Fic: "Dinner at Katz's" [NC-17, Dean/Castiel]
TITLE: “Dinner at Katz’s”
AUTHOR: nanoochka
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Dean/Castiel
SPOILERS: General season 5.
WARNINGS: Don’t even.
WORDCOUNT: 2,745
SUMMARY: Dean might have to teach Cas how to have a When Harry Met Sally-esque orgasm, but he certainly doesn't have to fake it.
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all associated content is the property of The CW and Eric Kripke. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Totally oddlyfamiliar and annundriel ’s fault (though annundriel did her part with the wonderful beta). And, by extension, Jensen and Misha’s ridiculous fake orgasm performance here. The facial scruff, like most things, is for fossarian. Recced at rec_hymenated, crack_impala and sawedoff_recs - thanks, guys!
“Dinner at Katz’s” by
nanoochka
A slow frond of pride curls through Dean’s belly as he feels Cas start to slide into him nice and slow, head thrown back in ecstasy, the length of him thick and hotter than the blistering Arizona sun pounding the window outside. His whole body feels mapped with sweat, the air conditioning and sluggish fan doing little more than pushing the soupy air around them, pricking drops of moisture on Dean’s skin with the occasional chill. Sand seems to fill his mouth, dry and rough and reducing his moans to ash. Dean can’t remember ever having had sex in such blistering-hot conditions, but the sharp points of Cas’s hipbones bumping against his ass, the angel’s hiss of pleasure, sucks him straight out of the material discomforts of this crappy, broken-down motel room and into the shivery-slick embrace of their skin together, sticky and warm where they touch.
There’s a large mirror that faces the footboard of the bed, hung crookedly over the faded wood desk and projecting back dusty reflections of Dean on all fours, Cas’s hands on his hips easing into him from behind. The room around them is drab, clothing-strewn and dark save for the dim lighting and the meandering sunlight through the shutters, bedclothes an utter mess, twisted around their limbs like garden creepers. It’s all immaterial compared to the bright, dripping arch of Castiel’s neck and the sweat glistening across his chest, soft like the gleam of moisture on pavement after a storm. The hands he gentles over Dean’s back look as assured and reverential as a musician’s, pressing into skin and muscle and warming against his flesh. Dean shivers again and clenches his own fingers in the sheet, locks his elbows and drops his head down when Cas pushes the last little bit inside and halts, letting them both adjust to the shiver-perfect stretch of Dean’s muscles and the breathless moment before they start to lose themselves in earnest.
This is only the third opportunity they’ve had to do this but nothing less than the hundredth time this weekend, Dean’s desire to distract himself from the heat exceeded only by his hunger to have Cas inside him again. He’s scarcely been able to rid himself of the mental picture of Castiel coming apart at the seams since the first time they kissed a couple months ago, uninhibited and undeterred with Sam still off on his own, his ghost not enough to distract Dean’s unwavering want. The first weekend with a lover has always been his favourite, and to that end Castiel has utterly failed to disappoint. With no hunt and no plans to pull them away, this motel room has been, with the exception of food runs, a welcome haven amidst the storm of the apocalypse, Dean not even bothering to shave, savouring the scratch of his growing stubble against Castiel’s skin.
Everything would be perfect, Dean thinks, if Cas weren’t so damned controlled and silent behind him, face desperate and slack but emitting nothing louder than a quiet hitch of breath or a stutter of Dean’s name in his throat. At first he relished being the one to fill the room with his growls and cries amidst Castiel’s heavy breathing and the pervasive slap of flesh against flesh, discovering an unexpected weak spot for Cas’s strong, quiet composure. But Dean feels so blissfully exposed, broken apart and put back together god knows how many times this morning alone, that he longs to see Cas lose just a fraction of himself the same way, wants to hear that voice of midnight and smoke break around a scream.
Something close to one of his own threatens to escape his throat as Castiel starts to move, those graceful hands jerking Dean back and forth against his pelvis, using Dean’s body to milk his own cock. Castiel sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and flutters his eyes shut as though overwhelmed by their reflection in the mirror, but Dean keeps his wide open and observant, drunk on the sight of their bodies sliding into a familiar rhythm. The last thing Dean wants is for Cas to disappear inside himself as they fuck, lost on a tidal wave of sensation perhaps too intense for his angel-self to process all at once. Castiel is one of the few people Dean feels comfortable asking for what he wants, though, so he decides to stop thinking and go for it.
“C’mon, Cas,” he purrs, levering himself back against Castiel’s body in counterpoint to his thrusts. A surprise angle drives Cas’s dick up against his prostate and makes his eyes flash with starbursts, but Dean bites back the groan and shakes his head in frustration instead. “Let me hear you, man, I bet you would sound so good moaning my name, telling me how amazing this feels.” There is a strangled noise that fires Dean’s hopes for a moment, sure that Cas is finally about to cut loose and start using that delicious voice the way Dean wants, but the sound never develops past a gasp. Dean curses under his breath and shoves his pelvis back with more force than is probably necessary. “Cas.”
“Dean, what?”
The speed of Castiel’s thrusts slows slightly, which isn’t what Dean intended at all. He thinks it would be a little weird to have a conversation while Cas is pounding away, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’d choose the discussion over the fucking, not with such a sweet, slow build at the base of his spine. His whole body feels like a flame slow to catch. Castiel’s lack of familiarity with the concept of sex sounds threatens to vex him until Dean remembers how much coaching had been required in the first place, the angel all awkward arms and legs and kisses until Dean set him straight. Though he’s been a quick learner and fast on his way to giving Dean some of the craziest orgasms of his life, apparently there are still a few topics left to cover.
Dean sighs, and after a moment collapses down to his elbows, trying to resist the urge to shake his head in resignation. He glances up and meets Castiel’s eyes in the mirror before turning to look at him over his shoulder. Seeing Cas sweaty and flushed and naked makes Dean’s throat tighten even more, but he guesses if they’re going to do this now, they might as well get it over with.
“Listen, you know that when we do this it feels amazing, right?” he asks. At Castiel’s nod, he shrugs vaguely. “Well, how do you know it feels amazing for me?”
The maliciousness of the comment is unintentional, and Dean hopes Cas will understand since he’d obviously more than enjoyed himself in the last forty-eight hours, and Castiel furrows his brow as if sensing that he’s missed something important that Dean is trying to explain. “Your pleasure is very obvious to me, Dean,” he says slowly. “But I trust you would tell me if I did something you did not enjoy.”
Satisfied that Castiel more or less follows the point he’s trying to make, even if he perhaps doesn’t know it yet, Dean gestures to indicate that Cas should keep talking if he hopes to arrive at the correct answer. When Cas just looks back at him, silent, Dean asks, “You’d tell me if you didn’t like something, but the same goes for when you do like something, so that I know to keep doing it and that I’m turning you on.”
“I don’t require you to stroke my ego, Dean,” Castiel tells him gravely. “It’s quite enough that you allow me to give you pleasure.”
Again, Dean sighs at the angel’s obstinacy, grunting, “Easy for you to say,” but decides that trying to explain this with words might not be the best approach. Castiel seems to learn fastest by imitation and observation, and Dean owes it to them both to come through if he plans on getting what he wants. In this case, apparently, Dean won’t be satisfied until he’s taught Cas how to keep the neighbours awake at night and piss off the entire motel, if not make them jealous. Hopefully, Cas will learn to enjoy the merits of loud sex, too, so that Dean’s voice will get a break and he’ll never again have to wonder if Cas is as in love with this as Dean. He suspects the answer is yes, couldn’t imagine the angel holing up in a shitty motel room with him otherwise, but a bit of verbal reinforcement never hurt anyone.
Biting his lip, Dean looks back at the mirror and just decides to go for it, thinking he can outdo Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally any day if he puts his mind to it. He’s not the noisiest guy ever in bed, at least not with women, but Dean is so used to being the loudest guy in a room at any given time that it probably won’t be much of a stretch to lay it on a bit thick.
It starts off simple, a quick roll of his shoulders as he concentrates on the feeling of Cas stretching him from deep inside, the way the sex has only gotten better each time as a slight element of soreness went into the mix, to remind him of all the things they’d done that weekend. The thought produces a sigh in response almost immediately, a quick spark of lust on top of what he’s already feeling, and then Dean begins rocking backwards again, letting Castiel slip almost all the way out before he reverses and impales himself on Castiel’s cock. Pleasure cuts through him like a knife as he does so, and instead of biting back the impulse to shout, Dean lets it emerge as a slow, dark rumble from his chest instead, watching Cas from the corner of his eye for the moment when the angel perks up at the sound. Dean rewards him with another moan, flinging his head back, and begins fucking himself on Castiel’s dick with such abandon that his own wantonness makes him cry out.
When Cas begins thrusting into him with an expression of awe, eyes glued to Dean’s mouth while his hands stroke through the sweat pooling at Dean’s lower back, Dean pushes his face into the bed and groans, hips working and flexing, all but gyrating against Castiel’s pelvis. No faking is required, the sounds that tumble past his lips every bit as genuine as the fire that licks through his body and tingles through his nerves like an electrical storm.
“Fuck, Cas,” he keens, his blood white-hot and alive, and Castiel leans in and blankets himself across his back, chest hard against his shoulder blades. The change of angle makes Dean repeat Castiel’s name in a shout, babbling, “Oh Christ, right there, Cas, keep fucking me like that,” over and over until the slams into his body start to grow faster, more intense, and Dean feels the shiver that skirts across the angel’s skin.
Then he hears it, quiet at first beneath Cas’s harsh panting, a muttered sigh of, “Dean.”
“Say my name again,” he bites out, and can’t resist throwing in a cry of praise when Cas obliges, bestowing the tentative syllable with more force and a gentle bite into the flesh of Dean’s shoulders. As he knew it would, Cas’s voice growing louder and more wild sends a thrill down Dean’s spine that makes him want to shout himself hoarse. “That’s it,” he encourages, “let me hear you, Cas, let it all out and show me how much you love fucking me, come on.”
The garbled mess of vowel sounds that Cas cries out into Dean’s ear could be Enochian for all he knows, though Dean doubts the angels came up with a word for anything as nasty as this. It’s a sound that goes straight to his dick, and Dean croons into the mattress, keeps pushing back onto that beautiful cock of Castiel’s, supporting his weight on one arm so that he can take his own length in hand and stroke himself closer and closer to orgasm. He moans like a whore all the while, delirious and extravagant and loving every minute of it. The production must agree with Cas, because the angel lets out a groan that actually makes the bedside lamp flicker and the curtains rustle.
“Oh, Dean,” he says distinctly, fingers bruising into flesh by now, slamming Dean back against him like he’s little more than a ragdoll designed for Castiel’s pleasure. At this rate he can’t believe he hasn’t spent himself already, and Cas shoving into his prostate again and again would almost be too intense if Dean weren’t so hungry for it. That bright precipice already brilliantly in sight as he strokes himself and grows drunker on the delicious sounds that purr into his ears, a symphony of pleasure.
He hits it hard, tripping over his release like a curb he failed to notice underfoot, letting loose a surprised shout and throwing his head so far back that he feels his neck arch over Castiel’s shoulder, the angel still covering him like a shield. As anticipated, Cas tumbles after him with a cry so lascivious and broken that the lamps finally do burst, exploding in a flurry of sparks that could set the bed on fire and still not make Dean want to break away. Appearing surprised by his own volume, Castiel jerks against Dean as he rides out his orgasm, thrusts delightfully brutal before he slows and goes still, chest heaving and slick against Dean’s back.
The addition of Castiel’s weight sends him collapsing onto the bed, limbs in an undignified sprawl as he gasps and splutters and tries to get his brain jump-started again and working. Even Castiel’s harsh breaths have taken on a kind of musical cadence, like the angel isn’t quite ready to give up his newfound gift of noise. For a while they lie there like that, unmindful of the stickiness and the heat, the fact that someone will have to call down to the motel office for new lightbulbs and a half-assed explanation for why they broke in the first place.
“Holy shit,” Dean finally manages to gasp, throat feeling like he just gargled a handful of rocks. This whole weekend will result in him walking funny for a week, he knows, but damned if it wasn’t worth every second, especially with such an explosive finish. Literally.
“Was that what you had in mind?” Castiel asks breathlessly. Much as Dean knew he would, there is absolutely no doubt from the quality of his voice that Cas just fucked his own brains out. It’s so sexy, in fact, that Dean can’t repress the slow shudder that travels through him at the sound, and knows he probably just signed himself up for a whole heap of trouble if this new habit happens to stick.
“That was even better than what I could have imagined,” he answers fondly. After some manoeuvring he manages to get himself onto his back underneath Cas, and tumbles the angel onto his side so that they are facing each other and there’s less weight against his chest. A smile curls Dean’s lips when he feels Cas’s hand reach down to trail through the come splattered across his stomach.
“And was there any doubt as to whether or not I enjoyed myself?” At the laugh that bubbles up from Dean’s throat in response, he narrows his eyes and tries to look serious, even if the effect is slightly dampened by his uncontrollably helpless hair and flushed-sweaty face. “What’s amusing?”
“Nothing,” Dean chuckles, and pulls Cas close to plant the sloppiest and most grateful of kisses upon his lips. “No doubt in my mind whatsoever.” With a wink, he treats himself to a fistful of that dark, tousled hair, to keep their faces close together. “In fact, I’ll have whatever the fuck you’re having,” he adds gleefully, and Castiel’s unintelligible murmur of confusion only makes him want to laugh harder.
The weekend might be almost over, a few hours left to them before Cas resumes his search for god and Dean drags himself out on another hunt, but the sun is still out and, for now, they’ve nowhere to be. Even if Cas still doesn’t understand the reference, there might be time for a second helping after all.
Fin
AUTHOR: nanoochka
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Dean/Castiel
SPOILERS: General season 5.
WARNINGS: Don’t even.
WORDCOUNT: 2,745
SUMMARY: Dean might have to teach Cas how to have a When Harry Met Sally-esque orgasm, but he certainly doesn't have to fake it.
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all associated content is the property of The CW and Eric Kripke. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Totally oddlyfamiliar and annundriel ’s fault (though annundriel did her part with the wonderful beta). And, by extension, Jensen and Misha’s ridiculous fake orgasm performance here. The facial scruff, like most things, is for fossarian. Recced at rec_hymenated, crack_impala and sawedoff_recs - thanks, guys!
“Dinner at Katz’s” by
nanoochka
A slow frond of pride curls through Dean’s belly as he feels Cas start to slide into him nice and slow, head thrown back in ecstasy, the length of him thick and hotter than the blistering Arizona sun pounding the window outside. His whole body feels mapped with sweat, the air conditioning and sluggish fan doing little more than pushing the soupy air around them, pricking drops of moisture on Dean’s skin with the occasional chill. Sand seems to fill his mouth, dry and rough and reducing his moans to ash. Dean can’t remember ever having had sex in such blistering-hot conditions, but the sharp points of Cas’s hipbones bumping against his ass, the angel’s hiss of pleasure, sucks him straight out of the material discomforts of this crappy, broken-down motel room and into the shivery-slick embrace of their skin together, sticky and warm where they touch.
There’s a large mirror that faces the footboard of the bed, hung crookedly over the faded wood desk and projecting back dusty reflections of Dean on all fours, Cas’s hands on his hips easing into him from behind. The room around them is drab, clothing-strewn and dark save for the dim lighting and the meandering sunlight through the shutters, bedclothes an utter mess, twisted around their limbs like garden creepers. It’s all immaterial compared to the bright, dripping arch of Castiel’s neck and the sweat glistening across his chest, soft like the gleam of moisture on pavement after a storm. The hands he gentles over Dean’s back look as assured and reverential as a musician’s, pressing into skin and muscle and warming against his flesh. Dean shivers again and clenches his own fingers in the sheet, locks his elbows and drops his head down when Cas pushes the last little bit inside and halts, letting them both adjust to the shiver-perfect stretch of Dean’s muscles and the breathless moment before they start to lose themselves in earnest.
This is only the third opportunity they’ve had to do this but nothing less than the hundredth time this weekend, Dean’s desire to distract himself from the heat exceeded only by his hunger to have Cas inside him again. He’s scarcely been able to rid himself of the mental picture of Castiel coming apart at the seams since the first time they kissed a couple months ago, uninhibited and undeterred with Sam still off on his own, his ghost not enough to distract Dean’s unwavering want. The first weekend with a lover has always been his favourite, and to that end Castiel has utterly failed to disappoint. With no hunt and no plans to pull them away, this motel room has been, with the exception of food runs, a welcome haven amidst the storm of the apocalypse, Dean not even bothering to shave, savouring the scratch of his growing stubble against Castiel’s skin.
Everything would be perfect, Dean thinks, if Cas weren’t so damned controlled and silent behind him, face desperate and slack but emitting nothing louder than a quiet hitch of breath or a stutter of Dean’s name in his throat. At first he relished being the one to fill the room with his growls and cries amidst Castiel’s heavy breathing and the pervasive slap of flesh against flesh, discovering an unexpected weak spot for Cas’s strong, quiet composure. But Dean feels so blissfully exposed, broken apart and put back together god knows how many times this morning alone, that he longs to see Cas lose just a fraction of himself the same way, wants to hear that voice of midnight and smoke break around a scream.
Something close to one of his own threatens to escape his throat as Castiel starts to move, those graceful hands jerking Dean back and forth against his pelvis, using Dean’s body to milk his own cock. Castiel sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and flutters his eyes shut as though overwhelmed by their reflection in the mirror, but Dean keeps his wide open and observant, drunk on the sight of their bodies sliding into a familiar rhythm. The last thing Dean wants is for Cas to disappear inside himself as they fuck, lost on a tidal wave of sensation perhaps too intense for his angel-self to process all at once. Castiel is one of the few people Dean feels comfortable asking for what he wants, though, so he decides to stop thinking and go for it.
“C’mon, Cas,” he purrs, levering himself back against Castiel’s body in counterpoint to his thrusts. A surprise angle drives Cas’s dick up against his prostate and makes his eyes flash with starbursts, but Dean bites back the groan and shakes his head in frustration instead. “Let me hear you, man, I bet you would sound so good moaning my name, telling me how amazing this feels.” There is a strangled noise that fires Dean’s hopes for a moment, sure that Cas is finally about to cut loose and start using that delicious voice the way Dean wants, but the sound never develops past a gasp. Dean curses under his breath and shoves his pelvis back with more force than is probably necessary. “Cas.”
“Dean, what?”
The speed of Castiel’s thrusts slows slightly, which isn’t what Dean intended at all. He thinks it would be a little weird to have a conversation while Cas is pounding away, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’d choose the discussion over the fucking, not with such a sweet, slow build at the base of his spine. His whole body feels like a flame slow to catch. Castiel’s lack of familiarity with the concept of sex sounds threatens to vex him until Dean remembers how much coaching had been required in the first place, the angel all awkward arms and legs and kisses until Dean set him straight. Though he’s been a quick learner and fast on his way to giving Dean some of the craziest orgasms of his life, apparently there are still a few topics left to cover.
Dean sighs, and after a moment collapses down to his elbows, trying to resist the urge to shake his head in resignation. He glances up and meets Castiel’s eyes in the mirror before turning to look at him over his shoulder. Seeing Cas sweaty and flushed and naked makes Dean’s throat tighten even more, but he guesses if they’re going to do this now, they might as well get it over with.
“Listen, you know that when we do this it feels amazing, right?” he asks. At Castiel’s nod, he shrugs vaguely. “Well, how do you know it feels amazing for me?”
The maliciousness of the comment is unintentional, and Dean hopes Cas will understand since he’d obviously more than enjoyed himself in the last forty-eight hours, and Castiel furrows his brow as if sensing that he’s missed something important that Dean is trying to explain. “Your pleasure is very obvious to me, Dean,” he says slowly. “But I trust you would tell me if I did something you did not enjoy.”
Satisfied that Castiel more or less follows the point he’s trying to make, even if he perhaps doesn’t know it yet, Dean gestures to indicate that Cas should keep talking if he hopes to arrive at the correct answer. When Cas just looks back at him, silent, Dean asks, “You’d tell me if you didn’t like something, but the same goes for when you do like something, so that I know to keep doing it and that I’m turning you on.”
“I don’t require you to stroke my ego, Dean,” Castiel tells him gravely. “It’s quite enough that you allow me to give you pleasure.”
Again, Dean sighs at the angel’s obstinacy, grunting, “Easy for you to say,” but decides that trying to explain this with words might not be the best approach. Castiel seems to learn fastest by imitation and observation, and Dean owes it to them both to come through if he plans on getting what he wants. In this case, apparently, Dean won’t be satisfied until he’s taught Cas how to keep the neighbours awake at night and piss off the entire motel, if not make them jealous. Hopefully, Cas will learn to enjoy the merits of loud sex, too, so that Dean’s voice will get a break and he’ll never again have to wonder if Cas is as in love with this as Dean. He suspects the answer is yes, couldn’t imagine the angel holing up in a shitty motel room with him otherwise, but a bit of verbal reinforcement never hurt anyone.
Biting his lip, Dean looks back at the mirror and just decides to go for it, thinking he can outdo Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally any day if he puts his mind to it. He’s not the noisiest guy ever in bed, at least not with women, but Dean is so used to being the loudest guy in a room at any given time that it probably won’t be much of a stretch to lay it on a bit thick.
It starts off simple, a quick roll of his shoulders as he concentrates on the feeling of Cas stretching him from deep inside, the way the sex has only gotten better each time as a slight element of soreness went into the mix, to remind him of all the things they’d done that weekend. The thought produces a sigh in response almost immediately, a quick spark of lust on top of what he’s already feeling, and then Dean begins rocking backwards again, letting Castiel slip almost all the way out before he reverses and impales himself on Castiel’s cock. Pleasure cuts through him like a knife as he does so, and instead of biting back the impulse to shout, Dean lets it emerge as a slow, dark rumble from his chest instead, watching Cas from the corner of his eye for the moment when the angel perks up at the sound. Dean rewards him with another moan, flinging his head back, and begins fucking himself on Castiel’s dick with such abandon that his own wantonness makes him cry out.
When Cas begins thrusting into him with an expression of awe, eyes glued to Dean’s mouth while his hands stroke through the sweat pooling at Dean’s lower back, Dean pushes his face into the bed and groans, hips working and flexing, all but gyrating against Castiel’s pelvis. No faking is required, the sounds that tumble past his lips every bit as genuine as the fire that licks through his body and tingles through his nerves like an electrical storm.
“Fuck, Cas,” he keens, his blood white-hot and alive, and Castiel leans in and blankets himself across his back, chest hard against his shoulder blades. The change of angle makes Dean repeat Castiel’s name in a shout, babbling, “Oh Christ, right there, Cas, keep fucking me like that,” over and over until the slams into his body start to grow faster, more intense, and Dean feels the shiver that skirts across the angel’s skin.
Then he hears it, quiet at first beneath Cas’s harsh panting, a muttered sigh of, “Dean.”
“Say my name again,” he bites out, and can’t resist throwing in a cry of praise when Cas obliges, bestowing the tentative syllable with more force and a gentle bite into the flesh of Dean’s shoulders. As he knew it would, Cas’s voice growing louder and more wild sends a thrill down Dean’s spine that makes him want to shout himself hoarse. “That’s it,” he encourages, “let me hear you, Cas, let it all out and show me how much you love fucking me, come on.”
The garbled mess of vowel sounds that Cas cries out into Dean’s ear could be Enochian for all he knows, though Dean doubts the angels came up with a word for anything as nasty as this. It’s a sound that goes straight to his dick, and Dean croons into the mattress, keeps pushing back onto that beautiful cock of Castiel’s, supporting his weight on one arm so that he can take his own length in hand and stroke himself closer and closer to orgasm. He moans like a whore all the while, delirious and extravagant and loving every minute of it. The production must agree with Cas, because the angel lets out a groan that actually makes the bedside lamp flicker and the curtains rustle.
“Oh, Dean,” he says distinctly, fingers bruising into flesh by now, slamming Dean back against him like he’s little more than a ragdoll designed for Castiel’s pleasure. At this rate he can’t believe he hasn’t spent himself already, and Cas shoving into his prostate again and again would almost be too intense if Dean weren’t so hungry for it. That bright precipice already brilliantly in sight as he strokes himself and grows drunker on the delicious sounds that purr into his ears, a symphony of pleasure.
He hits it hard, tripping over his release like a curb he failed to notice underfoot, letting loose a surprised shout and throwing his head so far back that he feels his neck arch over Castiel’s shoulder, the angel still covering him like a shield. As anticipated, Cas tumbles after him with a cry so lascivious and broken that the lamps finally do burst, exploding in a flurry of sparks that could set the bed on fire and still not make Dean want to break away. Appearing surprised by his own volume, Castiel jerks against Dean as he rides out his orgasm, thrusts delightfully brutal before he slows and goes still, chest heaving and slick against Dean’s back.
The addition of Castiel’s weight sends him collapsing onto the bed, limbs in an undignified sprawl as he gasps and splutters and tries to get his brain jump-started again and working. Even Castiel’s harsh breaths have taken on a kind of musical cadence, like the angel isn’t quite ready to give up his newfound gift of noise. For a while they lie there like that, unmindful of the stickiness and the heat, the fact that someone will have to call down to the motel office for new lightbulbs and a half-assed explanation for why they broke in the first place.
“Holy shit,” Dean finally manages to gasp, throat feeling like he just gargled a handful of rocks. This whole weekend will result in him walking funny for a week, he knows, but damned if it wasn’t worth every second, especially with such an explosive finish. Literally.
“Was that what you had in mind?” Castiel asks breathlessly. Much as Dean knew he would, there is absolutely no doubt from the quality of his voice that Cas just fucked his own brains out. It’s so sexy, in fact, that Dean can’t repress the slow shudder that travels through him at the sound, and knows he probably just signed himself up for a whole heap of trouble if this new habit happens to stick.
“That was even better than what I could have imagined,” he answers fondly. After some manoeuvring he manages to get himself onto his back underneath Cas, and tumbles the angel onto his side so that they are facing each other and there’s less weight against his chest. A smile curls Dean’s lips when he feels Cas’s hand reach down to trail through the come splattered across his stomach.
“And was there any doubt as to whether or not I enjoyed myself?” At the laugh that bubbles up from Dean’s throat in response, he narrows his eyes and tries to look serious, even if the effect is slightly dampened by his uncontrollably helpless hair and flushed-sweaty face. “What’s amusing?”
“Nothing,” Dean chuckles, and pulls Cas close to plant the sloppiest and most grateful of kisses upon his lips. “No doubt in my mind whatsoever.” With a wink, he treats himself to a fistful of that dark, tousled hair, to keep their faces close together. “In fact, I’ll have whatever the fuck you’re having,” he adds gleefully, and Castiel’s unintelligible murmur of confusion only makes him want to laugh harder.
The weekend might be almost over, a few hours left to them before Cas resumes his search for god and Dean drags himself out on another hunt, but the sun is still out and, for now, they’ve nowhere to be. Even if Cas still doesn’t understand the reference, there might be time for a second helping after all.
Fin