Fic: MMOM #3: Wings and Bathtubs (Dean/Castiel)
Title: Wings and Bathtubs
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Rating: R
Word Count: 2200
Notes: Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 31-Day Fic-a-thon, for which this is fic #3. Wanking and wing!porn, nothing but wanking and wing!porn. And bathtubs. Really, the title says it all. Also, thanks to joyeee for drawing such inspiring wings :)
They aren’t squatting, exactly. More like housesitting, only no one else knew it.
So Dean can’t complain too much about the triangle-shaped bathroom on the third floor, the gold claws on the tub, the peeling white plaster on the walls.
What was home anyway? A bathroom was a bathroom, and a shower always felt good. Especially a shower when they’d been on the road for three days and Sam was gonna be gone for awhile.
Besides, the day was still sunny, with no chance of clouds or monsters or angels. The last time he’d seen Cas, the angel had talked something cryptic and did his disappearing act. That was weeks ago. Maybe angels were like imaginary friends: If he stopped thinking about Cas, maybe Cas would stop appearing.
Only that wasn’t as easy as it sounded.
So when Dean goes to take a shower, he’s not thinking about anything but getting undressed and under the water as soon as possible.
Dean undresses quick, balling his shirt and jeans up in the corner and throwing his shoes and socks under the bed with his underwear. New shower, fresh pair.
He walks into the warm spray of the shower and it feels incredible. His back’s in knots. The water washes away a layer of dirt and he feels the sunburn on his cheekbones for the first time.
Over the cheap low-hanging curtain, he can see the dull sunlight catch the dust in the air as it falls through the room. The place hasn’t been touched in weeks and he had it all to himself.
Dean rubs himself down with the water, wishing he could be totally immersed. When he touches himself, he begins the way he always does, the familiar greeting, the light squeeze, the holding touch. He shivers and closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.
That’s when he thinks of feathers for the first time.
He holds onto himself for a moment, shakes his head. Tries again. Stops.
Ok. At least feathers weren’t red. White was better than red, and the blood, and the smells…
White then. Sunlight, dust, water, white. Dean closes his eyes.
And shivers again. He takes another deep breath and kneels in the water that’s slowly collecting in the bottom of the tub. He leaves the shower on. The water falls on his back, runs over his head and catches on his lips. He drinks it down because his lips need to move, his mouth needs to move against, something, drink down.
Dean braces his hand next to the faucet, wrapping his fingers around the edge of the tub. His knees are spread full to the sides of the tub and water sloshes between them as he digs and pulls himself till full and hard and aching.
It’s still not enough. He pulls hard and curls in on himself, so much it’s hard to breathe. His breath comes out in frustrated groans, when his chest gives him a break, when his lungs and heart aren’t balled up in the center of his chest.
He wills himself to breathe. And, oh god, he’s thinking of sunlight and dust and water and white and feathers and sky and Castiel.
He’s thinking of the corners of his mouth when it’s downturned, the way he knows the angel wants to say something, but holds himself back…
He’s thinking of his voice, deep and clear, and expressive in a way he’s spent hours trying to deciper while staring at empty roads…
He’s thinking of his voice, breaking his mind, his ears, his soul, breaking everything…
He’s thinking of eyes that focus on him with a blank intensity that drives him crazy, that makes him want to punch the guy…
He’s thinking of a surprisingly broad hand, reaching, reaching, and the power behind it, and the power building…
He wills himself to breathe, to take it easy. He feels his head flush with blood and black spots dance behind his eyes.
He lifts his head up to the water and drinks. For a moment, he turns over and rests his head against the side of the tub. It’s too much.
He’s grateful when the shampoo smells like nothing. It’s just white and pearly and clean. He lathers his whole body up, stopping in hairier places, lingering, and letting the water wash the suds off slowly. When he’s done, he can breathe again.
He grabs some more shampoo and pours a nice circle on his palm. The pearly white liquid covers his sex obscenely, and the water leaves just enough behind so there’s a sheen on his hand and his cock, but that’s the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes and begins again.
This time, it’s slower.
Castiel is still there. Castiel above him, fully clothed, just standing there at the foot of the tub. Castiel, Dean gasps out between breaths, forcing the name through his clenched teeth.
How hot it would be, he thinks, if Castiel just disrobed in front of him, staring at him, like he’s imagining it now, never taking his gaze away for a second. As he undoes his tie. As he untucks his shirt and begins to unbutton it. As he folds his jacket over the sink, and pulls at the strap of his belt…
All Dean can hear is the hum of the water falling and the slap of the water between his fist and his belly. He tries to mouth the angel’s name to the rhythm of the water, but he can’t say it fast enough. He’s just breathing it, and breathing.
How hot it would be, if Castiel just climbed over the edge of the tub, one step, gingerly, then the other, tip-toeing in with feet (much smaller than they should be, dainty almost, graceful) as he steps over Dean and stands above him. His eyes never move. His eyes never move away from wonder.
How hot it would be, if the angel had a cock obscenely hard and jutting out in front of him, weeping down at Dean from above…
Had wings appear out of the dust in the air, as soft as the dust in the air, and spread out behind him, covering the whole room with even softer shadows…
Castiel, yes, everything about him was unexpected. Unexpected that he would lower himself into the tub like a cat would, all lithe and grace. That he would then, with both shins pressing between the tub and Dean’s torso, would lower himself onto Dean’s cock.
But Dean wants it to be real, he wants it to seem like the angel is really gripping him that tight with his whole body, really feeling it, and not just his hand, shaking in its grip.
He imagines Castiel is going slowly, so slowly, but entirely on purpose, because he grins at Dean with that mouth, and those eyes, and a face so open, so rare, it makes him gasp and moan his name to match the squeezes he can’t even control at this point.
Dean is imagining Castiel’s entire focus is on him, and oh, fuck, his whole body shivers when he holds his cock at the base, way down, and just presses there, and imagines the perfect weight seated right there.
When he opens his eyes for a split second, he expects to see blue.
Dean squeezes and groans, and squeezes as he strokes up and down slowly. Castiel would tease like his hand is tensing, Castiel would be just that tight…
He presses the pad of his palm against his body as he strokes down, imagining it is the soft pad of Castiel’s whole body seated there, pressing down, squeezing involuntarily, gasping high in a voice that starts out low deep. Dean feels like his cock and his aching hardness is the only thing keeping Castiel grounded and real and here, and he imagines it hurting the angel, just a bit…
He imagines it new, and forbidden, and confusing in its intensity. Castiel’s eyes are wide and water is sloshing between skin and skin as he tries to move. The only noise is Dean’s skin slapping, and the keening sounds through his nose and through his mouth. Dean’s breath trying to get through clenched teeth and pouring water and the buzz of desire in his ears. Nothing is going to be enough.
Castiel’s legs are hanging over the edge of the tub now (that’s better), one to the left and one to the right, and all of Castiel is centered on Dean’s cock.
Dean grabs his own thigh where it meets his hip and holds tight, imagining he’s holding Cas, there, and steady, and in place.
Then he just moves. He’s so hard and slick that it’s just a matter of time. He revels in it. His thoughts are just images now, and imagined voices.
He imagines wings, dipping into the water. They float over them both from above, and Dean has the sensation of being tickled, but instead of laughter, he wants to revere it, wants to revel in it, and breathe in it. As Castiel presses his body down, harder, onto Dean, with more abandon, more need, he whines high in his throat, almost sobs, as Dean twitch-thrusts harder and harder from below. Castiel’s wings press down with him, until they’re half-covering Dean and half-soaked in the water. Dean grabs the side of the tub and feels the cool smoothness and imagines Castiel’s wing bones there, pressed down over him as the lower, longer feathers get submerged in the water.
Dean feels the impossible softness of the wet feathers on his arms and wants to cry. His keening is interrupted by sobs, and he swears he feels everything, feels it all…
The soft feathers disappear into pearly white clouds under the water, then appear solid again in the air. Dean grips the edge of the tub and imagines he’s stroking and tugging and gripping fistfuls of feather and bone…
And Castiel’s sounds. The angel is so close, so close, shaking above him, his head thrown back to some place beyond the ceiling. Right before he comes he pulls his wings back and out of the water, and then the world shakes, and a tremor goes through the angel, from the center of Dean’s fist to the edges of his wingtips, and he comes all over Dean.
Water splashes all over the room and Cas is thrashing in the water. Dean turns around and braces himself near the faucet again. He’s so close.
Dean turns his head and bites the skin on the underside of his arm until it hurts. Then just goes for it. Too much, too much…
The edges of the feathers are spiky and wet where they brush up against Dean’s chin, jaw, forehead, shoulder, chest, from behind. They grow impossibly silky and soft under the water against the soft skin against his ribcage. He sinks deeper into the water and imagines it is all feathers, it is all Castiel, over his back and running down his ass, falling across his shoulders, his face, ears, nose, all submerged in Castiel…
Dean stills in the water when he comes, his seed spilling like curled up feathers in the water.
The water is suddenly colder, so he shuts it off and sits in the quiet, listening to the sound of the drain. With the buzz of sex still ringing in his head a little, in the peace, he can think of Cas. And it’s always a little embarrassing to think of something you really care about after you’ve fucked it silly in your head. But that was the thing with Cas. He remembered how much Cas had wanted him to pray for him. How willing Cas was to give him anything he could pray for, if he would only pray. What would Cas do if he knew how much Dean really needed him? If he knew what Dean was really asking for?
The thing is, Dean couldn’t imagine Cas being angry with him, or turning from him in disgust, or threatening him with anything on Earth or in Heaven. No, in his head, Castiel would smile no matter what Dean did, no matter what Dean asked for. It bothered the hell out of him. And no matter what Dean did the rest of that day, he couldn’t erase the angel’s smile from his mind.
The End
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Rating: R
Word Count: 2200
Notes: Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 31-Day Fic-a-thon, for which this is fic #3. Wanking and wing!porn, nothing but wanking and wing!porn. And bathtubs. Really, the title says it all. Also, thanks to joyeee for drawing such inspiring wings :)
They aren’t squatting, exactly. More like housesitting, only no one else knew it.
So Dean can’t complain too much about the triangle-shaped bathroom on the third floor, the gold claws on the tub, the peeling white plaster on the walls.
What was home anyway? A bathroom was a bathroom, and a shower always felt good. Especially a shower when they’d been on the road for three days and Sam was gonna be gone for awhile.
Besides, the day was still sunny, with no chance of clouds or monsters or angels. The last time he’d seen Cas, the angel had talked something cryptic and did his disappearing act. That was weeks ago. Maybe angels were like imaginary friends: If he stopped thinking about Cas, maybe Cas would stop appearing.
Only that wasn’t as easy as it sounded.
So when Dean goes to take a shower, he’s not thinking about anything but getting undressed and under the water as soon as possible.
Dean undresses quick, balling his shirt and jeans up in the corner and throwing his shoes and socks under the bed with his underwear. New shower, fresh pair.
He walks into the warm spray of the shower and it feels incredible. His back’s in knots. The water washes away a layer of dirt and he feels the sunburn on his cheekbones for the first time.
Over the cheap low-hanging curtain, he can see the dull sunlight catch the dust in the air as it falls through the room. The place hasn’t been touched in weeks and he had it all to himself.
Dean rubs himself down with the water, wishing he could be totally immersed. When he touches himself, he begins the way he always does, the familiar greeting, the light squeeze, the holding touch. He shivers and closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.
That’s when he thinks of feathers for the first time.
He holds onto himself for a moment, shakes his head. Tries again. Stops.
Ok. At least feathers weren’t red. White was better than red, and the blood, and the smells…
White then. Sunlight, dust, water, white. Dean closes his eyes.
And shivers again. He takes another deep breath and kneels in the water that’s slowly collecting in the bottom of the tub. He leaves the shower on. The water falls on his back, runs over his head and catches on his lips. He drinks it down because his lips need to move, his mouth needs to move against, something, drink down.
Dean braces his hand next to the faucet, wrapping his fingers around the edge of the tub. His knees are spread full to the sides of the tub and water sloshes between them as he digs and pulls himself till full and hard and aching.
It’s still not enough. He pulls hard and curls in on himself, so much it’s hard to breathe. His breath comes out in frustrated groans, when his chest gives him a break, when his lungs and heart aren’t balled up in the center of his chest.
He wills himself to breathe. And, oh god, he’s thinking of sunlight and dust and water and white and feathers and sky and Castiel.
He’s thinking of the corners of his mouth when it’s downturned, the way he knows the angel wants to say something, but holds himself back…
He’s thinking of his voice, deep and clear, and expressive in a way he’s spent hours trying to deciper while staring at empty roads…
He’s thinking of his voice, breaking his mind, his ears, his soul, breaking everything…
He’s thinking of eyes that focus on him with a blank intensity that drives him crazy, that makes him want to punch the guy…
He’s thinking of a surprisingly broad hand, reaching, reaching, and the power behind it, and the power building…
He wills himself to breathe, to take it easy. He feels his head flush with blood and black spots dance behind his eyes.
He lifts his head up to the water and drinks. For a moment, he turns over and rests his head against the side of the tub. It’s too much.
He’s grateful when the shampoo smells like nothing. It’s just white and pearly and clean. He lathers his whole body up, stopping in hairier places, lingering, and letting the water wash the suds off slowly. When he’s done, he can breathe again.
He grabs some more shampoo and pours a nice circle on his palm. The pearly white liquid covers his sex obscenely, and the water leaves just enough behind so there’s a sheen on his hand and his cock, but that’s the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes and begins again.
This time, it’s slower.
Castiel is still there. Castiel above him, fully clothed, just standing there at the foot of the tub. Castiel, Dean gasps out between breaths, forcing the name through his clenched teeth.
How hot it would be, he thinks, if Castiel just disrobed in front of him, staring at him, like he’s imagining it now, never taking his gaze away for a second. As he undoes his tie. As he untucks his shirt and begins to unbutton it. As he folds his jacket over the sink, and pulls at the strap of his belt…
All Dean can hear is the hum of the water falling and the slap of the water between his fist and his belly. He tries to mouth the angel’s name to the rhythm of the water, but he can’t say it fast enough. He’s just breathing it, and breathing.
How hot it would be, if Castiel just climbed over the edge of the tub, one step, gingerly, then the other, tip-toeing in with feet (much smaller than they should be, dainty almost, graceful) as he steps over Dean and stands above him. His eyes never move. His eyes never move away from wonder.
How hot it would be, if the angel had a cock obscenely hard and jutting out in front of him, weeping down at Dean from above…
Had wings appear out of the dust in the air, as soft as the dust in the air, and spread out behind him, covering the whole room with even softer shadows…
Castiel, yes, everything about him was unexpected. Unexpected that he would lower himself into the tub like a cat would, all lithe and grace. That he would then, with both shins pressing between the tub and Dean’s torso, would lower himself onto Dean’s cock.
But Dean wants it to be real, he wants it to seem like the angel is really gripping him that tight with his whole body, really feeling it, and not just his hand, shaking in its grip.
He imagines Castiel is going slowly, so slowly, but entirely on purpose, because he grins at Dean with that mouth, and those eyes, and a face so open, so rare, it makes him gasp and moan his name to match the squeezes he can’t even control at this point.
Dean is imagining Castiel’s entire focus is on him, and oh, fuck, his whole body shivers when he holds his cock at the base, way down, and just presses there, and imagines the perfect weight seated right there.
When he opens his eyes for a split second, he expects to see blue.
Dean squeezes and groans, and squeezes as he strokes up and down slowly. Castiel would tease like his hand is tensing, Castiel would be just that tight…
He presses the pad of his palm against his body as he strokes down, imagining it is the soft pad of Castiel’s whole body seated there, pressing down, squeezing involuntarily, gasping high in a voice that starts out low deep. Dean feels like his cock and his aching hardness is the only thing keeping Castiel grounded and real and here, and he imagines it hurting the angel, just a bit…
He imagines it new, and forbidden, and confusing in its intensity. Castiel’s eyes are wide and water is sloshing between skin and skin as he tries to move. The only noise is Dean’s skin slapping, and the keening sounds through his nose and through his mouth. Dean’s breath trying to get through clenched teeth and pouring water and the buzz of desire in his ears. Nothing is going to be enough.
Castiel’s legs are hanging over the edge of the tub now (that’s better), one to the left and one to the right, and all of Castiel is centered on Dean’s cock.
Dean grabs his own thigh where it meets his hip and holds tight, imagining he’s holding Cas, there, and steady, and in place.
Then he just moves. He’s so hard and slick that it’s just a matter of time. He revels in it. His thoughts are just images now, and imagined voices.
He imagines wings, dipping into the water. They float over them both from above, and Dean has the sensation of being tickled, but instead of laughter, he wants to revere it, wants to revel in it, and breathe in it. As Castiel presses his body down, harder, onto Dean, with more abandon, more need, he whines high in his throat, almost sobs, as Dean twitch-thrusts harder and harder from below. Castiel’s wings press down with him, until they’re half-covering Dean and half-soaked in the water. Dean grabs the side of the tub and feels the cool smoothness and imagines Castiel’s wing bones there, pressed down over him as the lower, longer feathers get submerged in the water.
Dean feels the impossible softness of the wet feathers on his arms and wants to cry. His keening is interrupted by sobs, and he swears he feels everything, feels it all…
The soft feathers disappear into pearly white clouds under the water, then appear solid again in the air. Dean grips the edge of the tub and imagines he’s stroking and tugging and gripping fistfuls of feather and bone…
And Castiel’s sounds. The angel is so close, so close, shaking above him, his head thrown back to some place beyond the ceiling. Right before he comes he pulls his wings back and out of the water, and then the world shakes, and a tremor goes through the angel, from the center of Dean’s fist to the edges of his wingtips, and he comes all over Dean.
Water splashes all over the room and Cas is thrashing in the water. Dean turns around and braces himself near the faucet again. He’s so close.
Dean turns his head and bites the skin on the underside of his arm until it hurts. Then just goes for it. Too much, too much…
The edges of the feathers are spiky and wet where they brush up against Dean’s chin, jaw, forehead, shoulder, chest, from behind. They grow impossibly silky and soft under the water against the soft skin against his ribcage. He sinks deeper into the water and imagines it is all feathers, it is all Castiel, over his back and running down his ass, falling across his shoulders, his face, ears, nose, all submerged in Castiel…
Dean stills in the water when he comes, his seed spilling like curled up feathers in the water.
The water is suddenly colder, so he shuts it off and sits in the quiet, listening to the sound of the drain. With the buzz of sex still ringing in his head a little, in the peace, he can think of Cas. And it’s always a little embarrassing to think of something you really care about after you’ve fucked it silly in your head. But that was the thing with Cas. He remembered how much Cas had wanted him to pray for him. How willing Cas was to give him anything he could pray for, if he would only pray. What would Cas do if he knew how much Dean really needed him? If he knew what Dean was really asking for?
The thing is, Dean couldn’t imagine Cas being angry with him, or turning from him in disgust, or threatening him with anything on Earth or in Heaven. No, in his head, Castiel would smile no matter what Dean did, no matter what Dean asked for. It bothered the hell out of him. And no matter what Dean did the rest of that day, he couldn’t erase the angel’s smile from his mind.
The End