the sink, vaguely conscious of Castiel kissing the back of his neck, repeating Dean’s name over and over again.
When Dean’s sufficiently recovered, he turns around to face Castiel, who is regarding him with the faintest trace of apprehension. There’s a flush high in Castiel’s cheeks, his lips are parted slightly, and he’s looking at Dean like this is all he’s ever wanted.
Dean makes a decision.
“You’re going to like this,” Dean says as he leans in to kiss Castiel, mouth opening up easily and hungrily. Dean skims his fingers down Castiel stomach, deftly undoes the front of Castiel’s pants, and pushes both pants and boxers down in one fell swoop. Castiel instinctively presses forward, seeking contact with anything, but Dean holds him back. “Trust me,” Dean says when Castiel lets go of his mouth reluctantly.
Dean presses a kiss to Castiel’s throat and then slides down to his knees, trying to remember the last time he’d done this. It was a long time ago, whenever it was. Castiel’s cock juts out of his pubic hair, hard and red, strangely appealing because of the thought that of all people, it’s Dean that’s responsible for this, Dean that’s made him so very human.
Castiel shifts impatiently, and Dean chuckles, pats Castiel reassuringly on the inner thigh. “I’m getting there, don’t worry.”
Dean first runs a careful lick up the underside of Castiel’s dick and hears a sharp gasp of surprise above him. Pleased, Dean takes the head into his mouth, letting the muscle memory take over, relaxing his jaw before going further. Castiel makes choked off noises and then moans when Dean finally starts bobbing up and down.
It tastes clean, hot, and a little musky, but in a good way Dean’s starting to associate with Castiel. He’s startled to find himself actually enjoying this; he’d always preferred to be on the receiving end of blow jobs in the past, but feeling Castiel tremble underneath him, and hearing him say “Dean” in a voice so low and raw it burns-it’s a rush. And it goes straight to Dean’s dick to be able to do this to him, do this for him.
Castiel isn’t going to last long, and Dean only has to reach up, lightly stroke the underside of Castiel’s balls with one hand before Castiel’s tensing. Dean manages to pull off and away in time to avoid most of Castiel’s come, but some still lands on his chin and his T-shirt.
Dean stands up, knees grateful to be off the cold linoleum floor. Castiel’s eyes are shut, his hands fisted into the bottom of his own shirt. “Next time,” Dean whispers against Castiel’s neck, “you can pull my hair if you want. Face-fuck me if you want.” When Castiel’s eyes fly open, Dean wipes his chin deliberately with his hand and licks Castiel’s come off sloppily.
Castiel’s eyes widen and he slams Dean back against the counter, kiss harsh and demanding like he’s trying to devour Dean. They stay like that, kissing with roaming hands over asses and cocks and thighs until the ache emanating from the edge of the kitchen counter pushing sharp into Dean’s back gets to be too much.
“Come on,” Dean says, taking Castiel’s hand to lead him upstairs. When they reach the bedroom, Dean discards his come-stained shirt and helps Castiel discard his before pushing Castiel onto the bed. Castiel slides back, props himself up on his elbows, and watches Dean crawl up the vee of his legs with hooded eyes.
“Dean,” Castiel says as Dean drops butterfly kisses over his chest. “Dean.”
“Cas,” Dean replies, amused. “Big on the pillow talk, huh?”
“This is-” Castiel hesitates, and Dean looks up. “This is sex?”
It’s the uncertainty behind the question that gets to Dean, and he moves up alongside Castiel, studies his face. “This is all new to you, huh?” Dean runs his thumb along the curve of Castiel’s cheekbone, his jaw, the side of his mouth. “You’re a forty-thousand-year-old virgin.”
Castiel presses the side of his face into Dean’s palm without breaking eye contact. “You amaze me, Dean.”
Dean freezes and tries to pull back, but Castiel catches his wrist easily and doesn’t let him get away. Dean squirms because it’s too much-too sincere, too intimate, too everything. But Castiel doesn’t let go, doesn’t stop looking at him, and simply waits until Dean’s heart stops rabbiting in his chest, until all the tension seeps out of his body.
Onto the next part of this chapter: Wasn't he pointing the other way?
1800 words, SPN Dean/Castiel slash. Spoilers for all of season 4.
Thanks to kayote_pb_rl for agreeing to take part in my madness!
Continuing my Welcome to Oz series. Master post of links here.
Dean wakes up in the morning with a painful crick in his neck and a bony knee (that’s not his)
It's pleasant down that way, too
Saturday
Dean wakes up in the morning with a painful crick in his neck and a bony knee (that’s not his) digging into his thigh. As he blinks the sleep away, the events of the previous night come back to him in a swirl.
He stares down at Castiel, who is fast asleep, head resting on Dean’s chest, limbs wrapped up around him like an octopus.
“Shit,” Dean says very softly as he tries to take stock of the situation. There’s dried come on his stomach, his legs, and the couch, Dean’s left arm is numb under the weight of Castiel’s shoulder crushing it, and Dean really needs to pee. He carefully extricates himself from Castiel’s grip and falls off the couch gracelessly. Castiel, naturally, doesn’t even stir through all of this.
Dean picks his wrinkled clothing off the floor and decides against putting it back on, balling it all up in his hands instead. He’s about to leave the room when he looks back to Castiel, who is naked and shivering minutely now that Dean’s body is no longer generating any heat for him. Dean sighs to himself and grabs a spare blanket from the bedroom, returning to lay it carefully over Castiel.
Dean goes upstairs, dumps his dirty laundry in the hamper, and steps into the shower. Despite the twinges throughout his body from sleeping on the uncomfortable couch (again, Jesus, you’d think he’d learned his lesson the first week in Mountaindale), he feels satiated, filled with the glorious after-sex buzz he hasn’t had a fix of in too damn long.
At some point during the shower, however, Dean’s mind conjures up a less fun topic: the morning after conversation. He’s not a fan of the questions that arise, such as: ‘what the hell does this mean?’ and, ‘what now?’, and tries to shove them away. Unfortunately for Dean, the questions stubbornly refuse to be banished and merely return with additional thoughts like: ‘huh, we live together and can have sex anytime we want, isn’t that convenient?’ and ‘hey, the sex was pretty good, I wouldn’t mind doing that again’. Dean looks down in disbelief at his treacherous dick, which has already begun to show some interest in this last line of thought, and tries to will it down. Naturally, it totally ignores him.
However persistent the thoughts and questions are, Dean refuses to answer them. Maybe Castiel will fall from the couch, hit his head, and suffer from selective memory loss. Maybe he’ll decide to move out. Maybe this whole situation will simply resolve itself without Dean having to think about it, or worse, talk about it.
Dean gets out of the shower, changes into sweatpants and a T-shirt, and goes downstairs. Castiel’s sleeping away, a fact Dean’s incredibly relieved about as he heads into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and pulls out bacon and eggs; the morning after sex he always gets these intense cravings for protein, or carbs, or whatever. This time, it's protein.
He’s just started frying up the bacon when Castiel walks into the kitchen, completely naked and a thoroughly debauched mess. It’s kind of hot, seeing the evidence of what they did together still splashed across Castiel’s stomach and legs, hotter still because Castiel seems totally unashamed and makes no move to cover up.
“I’m making bacon and eggs,” Dean says, and it’s weird, but at the same time it’s still Cas. “Want some?”
Castiel’s expression is unreadable as he nods. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says, and then disappears upstairs.
Dean forces himself to focus on the bacon, even as his dick twitches to life again at the idea of Castiel under a stream of hot water in their glass cube shower. Dean almost burns himself (and the bacon) before he gets a hold of his concentration again, and starts scrambling the eggs.
He’s done with everything when Castiel reappears, washed and dressed. Dean splits the eggs evenly between two plates and brings them over to the table while Castiel pours them both coffee.
Once they sit down, Dean becomes acutely aware that Castiel is watching him, waiting for him to say something. He resolutely refuses to make eye contact, instead choosing to dump almost an entire shaker of salt onto his eggs and cut into his bacon ruthlessly. The silence stretches out unbearably, and it becomes clear that Castiel isn’t going to say anything until Dean does. Finally, Dean can’t take it anymore and says the first thing that pops into his head, which unfortunately turns out to be, “Remember how much you hated coffee the first time you tried it?”
Castiel tone implies that he thinks Dean’s gone crazy. “I remember.”
“Funny how things change,” Dean finishes lamely, and begins shoveling eggs into his mouth to prevent more idiocy from spewing forth. This is why he doesn’t get breakfast with people the morning after; he never knows what to say if he isn’t playing the part of the astronaut with his last night on earth or secret agent off to save the world. When’s it’s just Dean, it always sucks.
“Dean,” Castiel says, and something in his voice convinces Dean to tear himself away from his food and look up. The eggs on Castiel’s plate are virtually untouched and he’s only picking at his bacon-and Dean knows for a fact that Castiel loves bacon. “I don’t know what’s happening,” Castiel whispers in the direction of his plate.
“Me neither,” Dean says, and all of a sudden, the delicious eggs in his mouth have no flavor.
Castiel nods like that was the answer he was expecting, and continues picking at his bacon. Dean swallows his last bite of his tasteless eggs and gets up. He goes over to the sink to wash off his plate and tries to think of something to say, but his mind is a big blank spot. He’s turning off the water when Castiel comes up behind him, slides his hands under Dean’s shirt over his stomach, and then under the waistband of his sweatpants.
“I don’t think I can-” Castiel’s voice is hot and warm in Dean’s ear, and his dick already hard against Dean’s ass. “I want--”
“Yeah,” Dean sighs, and his sweatpants seem to magically fall down his hips before Castiel’s hand wraps around his cock firmly. Dean braces himself against the edge of the sink, and feels his knees go slightly weak as Castiel coaxes his dick to full hardness.
It’s better this time: Castiel’s not half asleep, and he’s paying more attention to Dean’s responses, varying the speed and grip until Dean’s moaning. After some experimentation, Castiel gets the rhythm and pressure just right, and Dean’s unabashedly fucking himself into Castiel’s fist, Castiel’s cock a faint and promising pressure against his ass. Dean comes hard, leaning heavily against the sink, vaguely conscious of Castiel kissing the back of his neck, repeating Dean’s name over and over again.
When Dean’s sufficiently recovered, he turns around to face Castiel, who is regarding him with the faintest trace of apprehension. There’s a flush high in Castiel’s cheeks, his lips are parted slightly, and he’s looking at Dean like this is all he’s ever wanted.
Dean makes a decision.
“You’re going to like this,” Dean says as he leans in to kiss Castiel, mouth opening up easily and hungrily. Dean skims his fingers down Castiel stomach, deftly undoes the front of Castiel’s pants, and pushes both pants and boxers down in one fell swoop. Castiel instinctively presses forward, seeking contact with anything, but Dean holds him back. “Trust me,” Dean says when Castiel lets go of his mouth reluctantly.
Dean presses a kiss to Castiel’s throat and then slides down to his knees, trying to remember the last time he’d done this. It was a long time ago, whenever it was. Castiel’s cock juts out of his pubic hair, hard and red, strangely appealing because of the thought that of all people, it’s Dean that’s responsible for this, Dean that’s made him so very human.
Castiel shifts impatiently, and Dean chuckles, pats Castiel reassuringly on the inner thigh. “I’m getting there, don’t worry.”
Dean first runs a careful lick up the underside of Castiel’s dick and hears a sharp gasp of surprise above him. Pleased, Dean takes the head into his mouth, letting the muscle memory take over, relaxing his jaw before going further. Castiel makes choked off noises and then moans when Dean finally starts bobbing up and down.
It tastes clean, hot, and a little musky, but in a good way Dean’s starting to associate with Castiel. He’s startled to find himself actually enjoying this; he’d always preferred to be on the receiving end of blow jobs in the past, but feeling Castiel tremble underneath him, and hearing him say “Dean” in a voice so low and raw it burns-it’s a rush. And it goes straight to Dean’s dick to be able to do this to him, do this for him.
Castiel isn’t going to last long, and Dean only has to reach up, lightly stroke the underside of Castiel’s balls with one hand before Castiel’s tensing. Dean manages to pull off and away in time to avoid most of Castiel’s come, but some still lands on his chin and his T-shirt.
Dean stands up, knees grateful to be off the cold linoleum floor. Castiel’s eyes are shut, his hands fisted into the bottom of his own shirt. “Next time,” Dean whispers against Castiel’s neck, “you can pull my hair if you want. Face-fuck me if you want.” When Castiel’s eyes fly open, Dean wipes his chin deliberately with his hand and licks Castiel’s come off sloppily.
Castiel’s eyes widen and he slams Dean back against the counter, kiss harsh and demanding like he’s trying to devour Dean. They stay like that, kissing with roaming hands over asses and cocks and thighs until the ache emanating from the edge of the kitchen counter pushing sharp into Dean’s back gets to be too much.
“Come on,” Dean says, taking Castiel’s hand to lead him upstairs. When they reach the bedroom, Dean discards his come-stained shirt and helps Castiel discard his before pushing Castiel onto the bed. Castiel slides back, props himself up on his elbows, and watches Dean crawl up the vee of his legs with hooded eyes.
“Dean,” Castiel says as Dean drops butterfly kisses over his chest. “Dean.”
“Cas,” Dean replies, amused. “Big on the pillow talk, huh?”
“This is-” Castiel hesitates, and Dean looks up. “This is sex?”
It’s the uncertainty behind the question that gets to Dean, and he moves up alongside Castiel, studies his face. “This is all new to you, huh?” Dean runs his thumb along the curve of Castiel’s cheekbone, his jaw, the side of his mouth. “You’re a forty-thousand-year-old virgin.”
Castiel presses the side of his face into Dean’s palm without breaking eye contact. “You amaze me, Dean.”
Dean freezes and tries to pull back, but Castiel catches his wrist easily and doesn’t let him get away. Dean squirms because it’s too much-too sincere, too intimate, too everything. But Castiel doesn’t let go, doesn’t stop looking at him, and simply waits until Dean’s heart stops rabbiting in his chest, until all the tension seeps out of his body.
Onto the next part of this chapter: Wasn't he pointing the other way?