Fic: "We're Gonna Groove" [SPN]
TITLE: “We’re Gonna Groove”
AUTHOR: nanoochka
PAIRINGS: Dean/Castiel
RATING: NC-17 for language and graphic descriptions of sex.
WARNINGS: PWP. More music abuse. Exhibitionism. Disrespect to Bobby’s gaff. Pure filth. No apologies.
SUMMARY: It’s no accident that Zeppelin gives Dean ideas. (Sequel to Paradise Circus.)
WORD COUNT: 7,178
SPOILERS: General Season 5, vague Season 6.
DISCLAIMER: All Zeppelin lyrics credited to Plant, Page, Jones, and Bonham, and to Dixon and Lenoir where appropriate. Supernatural and all associated content is the property of The CW, Kripke et al. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: My only excuse is that there is no excuse, and that SPN fans aren’t nearly as well-versed in Zeppelin as they should be. Someone, somewhere can back up my theory that porn is an excellent instructive method. Fanmix available here. For hellozombies , who also ran point on the beta: Read more gay porn and less Foucault, kid. It’ll be better for you in the long run, and I’m sure Michel would approve, the kinky boy.
We’re Gonna Groove by nanoochka
A searing wail erupts from Page’s guitar when Dean thumbs the ‘play’ button, the first dozen notes of “You Shook Me” slicing like a whip through the musty, dead air of Bobby’s study. Dean grins. With no one else around for half a mile in every direction, he ups the volume until he can feel it in his bones. Sure, it’s no Mezzanine, but that riff sends a shiver through him same as the day he first heard it.
One of his hands digs the cell phone out of his front pocket as the other idly slips beneath the hem of his t-shirt to scratch at the skin of his stomach. Hell yeah it’ll be tough to work around all these books and the creaking, aged wood of the desk, but Dean’s nothing if not adaptable. With enough time and motivation he can make do with just about anything.
Finding Cas’s number in his phone, he taps out a quick message. Bobby’s. Thirty minutes.
Dean cranks the music louder and gets to work.
Cas is what Bobby calls a “quick study”: he understands this to mean that little escapes his notice, and if it does he soon figures the rest out anyway-connecting the dots, as Sam would say. Although pride is something Cas tries to avoid as much as possible, if he can indulge just a little and is honest, he’s quite proud of his superior dot-connecting skills. And honestly, what would they expect? He has been alive for millennia. Naturally, his powers of deduction are noteworthy by human standards; but even amongst his peers he was long regarded as a master logician, excelling in the area of reconnaissance and tactical planning. Things come together for him rapidly and without difficulty, even if he doesn’t always let on that this is the case. In short, Castiel knows a lot more about what goes on around him than he’s given credit for.
Right now, though, the scene he’s encountered defies even his mind’s advanced cognitive functions. Castiel wonders if the synapses in Jimmy’s brain are misfiring all at once as a result of sensory overload. Try as he might, he cannot get his thoughts to catch up with what he sees in front of him.
For the past few days, Castiel’s been embroiled in a witch hunt with Bobby and Sam somewhere in the mountains of Tennessee. He doesn’t know what to find more disturbing: that increasing numbers of hostile creatures and heralds of the coming apocalypse are infiltrating human cities and human homes, or that the majority of people still fail to realize it. Dean, sporting a sprained ankle from a moderately troubling vampire raid, remained at Bobby’s to heal while the others investigated the town of Peace Falls. Despite the vicious complaints-it’s his right foot, so he can’t drive-Castiel suspects that Dean is rather grateful for the reprieve. They have been chasing one job or another for almost a year, back-to-back-to-back, never taking much time to relax or recover, sometimes not even to sleep. Even Castiel feels the effects of such a demanding lifestyle, more so now that his Grace continues to fade by the day. While he does not envy that Dean is temporarily housebound, he would have much preferred some time alone with the elder Winchester, rather than days crammed into the Impala with Sam, a wheelchair and the embittered, hostile Bobby.
He has reason to believe that Dean isn’t holed up watching movies and cleaning his guns, though he might have started off that way. There are a few pieces of random, mostly useless information that Castiel has filed away for future reference: not all tequilas are created equal, morning sex is his favourite kind, certain types of music cause him to behave most inappropriately, and Dean can be a bit of a brat when he’s bored.
Bored and left to his own devices, he’s even worse. The first sign that Castiel was in for a shock should have been the text message instructing him to drop everything-with Dean, this is always implied-and be at Bobby’s in a half an hour. Of course, Castiel obeyed; but now that he’s here, he doesn’t know where to begin. Logic fails him.
He processes an assortment of information. The weather outside is fierce wild, rain and hail battering at the windows, but inside the house is warm and pleasantly stuffy in comparison to how Bobby normally keeps it. A fire blazes in the grate. Zeppelin plays on the stereo-since meeting Dean, Castiel’s exposure to the band has been such that he would recognize the voice of Robert Plant underwater-at a volume that could vibrate air particles; Castiel feels each note down his spine and beneath the soles of his feet. The song is sultry, aching, twelve-bar blues with understated bass and percussion, a guitar solo so unexpectedly coy that it just teases the ear before swelling to a sharp, yearning cry.
That, and Dean is completely naked upon Bobby’s old, wooden desk.
Castiel would have far less difficulty appreciating this fact, were Dean not also making little gasps and groans of exertion as he works himself open with two fingers, legs splayed shamelessly wide, the other hand pumping his blood-thick erection in time with the music, slow, easy and wet. In commiseration, Plant growls, A minute feels like a lifetime, baby, when I feel this way. The sweat and smears of lube from the bottle on the desk make Dean’s body appear to glow from the inside, head thrown back on the desk so that even his hair looks gilt, golden, lovely.
Castiel makes a noise at the back of his throat that is not a word from any language, human, angel or otherwise. With the exception of his cock, which apparently is better at processing these things than even Castiel, his whole body slumps against the doorframe in a stunned heap.
The movement catches Dean’s attention, and his head turns to reveal a dark flush on his cheeks and eyes that are wide and dark with pleasure. Perversely, a sly smile quirks his lips.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean doesn’t so much greet as moan, and at that moment Castiel knows he’s been had. It’s rather the nicest ambush he’s had the good fortune to walk into, but he only manages a grunt in response.
There are probably a million things he could say to address such a tableau, but nothing seems sufficient, nor apt. Dean is in a league all his own. Yes, Castiel’s eyes can take in the magnificence of the man he pulled from Hell, but never to the fullest extent; Dean’s beauty is ravaging, aspirational. Watching the slick, glistening fingers that Dean pushes in and out of his body at an unhurried pace, the thought occurs to Castiel that he is so very, very unequipped to handle Dean Winchester at his most devious, though in truth he never doles out what he can’t himself withstand. Not two months ago did Castiel find himself in a similar position, breaking apart to music too stimulating for its own good while those same fingers did a number on him from the inside out, the outside in. He’s thought about experimenting with other types of music since then, but there hasn’t been time for much more than hard, hurried couplings in the Impala or dark motel toilets, out of sight from both the forces of Hell, and Sam. This is such a welcome bit of initiative on Dean’s part that Castiel is touched, as much as wildly, cruelly aroused.
“I got bored while you guys went hunting without me,” rasps Dean, gauging the question in Castiel’s face. His voice sounds like he’s been shouting himself hoarse for some time now, and if Castiel knows Dean well enough, he probably has. “At first I was just gonna make myself a Zeppelin playlist, pass the time, but…”
“This is infinitely better,” Castiel interrupts, finding his voice. He licks his lips without thinking about how ravenous it must look, and Dean’s darkened eyes track the movement like an animal. “What I can’t figure out is what I did to deserve this.”
“Gift horses,” chuckles Dean. “Don’t fuck with them, Cas. You know I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.” As if to emphasize his point-however unnecessarily, because Castiel couldn’t look away now if God himself turned up-Dean’s wrist flicks in just such a way that he moans brokenly and arches his back off the desk, chest curving in a sleek, dangerous line.
Swallowing hard, Castiel murmurs, “I would much rather look at your mouth than a horse’s, anyway,” and this earns a smile even through Dean’s mask of pleasure, so thick it’s almost a grimace.
“Come here,” Dean instructs. He gives a slow blink and re-centres his head on the desk. The hand leaves his cock and stretches out to Castiel in invitation.
As though attached to puppet strings, Castiel rouses himself with a shake and shuffles closer, struggling out of one article of clothing at a time as he draws nearer. First his shoes, then his trenchcoat, followed by socks, suit jacket, trousers, shirt, tie. All that remains when he reaches the desk are Jimmy’s plain, black boxer briefs, so tight around his erection that Castiel half-expects to see the waistband pulling away from his stomach.
Meanwhile, the dark, sauntering bassline of “Dazed and Confused” creeps into the room, hot on the heels of the last song. From Dean’s throat comes an appreciative hum; this is one of his favourites. His hand brushes the back of Castiel’s thigh when he moves within reach, short nails scraping the hem of the boxers. It doesn’t escape Castiel’s notice that Dean’s other hand continues to piston in and out, relentless and steady as a metronome. The thought of how wet and hot his body must feel, sucking around those fingers, makes Castiel shudder so profoundly deep that his toes curl.
“This song,” Dean purrs, licking his lips that are already flushed deep red and shiny with saliva. “Gives Mezzanine a run for its money, hey?” True enough, Robert Plant is actually keening the lyrics, turning each word into a writing, wanting thing. The sound of his voice gives Dean a chill-Castiel sees the fine hairs on his arms lift in excitement, goosebumps shivering across his skin.
Hoping to signify his agreement, Castiel leans in and slowly noses his way up the corded column of Dean’s neck, inhaling the scent of him as his lips swipe at the area next to Dean’s Adam’s apple. Dean swallows in anticipation, fingers tightening gratefully on Castiel’s thigh, but he’s not done.
“When I hear that guitar, man…” A twitch of fingers, a gasp. “It’s like Jimmy Page is doing the dirtiest, most nasty things imaginable with his hands.” The vibrations of his voice against Castiel’s mouth feel plenty dirty; he can imagine those things with more than absolute vividness. “I don’t know if you’d still be alive after that, if you could make a person feel so on fire that they made those kinds of sounds.”
“But you’re trying,” Castiel offers, smirking into Dean’s throat, and the man gives that slow, lazy chuckle that just sets Castiel’s blood on fire.
“Yeah, I’m trying,” Dean agrees. His back arches again when Castiel bites down, lightly, and as Castiel turns his head he sees the splashes of white against the darker tan of his stomach, caught in the dusty blonde hairs around his navel and sweeping lower.
“I think you’ve already succeeded without me,” he observes, and with a grimace Castiel hears the pout in his own voice before he can help it.
At this, Dean gives an actual laugh that trails off in a hiss of pleasure when a tongue curls into the nautilus of his ear, followed by a gentle puff of air and the scrape of teeth along his earlobe. “You helped, Cas, don’t worry.”
To prove just how much help he can be, Castiel drags his hand down the long line of Dean’s body, tightening just briefly at the base of his throat, trailing through the come on his stomach and wrapping in a firm grip around his cock, replacing Dean’s own. The jerk of his hips is so sharp that Castiel has to bite his lip to hold back the moan of appreciation, though the noise Dean emits is a combination of a curse and Castiel’s name, too many syllables of each all tumbled together. Hand sliding around Dean’s cock so easily that it’s almost frictionless, Castiel is amazed at how much lube Dean managed to get on himself and everywhere else. Nothing by halves, this one. His own erection is borderline painful, but like the last time they did this, he figures it would be inappropriate to break Dean’s stride now.
In a move grossly uncalled for, Castiel slips the fingers of his free hand into Dean’s open mouth, gasping out loud when the man’s bite-swollen lips close around them. Quite possibly, it’s the most wanton thing he’s ever seen. Aside from everything else he’s witnessed tonight, that is. He gasps when Dean’s tongue gives a tight swirl around the digits. Reluctantly, Castiel pulls free just long enough to move around to the far end of the desk near Dean’s feet, managing not to detach his fist pumping in firm strokes, a swift deliberate twist when he reaches the head. At first he does nothing more than look, filing away the grasp of Dean’s hole around his index and middle fingers, the roll of the knuckles upon each press forward into his prostate, the flush of blood and heat spreading across his skin as he tortures himself, tortures Cas. Unconsciously or not, he notices that Dean mimics what Castiel himself would do, were he the one taking Dean apart. It’s rather flattering. The mess of lube and come on Bobby’s desk could be an issue, later, but if Dean is unconcerned, Castiel isn’t going to mention it. Instead he decides that he could be doing more, and pushes Dean’s bandaged leg back almost to his chest so that he can see every twitch, pull and shudder.
“Fuck, Cas.” Feeling the stretch, Dean growls lowly, flinging his head back with a dull thump. “Don’t be a scumbag-fuck me,” he bites out, but curiously, Castiel would swear that his fingers adopt a bit more of an exaggerated in-and-out motion than is necessary, considering he’s been pleasuring himself more than effectively until now.
A thought occurs to Castiel, suddenly. He wets his lips and asks, “Is the music really affecting you that badly, Dean?”
”Dick.” Dean’s cock twitches once in his hand, leaking copiously, but then again Dean has always been a bit slaveish to these bouts of one-upmanship between them. “I knew that was gonna come back to bite me eventually.”
“If you’re lucky, yes.”
Lightening his touch so that he can’t bring Dean off too soon, Castiel gives another few, teasing strokes, a press of his thumb against the underside of his cock, before withdrawing his hand altogether and transferring his grip to the backs of Dean’s thighs. Lips twitching at the look of confusion and annoyance Dean sends his way, Castiel puts the slightest bit of his angel strength into a sharp tug at Dean’s legs, mindful of the sprained ankle. The action sends the man sliding towards him across the desk, skidding across the smooth wood and the puddle of lube that has collected beneath him. There’s a grunt of surprise when Dean’s wrist collides with Castiel’s hip, pushing the fingers deeper, and for the first time in weeks Castiel actually laughs out loud at the expression on Dean’s face, both startled and wrecked.
In a pleasing stroke of luck he realizes that the desk is just the perfect height, coming no higher than mid-thigh; it would be unspeakably easy to just fuck into Dean right here, remove his hand and replace it with the head of his cock. That’s likely what Dean had in mind from the start-it’s not every day that the hunter would risk certain death for the opportunity to have sex on Bobby’s furniture-but that would end this encounter far too soon, and Castiel takes an immense pleasure in foiling Dean’s plans whenever he grows too smug. Instead he guides Dean’s legs around his waist, humming in approval when the man’s heels catch stubbornly at his hipbones and begin nudging the elastic of his boxers down his body. The human capacity for multitasking is at this moment quite impressive. He rolls his hips experimentally, bumping Dean’s hand and whimpering at the flash of pleasure that ripples through him.
Playfully peevish, Dean smacks at Castiel’s shoulder with his other hand. The sound cracks even against the loud music. “Are you gonna keep humping my wrist all night, or are you actually going to get this show on the road?” he inquires nonchalantly, eyebrows raised.
Castiel helps Dean work his underwear the rest of the way down before he leans in close, their faces scant inches apart, not caring that the change in position will force his fingers in almost to the base. Dean inhales sharply into Castiel’s cheek, who in turn nuzzles his nose into Dean’s temple. His fingers find the taut bud of a nipple and twist. Hard. Dean hollers in surprise.
“You’re testy because you’ve been here almost an hour already,” he growls, voice dark. “But I didn’t ask you to start without me. I’d prefer not to have missed this, Dean.”
Whatever the inappropriate timing, Dean snorts, even though the lazy thrusting of Cas’s hips against his and-no doubt-the throb of his nipple distorts the sound into something too needy to be derisive. “Jealously don’t suit you, Cas.”
“I’ve no need of jealousy,” Cas insists. “I could do whatever I wanted with you right now, and you’d be too crippled even to run away.” At Dean’s glare, he smiles sweetly. “But I promise you’ll enjoy it, since you’ve made all this effort on my account.”
“You know, Cas, you usually only start talkin’ this kind of shit when you expect me to beg,” Dean points out. Smirking, he uses what leverage he has to grind his ass back against Castiel’s erection, clearly savouring the whine that escapes past his lips. “Maybe I’ll ask nicely, but if you think I’m gonna beg, you should leave now.”
Such posturing, he thinks, but it’s part of what he loves about Dean, this complete inability to back away from a challenge, not even one from which he’ll clearly benefit. Cas gentles his fingers down Dean’s sides anyway, conciliatory but not apologetic as he settles them against the man’s pelvis, fingers slotting against the hipbones like perfect puzzle pieces. Dean just shivers in a satisfying way and wraps his free hand around the back of Castiel’s neck to pull him closer; Cas realizes their lips haven’t touched in almost a week.
However blasé Dean behaves towards him, the secret of his need betrays itself in the way his mouth opens hungrily against Castiel’s, teeth biting and tongue sweeping him into a wrecking-ball kiss, putting his whole body into it. Dean kisses like he does everything else-for keeps-and predictably Castiel could throw himself into it with equal abandon. The crushing ownership they exhibit over one another is terrifying and consuming. After the first time Dean kissed him, Castiel no longer wondered how his handprint branded itself onto the man’s shoulder. It’s a miracle that they don’t sport more visible, lasting marks from each other.
Panting against Dean’s mouth, rutting against his body, Castiel slides one hand further down until he grazes the fleshy underside of his ass and encounters the bony arch of Dean’s wrist that cuts across it. Before Dean can withdraw his own fingers, Castiel follows the lines of his knuckles to where they disappear into his body, and braces himself for an onslaught of glorious warmth and heat when he guides two of his own fingers in alongside Dean’s. The muscle, exquisitely stretched and accommodating, swallows him in with the greediness of quicksand.
Dean says, “Jesus Christ, please-” and his teeth sink into Castiel’s bottom lip like a rabbit snare as he shakes against him, working the tender flesh until it is raw and sensitive enough that Castiel tastes blood.
Once Dean has released him long enough to speak, all he can manage is a hushed, “Look at you,” forgiving the blasphemy as he forgives Dean all things, eyes tracing the bowed line of Dean’s neck, his mouth slack and pulling at air as though suffocating.
Cas applies careful strokes until the tip of one digit brushes Dean’s prostate, and he’s rewarded with a wordless groan for more. The feeling of Dean thrusting weakly up against him produces the most delicious friction, heat pooling like a lava floe deep in his belly. It’s all he can do to suckle at the base of Dean’s throat and coach himself to not come on the spot, especially when he feels Dean’s thick, rough fingers slide around next to his. Castiel can imagine what it must be like to be that full. He wouldn’t stop, either. Maybe that’s why he could drive the man a little bit mad with it, given half a chance.
“Gimme something,” Dean gasps again and again, and his mouth is frantic, can’t seem to decide where to fasten itself against Castiel’s skin.
When Cas pulls back, trying to shift the angle of his body, his hand, Dean simply follows as far as the position will allow, licking a stripe across his collarbone, attaching himself to a nipple by the teeth. It hurts, even for Cas, and he might tell Dean to stop were he not so consumed by the sight of him unravelling. This far gone, Dean doesn’t bother to verbalize his needs-that’s Castiel’s tendency. Dean is noisy, always noisy, but with an orgasm in sight he is all action and single-minded determination, will even go so far as to wordlessly manhandle Castiel around until he’s right where Dean wants him.
Withdrawing entirely, Castiel shoves Dean back down to the desk and settles Dean with a dark look. “Stop trying to change the rules,” he snaps, and Dean simply glowers before Castiel ducks his head and glides his tongue over one of the fleshy, pebbled nipples, worrying it with lips and teeth until Dean croons his name. Tracing the cage of his ribs and then the ridges of his abdomen, the arch of one hip, he continues down until his lips are covering the crease between pelvis and thigh.
If Dean is expecting a mouth on his cock, he doesn’t get it; instead Castiel pushes his legs further apart and sucks a kiss to the path of skin leading from Dean’s scrotum to his stretched-out hole, working lower still until he can insinuate his tongue into the spaces between their fingers. Dean yells unintelligibly as Castiel licks against his entrance and jabs his fingertips into his prostate at the same time, ravaging him inside and out with the same precision he once applied to battlefield tactics.
A first for them: this is something Dean does eagerly, and yet never submits to himself. Castiel doesn’t understand why, since it is a rare pleasure that would have convinced him to lay down his sword and forsake Heaven without another thought, had Dean not already asked him to. The heat, the taste, the heady, intoxicating smell that could belong to none other than Dean... He craves it all. It stands to reason that Dean might feel naked with someone else’s mouth learning him so intimately, but total exposure is a state that suits him well, more than he understands-and Castiel knows just how to go about doing it, alternating between quick flicks of his tongue against the muscle and determined pushes inside that force Dean open even further. Like he’s lost his grasp on language, Dean pants for air and lets out the most delicious, tormented sounds. The thought occurs to Castiel that, even if they should happen to survive the end of days, he will be the last creature in Heaven or Earth to know Dean this way.
After a few tense moments, Dean’s hand finds Castiel’s where it grips into his leg. A brief squeeze and a guttural, broken sound is the only warning he gets before he hears it, Dean slamming his head back into the desk and crying, “Cas, Cas, please, c’mon, please,” and that didn’t take long at all. Against their entwined fingers, Castiel smiles.
The sentiment fades when he feels what is, undoubtedly, Dean’s cock buffeting him across his brow and hairline, only to receive an outright slap with it when he lifts his head. A glistening strip of pre-come smears across his cheek. Castiel succeeds in raising an eyebrow in response, but not much else; this might be the most absurd thing Dean has ever done in his presence.
Surely, his face betrays the sentiment. Dean says, “I appreciate what you were doing down there, but you kind of zoned out for a minute. Just trying to get you back in the game.” The way he angles his erect cock towards Castiel’s mouth leaves little need for more clarification than that, but Castiel just stares back at Dean with a frown. “Did you need an engraved invitation or something, man?”
“Are you requesting something of me?” Castiel asks, polite excepting the fingers he’s got in Dean’s ass, and the negligible distance between his own mouth and the head of Dean’s cock.
Dean rolls his eyes, uncaring of what little that does in his favour. “I would appreciate it greatly if you would suck my fucking dick,” he grates out, and Cas wonders where in the last minute he regained so much of his composure.
“You asked much more prettily a moment ago,” he points out.
Unsurprisingly, Dean attempts to bat at his face with his cock again, but Castiel drops the act and catches it with his tongue, delighting in the strangled moan he receives. He thinks he understands the attraction of seeing one’s erection against another’s face, a visual stimulus as much as a restrained and playful form of aggression, but really, enough is enough-he wants to taste the silky heat of Dean’s arousal as much as Dean wants to feel it. After a certain point the teasing no longer serves either of them.
Castiel slides his lips around the swollen head, acquiescing to Dean’s desire for his mouth, but only just. His touches are light, reverent, careful swipes of his tongue down the length, tracing veins, fanciful patterns, applying the faintest suction to Dean’s erection so that the man writhes and curses, but ultimately not enough for him to come. It’s inevitable that Dean should work a hand into Castiel’s hair and direct his mouth with controlled force, but for Castiel to resist is almost nothing, continuing to tease Dean along at a deliberate pace while his fingers never cease to twist and press. He loves this, the pressure, the desperation, the painful tugs Dean gives at his hair, the slightest threat of violence that is really no threat at all, but a reminder that Dean can let go with Castiel as he can with no one else. It makes Cas hum his pleasure against the weight of Dean’s cock, slipping a hint of teeth into his ministrations in acknowledgement. They both know it will never be mutual-Dean would die if Cas let go completely-but it isn’t necessary. To be with Dean at all gives him fulfillment, and he is not greedy; he does not have to ask everything of Dean just because he can. The proof is laid out before him should anyone bother to question the reciprocity of their relationship.
As if reading his thoughts, Dean forces out a frustrated-sounding moan that’s gently at odds with his responses to the work Castiel performs with lips and teeth and tongue. “Cas, let me do something,” he says weakly, visibly trying to restrain the eager bucking of his hips. “I want-”
Castiel savours the wet sound his mouth makes as he pulls himself free of Dean’s cock, catalogues the little snarl of disappointment that he can revisit later, when the days are darker and he needs comfort. “What do you want?” he asks, both genuinely curious about what Dean will say, but also hopeful that the question will prompt the litany of filth of which only Dean is capable. Not-so-secretly, Cas thrills at the notion.
With a smirk that suggests he knows exactly what Cas is after, Dean props himself up on one elbow, much as he’s able, and fixes his intoxicated, heavy-lidded gaze upon Castiel’s. He licks his lips once; his teeth come down upon his bottom lip in a sultry, practiced drag. “Castiel,” he says, with wicked clarity, “I want you to fuck me so hard that I feel you for the rest of the week.” Dean’s eyes catch the movement of Castiel’s swallow with a hunter’s quickness, but he lets it go without comment before he resumes eye contact. “And then I want you to do it again, so that I don’t forget.”
At this, Castiel slides his eyes shut and pulls his fingers altogether free of Dean’s body with a mixture of regret and anticipation. He’ll willingly oblige the moment his vessel’s heart stops threatening to leap out of his chest in excitement, though from the way it’s knocking wicked hard against his breastbone, it isn’t likely to subside anytime soon. Less, still, when he decides to take Dean’s suggestion-order, demand, it doesn’t matter-under close advisement.
By the way Dean’s mouth curls into a lazy smile, his own hand pulling out in order to tug Castiel closer by the hips, he can tell that Dean is pleased with his reaction. As if he hasn’t been planning those words all night, in between deciding upon the best method of taking Castiel apart, and the next Zeppelin song. Perhaps by virtue of his (forced) familiarity with the band, the music has more or less receded to the back of Castiel’s consciousness. Unlike his last misadventure with Sam’s iPod, when his attention was rapt with the newness of the music and its affect upon him, Cas is aware of the wanton lyrics and moaning guitars of Led Zeppelin as a part of Dean, and not some separate entity. For all he’s given it any thought, it’s been his internal soundtrack to every time he and Dean have kissed or touched or fucked.
“Now’s not the time to conceptualize sex,” Dean says out of nowhere, apparently recognizing the look that Castiel gets when he’s in danger of becoming too cerebral about something. Cas is surprised to find the bottle of lubricant being pressed into his hand, cap helpfully open. Dean levers his upper body further off the desk and gets right into Castiel’s space, breath misting over his lips in a phantom kiss. “Stop thinking so hard and just put it in me.”
Phrased that way, Castiel can’t really object to this logic, which he finds perfectly on par with his own.
Gathering a generous amount of lube in his palm, which can only be excessive at such a late stage, Castiel meets Dean’s eyes as he slicks himself up and guides the head of his cock into Dean’s body. With little more than a push, he slides home into that grasping heat with a groan so guttural and deep that it hardly sounds like him.
“Oh, shit,” Dean says, keening each vowel so hard and long that Castiel almost forgets to take a breath as he listens for the end of it. Arms snaking about his shoulders, Dean grips him tight and attempts to climb further onto his body with his legs wrapped firm around Castiel’s hips, ankles crossed against the cushion of his rear. It seems a perfect arrangement for them both until the first gentle thrust makes Dean wince and grimace in pain.
“What is it?” Castiel asks, not yet too far gone that he can’t be concerned.
“My damn ankle,” grunts Dean. He begins to unwind himself limb by limb, but Castiel grasps his elbow before he can get too far.
“Allow me,” he suggests.
Off Dean’s arched eyebrow-Castiel will never know how he manages to look smug even in this state-he furrows his brow in determination and quickly decides upon a better way to proceed. Ignoring Dean’s little gasps and moans, half protest and half arousal, he gets one of the man’s legs over his shoulder and presses in towards his chest until he can comfortably drape the other knee over the crook of his elbow, secure enough that he can prevent any jolts to the injured joint. Despite the passing mortification that flits across Dean’s features at being spread rather ungracefully, his mouth goes slack with pleasure when Castiel attempts another thrust. It’s good, and they both cry out, Dean the more unintelligibly at the change in angle. Cas feels he moment the head of his cock slams into Dean’s prostate, and he can’t help the grin that splits his features before he does it again.
There’s nothing Cas would trade for the feeling of Dean inside of him, pounding him into the mattress or wall or Impala upholstery if nothing else is available, but being the one to breech, to conquer, is a wholly different flavour that Cas isn’t sure he’d give up more readily. For one thing, Dean’s body is a masterpiece of heat and beauty and indescribable tightness, and it is the way that the man responds that makes the experience transcendental, otherworldly almost. Of course, there is nothing Castiel has ever encountered to which to compare; it’s unlikely that such a thing exists. Never before, however, has he thrust into Dean’s body in such an open and greedy state. The sensation is glorious, welcoming, decadent, but the knowledge that Dean orchestrated this whole encounter with Castiel in mind puts him beyond the realm of pleasure and closer to delirium.
Barely any time passes until Castiel finds himself hot on Dean’s heels towards coming undone, arching his neck into the grasp and claw of fingernails that pin their mouths together and allow him to drink every desperate breath and curse that tumbles off Dean’s tongue. Whatever control Castiel thought he had dissipated when he seated himself inside Dean’s body and let go; his hips jackknife in a rhythm that’s just short of graceful, though Dean does his best to meet each thrust with one of his own, sliding the sweaty flesh of his torso against Castiel’s ribs, trying to prop himself one-handed against the desk for leverage. The leg upon his shoulder slips down and settles against his forearm as Castiel tries to keep their weight supported, upright. The hard, wet line of Dean’s cock moves between them in a filthy, luxurious slide, and it takes Cas a moment to realize that they’ve been grinding together in time with the music, the combined influence of Dean and Plant a potent mix. When, Baby, Since I’ve been loving you, yeah, I’m about to lose my worried mind, escapes Plant’s throat in a howl, Dean echoes, memorized lyrics spilling from his mouth in gasping, frantic entreaty alongside the throaty “fuck me’s” and the muttered, “Cas, baby, yeah.”
It warms Castiel so thoroughly that he’s helpless but to gather Dean closer, thrusting deeper, and is rewarded with a bellow of release that coincides with the feel of Dean’s cock spilling fat, viscous streams of come between their bellies. The muscles that clamp down upon him are tighter than a fist, spasms wracking through Castiel like an act of god. Half crazed with the weak-kneed desire that floored him from the moment he walked into Bobby’s study, Castiel counts barely another two beats of the song before he is snatched up by the force of his own orgasm, a flash flood of pleasure that steals the voice from his throat when he opens his mouth to scream. Dean shudders and says Castiel’s name on a low moan, though it’s unknown whether it’s the sensation of being pumped full of liquid, or the fact of Castiel’s release, that causes it.
When it has finished and Castiel feels like the life has been stripped from his very bones, he slumps forward with a grunt of apology as his weight shoves Dean back against the desk in a muted thud. A minute ago it took every ounce of concentration not to lose his mind with lust, and now it takes roughly the same amount of willpower for Cas to prevent his legs from crumpling beneath him. His knees knock against the side of the desk, rocked halfway across the floor by now in a trail of loose papers and toppled books. Were it not for the fact that a bomb might have detonated in the room with less catastrophe, the crackling of the fire and the blare of classic rock through the stereo might suggest that not much else had occurred.
Minutes pass, and they could be hours for all Castiel is concerned, fixated upon the rise and fall of Dean’s chest that gradually slows and becomes more even as he catches his breath, lifting him slightly on the inhale. “The Rain Song” plays soothingly in the background. One of Dean’s hands works itself into his sweaty hair, massaging into Castiel’s scalp, and they stay like that for a while until Dean gives a dramatic sigh and heaves out, “God damn.” Castiel doesn’t respond except to give an abortive pinch to his ribs, which Dean shrugs off with a rasping laugh. “Sorry, Cas, but sometimes there just ain’t another word for it.”
“Even with a list of alternatives, I doubt that you’d settle upon another,” Cas responds, lazy as can be. He manages to lift his head to find Dean smirking at him; the sight of him flushed and spent is beyond gratifying.
“Take it as a compliment, Cas. You made me acknowledge the Big Man’s existence with something resembling reverence.”
Cas huffs under his breath. “If He exists,” he corrects, and gives a start when Dean shoves at him weakly.
“Hey, none of that,” Dean chides. “If you’re going to spoil the afterglow with your daddy issues, you can get off my damn chest and go lie in the wet spot.”
Rather than point out that Dean’s chest is currently a giant wet spot, Castiel takes the hint and shuts up; unintentionally or not, Dean does have a point, and Cas supposes he should appreciate the sexual ambush for the overwhelming pleasure as much as the fact that a whole hour has gone by without him dwelling upon his Father’s absence. Hoping to convey his gratitude, Castiel props himself up on shaky arms and drops a wet, searching kiss upon Dean’s mouth, which is accepted with the kind of insatiable, consuming lasciviousness of which only Dean could be capable. A sympathetic twitch from his limp, thoroughly-exhausted penis reminds Castiel that they should think about moving someplace more comfortable, and maybe about how they will clean up this mess before Bobby and Sam arrive home.
The look upon Dean’s face, however, utterly peaceful and content, stops him. Cas happily swallows all thought of the practical in favour of running his fingers lovingly across the man’s brow, for once not furrowed or creased. “You bring me great joy, Dean,” he says instead, and much to his surprise, Dean doesn’t deflect the sentiment or squirm except to tighten his legs possessively around Castiel’s waist, holding them together.
“You ain’t so bad yourself, Cas.” The hand in his hair strokes, affectionate. He murmurs, “I know what I’ll be thinking about from now on whenever I listen to Zep,” and somewhere, Castiel thinks, Dean is trying to tell him that he won’t ever forget about them, either.
Eighteen Months Later
Whether as a by-product of all the prayers Castiel refused to answer, or the fact that Sam has no intention of riding bitch in the backseat, like the last time Cas took to tagging along with them in the car, he catches himself growing tense and confused whenever the angel appears within moments of Dean saying his name, like that single syllable is just as effective a tether as all the holy oil in existence. Naturally, Dean chastises him for his frequent disappearances and his tendency to not be at their beck and call anymore, but Castiel doesn’t seem to care, and Sam can’t detect any real malice in his brother’s voice, for that matter. He stopped trying to interpret their weird behaviour around each other a long time ago; as far as he’s concerned, either it’s not his business, or he’ll just never understand what happens between them that seems to suck the air from the room as much as the tension from Dean’s shoulders. Point of fact, he doesn’t really want to know.
However, if he allows himself a moment to put aside the petty jealousy and his tendency to dislike that which he can’t puzzle out for himself, Sam has to admit that Dean and Castiel have some kind of shorthand going that seems to transcend language at the same time that it mires itself in the utterly absurd, like bizarre musical references Castiel shouldn’t be able to get. The first time he noticed was over a year ago, before he made his swan dive into the Cage with Michael and Lucifer. The three of them had been driving along in silence until Dean randomly decided to throw on a Massive Attack album that Sam hadn’t listened to since Stanford. Foregoing any attempt at explanation, Cas just made a noise like a dog getting kicked between the ribs, and disappeared.
With Sam back from Hell and them back on the road together, they listen to music a lot less than they used to. Sam prefers it, but that doesn’t make it less weird; they are three days into their first post-reunion hunt together until Sam figures out that the eerie, Twilight-Zone feeling he kept getting was actually the absence of any Plant or Hetfield or Cooper on the stereo. When he mentions it, Dean shrugs and says nothing.
That is, until Cas appears and manages to sit still in the backseat for longer than thirty seconds as they drive. Barely three miles pass before Dean is sliding Zeppelin III into the tape deck, fast-forwarding until the mournful opening solo of “Since I’ve Been Loving You” fills the closed space of the Impala.
Between Dean and Cas snapping at one another like a couple of prized pitbulls, and the start of a song about epic, doomed love, something happens. Were Sam not watching Dean carefully, he would miss it altogether. Plant sings about losing his worried mind, and Dean’s eyes close for the briefest of moments on a sigh.
In the rearview mirror, Cas smiles.
Fin
AUTHOR: nanoochka
PAIRINGS: Dean/Castiel
RATING: NC-17 for language and graphic descriptions of sex.
WARNINGS: PWP. More music abuse. Exhibitionism. Disrespect to Bobby’s gaff. Pure filth. No apologies.
SUMMARY: It’s no accident that Zeppelin gives Dean ideas. (Sequel to Paradise Circus.)
WORD COUNT: 7,178
SPOILERS: General Season 5, vague Season 6.
DISCLAIMER: All Zeppelin lyrics credited to Plant, Page, Jones, and Bonham, and to Dixon and Lenoir where appropriate. Supernatural and all associated content is the property of The CW, Kripke et al. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: My only excuse is that there is no excuse, and that SPN fans aren’t nearly as well-versed in Zeppelin as they should be. Someone, somewhere can back up my theory that porn is an excellent instructive method. Fanmix available here. For hellozombies , who also ran point on the beta: Read more gay porn and less Foucault, kid. It’ll be better for you in the long run, and I’m sure Michel would approve, the kinky boy.
We’re Gonna Groove by nanoochka
A searing wail erupts from Page’s guitar when Dean thumbs the ‘play’ button, the first dozen notes of “You Shook Me” slicing like a whip through the musty, dead air of Bobby’s study. Dean grins. With no one else around for half a mile in every direction, he ups the volume until he can feel it in his bones. Sure, it’s no Mezzanine, but that riff sends a shiver through him same as the day he first heard it.
One of his hands digs the cell phone out of his front pocket as the other idly slips beneath the hem of his t-shirt to scratch at the skin of his stomach. Hell yeah it’ll be tough to work around all these books and the creaking, aged wood of the desk, but Dean’s nothing if not adaptable. With enough time and motivation he can make do with just about anything.
Finding Cas’s number in his phone, he taps out a quick message. Bobby’s. Thirty minutes.
Dean cranks the music louder and gets to work.
Cas is what Bobby calls a “quick study”: he understands this to mean that little escapes his notice, and if it does he soon figures the rest out anyway-connecting the dots, as Sam would say. Although pride is something Cas tries to avoid as much as possible, if he can indulge just a little and is honest, he’s quite proud of his superior dot-connecting skills. And honestly, what would they expect? He has been alive for millennia. Naturally, his powers of deduction are noteworthy by human standards; but even amongst his peers he was long regarded as a master logician, excelling in the area of reconnaissance and tactical planning. Things come together for him rapidly and without difficulty, even if he doesn’t always let on that this is the case. In short, Castiel knows a lot more about what goes on around him than he’s given credit for.
Right now, though, the scene he’s encountered defies even his mind’s advanced cognitive functions. Castiel wonders if the synapses in Jimmy’s brain are misfiring all at once as a result of sensory overload. Try as he might, he cannot get his thoughts to catch up with what he sees in front of him.
For the past few days, Castiel’s been embroiled in a witch hunt with Bobby and Sam somewhere in the mountains of Tennessee. He doesn’t know what to find more disturbing: that increasing numbers of hostile creatures and heralds of the coming apocalypse are infiltrating human cities and human homes, or that the majority of people still fail to realize it. Dean, sporting a sprained ankle from a moderately troubling vampire raid, remained at Bobby’s to heal while the others investigated the town of Peace Falls. Despite the vicious complaints-it’s his right foot, so he can’t drive-Castiel suspects that Dean is rather grateful for the reprieve. They have been chasing one job or another for almost a year, back-to-back-to-back, never taking much time to relax or recover, sometimes not even to sleep. Even Castiel feels the effects of such a demanding lifestyle, more so now that his Grace continues to fade by the day. While he does not envy that Dean is temporarily housebound, he would have much preferred some time alone with the elder Winchester, rather than days crammed into the Impala with Sam, a wheelchair and the embittered, hostile Bobby.
He has reason to believe that Dean isn’t holed up watching movies and cleaning his guns, though he might have started off that way. There are a few pieces of random, mostly useless information that Castiel has filed away for future reference: not all tequilas are created equal, morning sex is his favourite kind, certain types of music cause him to behave most inappropriately, and Dean can be a bit of a brat when he’s bored.
Bored and left to his own devices, he’s even worse. The first sign that Castiel was in for a shock should have been the text message instructing him to drop everything-with Dean, this is always implied-and be at Bobby’s in a half an hour. Of course, Castiel obeyed; but now that he’s here, he doesn’t know where to begin. Logic fails him.
He processes an assortment of information. The weather outside is fierce wild, rain and hail battering at the windows, but inside the house is warm and pleasantly stuffy in comparison to how Bobby normally keeps it. A fire blazes in the grate. Zeppelin plays on the stereo-since meeting Dean, Castiel’s exposure to the band has been such that he would recognize the voice of Robert Plant underwater-at a volume that could vibrate air particles; Castiel feels each note down his spine and beneath the soles of his feet. The song is sultry, aching, twelve-bar blues with understated bass and percussion, a guitar solo so unexpectedly coy that it just teases the ear before swelling to a sharp, yearning cry.
That, and Dean is completely naked upon Bobby’s old, wooden desk.
Castiel would have far less difficulty appreciating this fact, were Dean not also making little gasps and groans of exertion as he works himself open with two fingers, legs splayed shamelessly wide, the other hand pumping his blood-thick erection in time with the music, slow, easy and wet. In commiseration, Plant growls, A minute feels like a lifetime, baby, when I feel this way. The sweat and smears of lube from the bottle on the desk make Dean’s body appear to glow from the inside, head thrown back on the desk so that even his hair looks gilt, golden, lovely.
Castiel makes a noise at the back of his throat that is not a word from any language, human, angel or otherwise. With the exception of his cock, which apparently is better at processing these things than even Castiel, his whole body slumps against the doorframe in a stunned heap.
The movement catches Dean’s attention, and his head turns to reveal a dark flush on his cheeks and eyes that are wide and dark with pleasure. Perversely, a sly smile quirks his lips.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean doesn’t so much greet as moan, and at that moment Castiel knows he’s been had. It’s rather the nicest ambush he’s had the good fortune to walk into, but he only manages a grunt in response.
There are probably a million things he could say to address such a tableau, but nothing seems sufficient, nor apt. Dean is in a league all his own. Yes, Castiel’s eyes can take in the magnificence of the man he pulled from Hell, but never to the fullest extent; Dean’s beauty is ravaging, aspirational. Watching the slick, glistening fingers that Dean pushes in and out of his body at an unhurried pace, the thought occurs to Castiel that he is so very, very unequipped to handle Dean Winchester at his most devious, though in truth he never doles out what he can’t himself withstand. Not two months ago did Castiel find himself in a similar position, breaking apart to music too stimulating for its own good while those same fingers did a number on him from the inside out, the outside in. He’s thought about experimenting with other types of music since then, but there hasn’t been time for much more than hard, hurried couplings in the Impala or dark motel toilets, out of sight from both the forces of Hell, and Sam. This is such a welcome bit of initiative on Dean’s part that Castiel is touched, as much as wildly, cruelly aroused.
“I got bored while you guys went hunting without me,” rasps Dean, gauging the question in Castiel’s face. His voice sounds like he’s been shouting himself hoarse for some time now, and if Castiel knows Dean well enough, he probably has. “At first I was just gonna make myself a Zeppelin playlist, pass the time, but…”
“This is infinitely better,” Castiel interrupts, finding his voice. He licks his lips without thinking about how ravenous it must look, and Dean’s darkened eyes track the movement like an animal. “What I can’t figure out is what I did to deserve this.”
“Gift horses,” chuckles Dean. “Don’t fuck with them, Cas. You know I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.” As if to emphasize his point-however unnecessarily, because Castiel couldn’t look away now if God himself turned up-Dean’s wrist flicks in just such a way that he moans brokenly and arches his back off the desk, chest curving in a sleek, dangerous line.
Swallowing hard, Castiel murmurs, “I would much rather look at your mouth than a horse’s, anyway,” and this earns a smile even through Dean’s mask of pleasure, so thick it’s almost a grimace.
“Come here,” Dean instructs. He gives a slow blink and re-centres his head on the desk. The hand leaves his cock and stretches out to Castiel in invitation.
As though attached to puppet strings, Castiel rouses himself with a shake and shuffles closer, struggling out of one article of clothing at a time as he draws nearer. First his shoes, then his trenchcoat, followed by socks, suit jacket, trousers, shirt, tie. All that remains when he reaches the desk are Jimmy’s plain, black boxer briefs, so tight around his erection that Castiel half-expects to see the waistband pulling away from his stomach.
Meanwhile, the dark, sauntering bassline of “Dazed and Confused” creeps into the room, hot on the heels of the last song. From Dean’s throat comes an appreciative hum; this is one of his favourites. His hand brushes the back of Castiel’s thigh when he moves within reach, short nails scraping the hem of the boxers. It doesn’t escape Castiel’s notice that Dean’s other hand continues to piston in and out, relentless and steady as a metronome. The thought of how wet and hot his body must feel, sucking around those fingers, makes Castiel shudder so profoundly deep that his toes curl.
“This song,” Dean purrs, licking his lips that are already flushed deep red and shiny with saliva. “Gives Mezzanine a run for its money, hey?” True enough, Robert Plant is actually keening the lyrics, turning each word into a writing, wanting thing. The sound of his voice gives Dean a chill-Castiel sees the fine hairs on his arms lift in excitement, goosebumps shivering across his skin.
Hoping to signify his agreement, Castiel leans in and slowly noses his way up the corded column of Dean’s neck, inhaling the scent of him as his lips swipe at the area next to Dean’s Adam’s apple. Dean swallows in anticipation, fingers tightening gratefully on Castiel’s thigh, but he’s not done.
“When I hear that guitar, man…” A twitch of fingers, a gasp. “It’s like Jimmy Page is doing the dirtiest, most nasty things imaginable with his hands.” The vibrations of his voice against Castiel’s mouth feel plenty dirty; he can imagine those things with more than absolute vividness. “I don’t know if you’d still be alive after that, if you could make a person feel so on fire that they made those kinds of sounds.”
“But you’re trying,” Castiel offers, smirking into Dean’s throat, and the man gives that slow, lazy chuckle that just sets Castiel’s blood on fire.
“Yeah, I’m trying,” Dean agrees. His back arches again when Castiel bites down, lightly, and as Castiel turns his head he sees the splashes of white against the darker tan of his stomach, caught in the dusty blonde hairs around his navel and sweeping lower.
“I think you’ve already succeeded without me,” he observes, and with a grimace Castiel hears the pout in his own voice before he can help it.
At this, Dean gives an actual laugh that trails off in a hiss of pleasure when a tongue curls into the nautilus of his ear, followed by a gentle puff of air and the scrape of teeth along his earlobe. “You helped, Cas, don’t worry.”
To prove just how much help he can be, Castiel drags his hand down the long line of Dean’s body, tightening just briefly at the base of his throat, trailing through the come on his stomach and wrapping in a firm grip around his cock, replacing Dean’s own. The jerk of his hips is so sharp that Castiel has to bite his lip to hold back the moan of appreciation, though the noise Dean emits is a combination of a curse and Castiel’s name, too many syllables of each all tumbled together. Hand sliding around Dean’s cock so easily that it’s almost frictionless, Castiel is amazed at how much lube Dean managed to get on himself and everywhere else. Nothing by halves, this one. His own erection is borderline painful, but like the last time they did this, he figures it would be inappropriate to break Dean’s stride now.
In a move grossly uncalled for, Castiel slips the fingers of his free hand into Dean’s open mouth, gasping out loud when the man’s bite-swollen lips close around them. Quite possibly, it’s the most wanton thing he’s ever seen. Aside from everything else he’s witnessed tonight, that is. He gasps when Dean’s tongue gives a tight swirl around the digits. Reluctantly, Castiel pulls free just long enough to move around to the far end of the desk near Dean’s feet, managing not to detach his fist pumping in firm strokes, a swift deliberate twist when he reaches the head. At first he does nothing more than look, filing away the grasp of Dean’s hole around his index and middle fingers, the roll of the knuckles upon each press forward into his prostate, the flush of blood and heat spreading across his skin as he tortures himself, tortures Cas. Unconsciously or not, he notices that Dean mimics what Castiel himself would do, were he the one taking Dean apart. It’s rather flattering. The mess of lube and come on Bobby’s desk could be an issue, later, but if Dean is unconcerned, Castiel isn’t going to mention it. Instead he decides that he could be doing more, and pushes Dean’s bandaged leg back almost to his chest so that he can see every twitch, pull and shudder.
“Fuck, Cas.” Feeling the stretch, Dean growls lowly, flinging his head back with a dull thump. “Don’t be a scumbag-fuck me,” he bites out, but curiously, Castiel would swear that his fingers adopt a bit more of an exaggerated in-and-out motion than is necessary, considering he’s been pleasuring himself more than effectively until now.
A thought occurs to Castiel, suddenly. He wets his lips and asks, “Is the music really affecting you that badly, Dean?”
”Dick.” Dean’s cock twitches once in his hand, leaking copiously, but then again Dean has always been a bit slaveish to these bouts of one-upmanship between them. “I knew that was gonna come back to bite me eventually.”
“If you’re lucky, yes.”
Lightening his touch so that he can’t bring Dean off too soon, Castiel gives another few, teasing strokes, a press of his thumb against the underside of his cock, before withdrawing his hand altogether and transferring his grip to the backs of Dean’s thighs. Lips twitching at the look of confusion and annoyance Dean sends his way, Castiel puts the slightest bit of his angel strength into a sharp tug at Dean’s legs, mindful of the sprained ankle. The action sends the man sliding towards him across the desk, skidding across the smooth wood and the puddle of lube that has collected beneath him. There’s a grunt of surprise when Dean’s wrist collides with Castiel’s hip, pushing the fingers deeper, and for the first time in weeks Castiel actually laughs out loud at the expression on Dean’s face, both startled and wrecked.
In a pleasing stroke of luck he realizes that the desk is just the perfect height, coming no higher than mid-thigh; it would be unspeakably easy to just fuck into Dean right here, remove his hand and replace it with the head of his cock. That’s likely what Dean had in mind from the start-it’s not every day that the hunter would risk certain death for the opportunity to have sex on Bobby’s furniture-but that would end this encounter far too soon, and Castiel takes an immense pleasure in foiling Dean’s plans whenever he grows too smug. Instead he guides Dean’s legs around his waist, humming in approval when the man’s heels catch stubbornly at his hipbones and begin nudging the elastic of his boxers down his body. The human capacity for multitasking is at this moment quite impressive. He rolls his hips experimentally, bumping Dean’s hand and whimpering at the flash of pleasure that ripples through him.
Playfully peevish, Dean smacks at Castiel’s shoulder with his other hand. The sound cracks even against the loud music. “Are you gonna keep humping my wrist all night, or are you actually going to get this show on the road?” he inquires nonchalantly, eyebrows raised.
Castiel helps Dean work his underwear the rest of the way down before he leans in close, their faces scant inches apart, not caring that the change in position will force his fingers in almost to the base. Dean inhales sharply into Castiel’s cheek, who in turn nuzzles his nose into Dean’s temple. His fingers find the taut bud of a nipple and twist. Hard. Dean hollers in surprise.
“You’re testy because you’ve been here almost an hour already,” he growls, voice dark. “But I didn’t ask you to start without me. I’d prefer not to have missed this, Dean.”
Whatever the inappropriate timing, Dean snorts, even though the lazy thrusting of Cas’s hips against his and-no doubt-the throb of his nipple distorts the sound into something too needy to be derisive. “Jealously don’t suit you, Cas.”
“I’ve no need of jealousy,” Cas insists. “I could do whatever I wanted with you right now, and you’d be too crippled even to run away.” At Dean’s glare, he smiles sweetly. “But I promise you’ll enjoy it, since you’ve made all this effort on my account.”
“You know, Cas, you usually only start talkin’ this kind of shit when you expect me to beg,” Dean points out. Smirking, he uses what leverage he has to grind his ass back against Castiel’s erection, clearly savouring the whine that escapes past his lips. “Maybe I’ll ask nicely, but if you think I’m gonna beg, you should leave now.”
Such posturing, he thinks, but it’s part of what he loves about Dean, this complete inability to back away from a challenge, not even one from which he’ll clearly benefit. Cas gentles his fingers down Dean’s sides anyway, conciliatory but not apologetic as he settles them against the man’s pelvis, fingers slotting against the hipbones like perfect puzzle pieces. Dean just shivers in a satisfying way and wraps his free hand around the back of Castiel’s neck to pull him closer; Cas realizes their lips haven’t touched in almost a week.
However blasé Dean behaves towards him, the secret of his need betrays itself in the way his mouth opens hungrily against Castiel’s, teeth biting and tongue sweeping him into a wrecking-ball kiss, putting his whole body into it. Dean kisses like he does everything else-for keeps-and predictably Castiel could throw himself into it with equal abandon. The crushing ownership they exhibit over one another is terrifying and consuming. After the first time Dean kissed him, Castiel no longer wondered how his handprint branded itself onto the man’s shoulder. It’s a miracle that they don’t sport more visible, lasting marks from each other.
Panting against Dean’s mouth, rutting against his body, Castiel slides one hand further down until he grazes the fleshy underside of his ass and encounters the bony arch of Dean’s wrist that cuts across it. Before Dean can withdraw his own fingers, Castiel follows the lines of his knuckles to where they disappear into his body, and braces himself for an onslaught of glorious warmth and heat when he guides two of his own fingers in alongside Dean’s. The muscle, exquisitely stretched and accommodating, swallows him in with the greediness of quicksand.
Dean says, “Jesus Christ, please-” and his teeth sink into Castiel’s bottom lip like a rabbit snare as he shakes against him, working the tender flesh until it is raw and sensitive enough that Castiel tastes blood.
Once Dean has released him long enough to speak, all he can manage is a hushed, “Look at you,” forgiving the blasphemy as he forgives Dean all things, eyes tracing the bowed line of Dean’s neck, his mouth slack and pulling at air as though suffocating.
Cas applies careful strokes until the tip of one digit brushes Dean’s prostate, and he’s rewarded with a wordless groan for more. The feeling of Dean thrusting weakly up against him produces the most delicious friction, heat pooling like a lava floe deep in his belly. It’s all he can do to suckle at the base of Dean’s throat and coach himself to not come on the spot, especially when he feels Dean’s thick, rough fingers slide around next to his. Castiel can imagine what it must be like to be that full. He wouldn’t stop, either. Maybe that’s why he could drive the man a little bit mad with it, given half a chance.
“Gimme something,” Dean gasps again and again, and his mouth is frantic, can’t seem to decide where to fasten itself against Castiel’s skin.
When Cas pulls back, trying to shift the angle of his body, his hand, Dean simply follows as far as the position will allow, licking a stripe across his collarbone, attaching himself to a nipple by the teeth. It hurts, even for Cas, and he might tell Dean to stop were he not so consumed by the sight of him unravelling. This far gone, Dean doesn’t bother to verbalize his needs-that’s Castiel’s tendency. Dean is noisy, always noisy, but with an orgasm in sight he is all action and single-minded determination, will even go so far as to wordlessly manhandle Castiel around until he’s right where Dean wants him.
Withdrawing entirely, Castiel shoves Dean back down to the desk and settles Dean with a dark look. “Stop trying to change the rules,” he snaps, and Dean simply glowers before Castiel ducks his head and glides his tongue over one of the fleshy, pebbled nipples, worrying it with lips and teeth until Dean croons his name. Tracing the cage of his ribs and then the ridges of his abdomen, the arch of one hip, he continues down until his lips are covering the crease between pelvis and thigh.
If Dean is expecting a mouth on his cock, he doesn’t get it; instead Castiel pushes his legs further apart and sucks a kiss to the path of skin leading from Dean’s scrotum to his stretched-out hole, working lower still until he can insinuate his tongue into the spaces between their fingers. Dean yells unintelligibly as Castiel licks against his entrance and jabs his fingertips into his prostate at the same time, ravaging him inside and out with the same precision he once applied to battlefield tactics.
A first for them: this is something Dean does eagerly, and yet never submits to himself. Castiel doesn’t understand why, since it is a rare pleasure that would have convinced him to lay down his sword and forsake Heaven without another thought, had Dean not already asked him to. The heat, the taste, the heady, intoxicating smell that could belong to none other than Dean... He craves it all. It stands to reason that Dean might feel naked with someone else’s mouth learning him so intimately, but total exposure is a state that suits him well, more than he understands-and Castiel knows just how to go about doing it, alternating between quick flicks of his tongue against the muscle and determined pushes inside that force Dean open even further. Like he’s lost his grasp on language, Dean pants for air and lets out the most delicious, tormented sounds. The thought occurs to Castiel that, even if they should happen to survive the end of days, he will be the last creature in Heaven or Earth to know Dean this way.
After a few tense moments, Dean’s hand finds Castiel’s where it grips into his leg. A brief squeeze and a guttural, broken sound is the only warning he gets before he hears it, Dean slamming his head back into the desk and crying, “Cas, Cas, please, c’mon, please,” and that didn’t take long at all. Against their entwined fingers, Castiel smiles.
The sentiment fades when he feels what is, undoubtedly, Dean’s cock buffeting him across his brow and hairline, only to receive an outright slap with it when he lifts his head. A glistening strip of pre-come smears across his cheek. Castiel succeeds in raising an eyebrow in response, but not much else; this might be the most absurd thing Dean has ever done in his presence.
Surely, his face betrays the sentiment. Dean says, “I appreciate what you were doing down there, but you kind of zoned out for a minute. Just trying to get you back in the game.” The way he angles his erect cock towards Castiel’s mouth leaves little need for more clarification than that, but Castiel just stares back at Dean with a frown. “Did you need an engraved invitation or something, man?”
“Are you requesting something of me?” Castiel asks, polite excepting the fingers he’s got in Dean’s ass, and the negligible distance between his own mouth and the head of Dean’s cock.
Dean rolls his eyes, uncaring of what little that does in his favour. “I would appreciate it greatly if you would suck my fucking dick,” he grates out, and Cas wonders where in the last minute he regained so much of his composure.
“You asked much more prettily a moment ago,” he points out.
Unsurprisingly, Dean attempts to bat at his face with his cock again, but Castiel drops the act and catches it with his tongue, delighting in the strangled moan he receives. He thinks he understands the attraction of seeing one’s erection against another’s face, a visual stimulus as much as a restrained and playful form of aggression, but really, enough is enough-he wants to taste the silky heat of Dean’s arousal as much as Dean wants to feel it. After a certain point the teasing no longer serves either of them.
Castiel slides his lips around the swollen head, acquiescing to Dean’s desire for his mouth, but only just. His touches are light, reverent, careful swipes of his tongue down the length, tracing veins, fanciful patterns, applying the faintest suction to Dean’s erection so that the man writhes and curses, but ultimately not enough for him to come. It’s inevitable that Dean should work a hand into Castiel’s hair and direct his mouth with controlled force, but for Castiel to resist is almost nothing, continuing to tease Dean along at a deliberate pace while his fingers never cease to twist and press. He loves this, the pressure, the desperation, the painful tugs Dean gives at his hair, the slightest threat of violence that is really no threat at all, but a reminder that Dean can let go with Castiel as he can with no one else. It makes Cas hum his pleasure against the weight of Dean’s cock, slipping a hint of teeth into his ministrations in acknowledgement. They both know it will never be mutual-Dean would die if Cas let go completely-but it isn’t necessary. To be with Dean at all gives him fulfillment, and he is not greedy; he does not have to ask everything of Dean just because he can. The proof is laid out before him should anyone bother to question the reciprocity of their relationship.
As if reading his thoughts, Dean forces out a frustrated-sounding moan that’s gently at odds with his responses to the work Castiel performs with lips and teeth and tongue. “Cas, let me do something,” he says weakly, visibly trying to restrain the eager bucking of his hips. “I want-”
Castiel savours the wet sound his mouth makes as he pulls himself free of Dean’s cock, catalogues the little snarl of disappointment that he can revisit later, when the days are darker and he needs comfort. “What do you want?” he asks, both genuinely curious about what Dean will say, but also hopeful that the question will prompt the litany of filth of which only Dean is capable. Not-so-secretly, Cas thrills at the notion.
With a smirk that suggests he knows exactly what Cas is after, Dean props himself up on one elbow, much as he’s able, and fixes his intoxicated, heavy-lidded gaze upon Castiel’s. He licks his lips once; his teeth come down upon his bottom lip in a sultry, practiced drag. “Castiel,” he says, with wicked clarity, “I want you to fuck me so hard that I feel you for the rest of the week.” Dean’s eyes catch the movement of Castiel’s swallow with a hunter’s quickness, but he lets it go without comment before he resumes eye contact. “And then I want you to do it again, so that I don’t forget.”
At this, Castiel slides his eyes shut and pulls his fingers altogether free of Dean’s body with a mixture of regret and anticipation. He’ll willingly oblige the moment his vessel’s heart stops threatening to leap out of his chest in excitement, though from the way it’s knocking wicked hard against his breastbone, it isn’t likely to subside anytime soon. Less, still, when he decides to take Dean’s suggestion-order, demand, it doesn’t matter-under close advisement.
By the way Dean’s mouth curls into a lazy smile, his own hand pulling out in order to tug Castiel closer by the hips, he can tell that Dean is pleased with his reaction. As if he hasn’t been planning those words all night, in between deciding upon the best method of taking Castiel apart, and the next Zeppelin song. Perhaps by virtue of his (forced) familiarity with the band, the music has more or less receded to the back of Castiel’s consciousness. Unlike his last misadventure with Sam’s iPod, when his attention was rapt with the newness of the music and its affect upon him, Cas is aware of the wanton lyrics and moaning guitars of Led Zeppelin as a part of Dean, and not some separate entity. For all he’s given it any thought, it’s been his internal soundtrack to every time he and Dean have kissed or touched or fucked.
“Now’s not the time to conceptualize sex,” Dean says out of nowhere, apparently recognizing the look that Castiel gets when he’s in danger of becoming too cerebral about something. Cas is surprised to find the bottle of lubricant being pressed into his hand, cap helpfully open. Dean levers his upper body further off the desk and gets right into Castiel’s space, breath misting over his lips in a phantom kiss. “Stop thinking so hard and just put it in me.”
Phrased that way, Castiel can’t really object to this logic, which he finds perfectly on par with his own.
Gathering a generous amount of lube in his palm, which can only be excessive at such a late stage, Castiel meets Dean’s eyes as he slicks himself up and guides the head of his cock into Dean’s body. With little more than a push, he slides home into that grasping heat with a groan so guttural and deep that it hardly sounds like him.
“Oh, shit,” Dean says, keening each vowel so hard and long that Castiel almost forgets to take a breath as he listens for the end of it. Arms snaking about his shoulders, Dean grips him tight and attempts to climb further onto his body with his legs wrapped firm around Castiel’s hips, ankles crossed against the cushion of his rear. It seems a perfect arrangement for them both until the first gentle thrust makes Dean wince and grimace in pain.
“What is it?” Castiel asks, not yet too far gone that he can’t be concerned.
“My damn ankle,” grunts Dean. He begins to unwind himself limb by limb, but Castiel grasps his elbow before he can get too far.
“Allow me,” he suggests.
Off Dean’s arched eyebrow-Castiel will never know how he manages to look smug even in this state-he furrows his brow in determination and quickly decides upon a better way to proceed. Ignoring Dean’s little gasps and moans, half protest and half arousal, he gets one of the man’s legs over his shoulder and presses in towards his chest until he can comfortably drape the other knee over the crook of his elbow, secure enough that he can prevent any jolts to the injured joint. Despite the passing mortification that flits across Dean’s features at being spread rather ungracefully, his mouth goes slack with pleasure when Castiel attempts another thrust. It’s good, and they both cry out, Dean the more unintelligibly at the change in angle. Cas feels he moment the head of his cock slams into Dean’s prostate, and he can’t help the grin that splits his features before he does it again.
There’s nothing Cas would trade for the feeling of Dean inside of him, pounding him into the mattress or wall or Impala upholstery if nothing else is available, but being the one to breech, to conquer, is a wholly different flavour that Cas isn’t sure he’d give up more readily. For one thing, Dean’s body is a masterpiece of heat and beauty and indescribable tightness, and it is the way that the man responds that makes the experience transcendental, otherworldly almost. Of course, there is nothing Castiel has ever encountered to which to compare; it’s unlikely that such a thing exists. Never before, however, has he thrust into Dean’s body in such an open and greedy state. The sensation is glorious, welcoming, decadent, but the knowledge that Dean orchestrated this whole encounter with Castiel in mind puts him beyond the realm of pleasure and closer to delirium.
Barely any time passes until Castiel finds himself hot on Dean’s heels towards coming undone, arching his neck into the grasp and claw of fingernails that pin their mouths together and allow him to drink every desperate breath and curse that tumbles off Dean’s tongue. Whatever control Castiel thought he had dissipated when he seated himself inside Dean’s body and let go; his hips jackknife in a rhythm that’s just short of graceful, though Dean does his best to meet each thrust with one of his own, sliding the sweaty flesh of his torso against Castiel’s ribs, trying to prop himself one-handed against the desk for leverage. The leg upon his shoulder slips down and settles against his forearm as Castiel tries to keep their weight supported, upright. The hard, wet line of Dean’s cock moves between them in a filthy, luxurious slide, and it takes Cas a moment to realize that they’ve been grinding together in time with the music, the combined influence of Dean and Plant a potent mix. When, Baby, Since I’ve been loving you, yeah, I’m about to lose my worried mind, escapes Plant’s throat in a howl, Dean echoes, memorized lyrics spilling from his mouth in gasping, frantic entreaty alongside the throaty “fuck me’s” and the muttered, “Cas, baby, yeah.”
It warms Castiel so thoroughly that he’s helpless but to gather Dean closer, thrusting deeper, and is rewarded with a bellow of release that coincides with the feel of Dean’s cock spilling fat, viscous streams of come between their bellies. The muscles that clamp down upon him are tighter than a fist, spasms wracking through Castiel like an act of god. Half crazed with the weak-kneed desire that floored him from the moment he walked into Bobby’s study, Castiel counts barely another two beats of the song before he is snatched up by the force of his own orgasm, a flash flood of pleasure that steals the voice from his throat when he opens his mouth to scream. Dean shudders and says Castiel’s name on a low moan, though it’s unknown whether it’s the sensation of being pumped full of liquid, or the fact of Castiel’s release, that causes it.
When it has finished and Castiel feels like the life has been stripped from his very bones, he slumps forward with a grunt of apology as his weight shoves Dean back against the desk in a muted thud. A minute ago it took every ounce of concentration not to lose his mind with lust, and now it takes roughly the same amount of willpower for Cas to prevent his legs from crumpling beneath him. His knees knock against the side of the desk, rocked halfway across the floor by now in a trail of loose papers and toppled books. Were it not for the fact that a bomb might have detonated in the room with less catastrophe, the crackling of the fire and the blare of classic rock through the stereo might suggest that not much else had occurred.
Minutes pass, and they could be hours for all Castiel is concerned, fixated upon the rise and fall of Dean’s chest that gradually slows and becomes more even as he catches his breath, lifting him slightly on the inhale. “The Rain Song” plays soothingly in the background. One of Dean’s hands works itself into his sweaty hair, massaging into Castiel’s scalp, and they stay like that for a while until Dean gives a dramatic sigh and heaves out, “God damn.” Castiel doesn’t respond except to give an abortive pinch to his ribs, which Dean shrugs off with a rasping laugh. “Sorry, Cas, but sometimes there just ain’t another word for it.”
“Even with a list of alternatives, I doubt that you’d settle upon another,” Cas responds, lazy as can be. He manages to lift his head to find Dean smirking at him; the sight of him flushed and spent is beyond gratifying.
“Take it as a compliment, Cas. You made me acknowledge the Big Man’s existence with something resembling reverence.”
Cas huffs under his breath. “If He exists,” he corrects, and gives a start when Dean shoves at him weakly.
“Hey, none of that,” Dean chides. “If you’re going to spoil the afterglow with your daddy issues, you can get off my damn chest and go lie in the wet spot.”
Rather than point out that Dean’s chest is currently a giant wet spot, Castiel takes the hint and shuts up; unintentionally or not, Dean does have a point, and Cas supposes he should appreciate the sexual ambush for the overwhelming pleasure as much as the fact that a whole hour has gone by without him dwelling upon his Father’s absence. Hoping to convey his gratitude, Castiel props himself up on shaky arms and drops a wet, searching kiss upon Dean’s mouth, which is accepted with the kind of insatiable, consuming lasciviousness of which only Dean could be capable. A sympathetic twitch from his limp, thoroughly-exhausted penis reminds Castiel that they should think about moving someplace more comfortable, and maybe about how they will clean up this mess before Bobby and Sam arrive home.
The look upon Dean’s face, however, utterly peaceful and content, stops him. Cas happily swallows all thought of the practical in favour of running his fingers lovingly across the man’s brow, for once not furrowed or creased. “You bring me great joy, Dean,” he says instead, and much to his surprise, Dean doesn’t deflect the sentiment or squirm except to tighten his legs possessively around Castiel’s waist, holding them together.
“You ain’t so bad yourself, Cas.” The hand in his hair strokes, affectionate. He murmurs, “I know what I’ll be thinking about from now on whenever I listen to Zep,” and somewhere, Castiel thinks, Dean is trying to tell him that he won’t ever forget about them, either.
Eighteen Months Later
Whether as a by-product of all the prayers Castiel refused to answer, or the fact that Sam has no intention of riding bitch in the backseat, like the last time Cas took to tagging along with them in the car, he catches himself growing tense and confused whenever the angel appears within moments of Dean saying his name, like that single syllable is just as effective a tether as all the holy oil in existence. Naturally, Dean chastises him for his frequent disappearances and his tendency to not be at their beck and call anymore, but Castiel doesn’t seem to care, and Sam can’t detect any real malice in his brother’s voice, for that matter. He stopped trying to interpret their weird behaviour around each other a long time ago; as far as he’s concerned, either it’s not his business, or he’ll just never understand what happens between them that seems to suck the air from the room as much as the tension from Dean’s shoulders. Point of fact, he doesn’t really want to know.
However, if he allows himself a moment to put aside the petty jealousy and his tendency to dislike that which he can’t puzzle out for himself, Sam has to admit that Dean and Castiel have some kind of shorthand going that seems to transcend language at the same time that it mires itself in the utterly absurd, like bizarre musical references Castiel shouldn’t be able to get. The first time he noticed was over a year ago, before he made his swan dive into the Cage with Michael and Lucifer. The three of them had been driving along in silence until Dean randomly decided to throw on a Massive Attack album that Sam hadn’t listened to since Stanford. Foregoing any attempt at explanation, Cas just made a noise like a dog getting kicked between the ribs, and disappeared.
With Sam back from Hell and them back on the road together, they listen to music a lot less than they used to. Sam prefers it, but that doesn’t make it less weird; they are three days into their first post-reunion hunt together until Sam figures out that the eerie, Twilight-Zone feeling he kept getting was actually the absence of any Plant or Hetfield or Cooper on the stereo. When he mentions it, Dean shrugs and says nothing.
That is, until Cas appears and manages to sit still in the backseat for longer than thirty seconds as they drive. Barely three miles pass before Dean is sliding Zeppelin III into the tape deck, fast-forwarding until the mournful opening solo of “Since I’ve Been Loving You” fills the closed space of the Impala.
Between Dean and Cas snapping at one another like a couple of prized pitbulls, and the start of a song about epic, doomed love, something happens. Were Sam not watching Dean carefully, he would miss it altogether. Plant sings about losing his worried mind, and Dean’s eyes close for the briefest of moments on a sigh.
In the rearview mirror, Cas smiles.
Fin