Fic: Paradise Circus [NC-17, Dean/Cas]
TITLE: “Paradise Circus”
AUTHOR: Nansense
RATING: NC-17 for language and graphic depictions of sex.
PAIRINGS: Dean/Cas, implied Sam/OFC, implied Dean/OFC (kinda)
SPOILERS: General season 5, with reference to bender!Cas in 5x17.
WARNINGS: Slash (you don’t say!), PWP, crack, schmoop, established (sexual) relationship, masturbation, orgasm refusal, other stuff, and... music kink? Does that even warrant a warning? Does it even exist?
WORD COUNT: 8, 317
SUMMARY: "Technology made simple, his ass. Castiel could operate the Antikythera mechanism with more accuracy." Dean tries to help Sam get laid with the help of a pretty unusual prop; he inadvertently turns Cas on to the magic of Massive Attack and Apple products.
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all associated content is, sadly, owned by others much more fortunate and creative than I. Up yours, Kripke.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: So, uh... this bit of crack started because I gave a pseudo-music prompt to hellozombies: thanks for the add, my lovelies!
Paradise Circus by nanoochka
On his first three tries with the iPod, the negligible piece of metal and plastic almost breaks apart in Castiel’s hands. Humans, or so he has noticed, have a perverse fascination with electronics that are over-simplified and bear no resemblance to the purpose they serve, and this tiny bit of blue-and-white technology is no exception. As he fumbles the controls with a mixture of inexperience and mounting frustration, he has absolutely no idea if he’s even pressing the right buttons, or if it is a matter of some trick or code that angels aren’t equipped to comprehend. It seems doubtful that the thing would even respond if Castiel were to crush it beneath his shoe.
The woozy, tingling sense of intoxication that flooded his body soon after leaving the bar is certainly not improving his finesse, but Castiel has watched Sam manipulate the tiny device countless times, seemingly whenever he tires of Dean’s endless supply of classic rock and heavy metal, or simply wishes to zone out by himself in the passenger seat of the car. He makes it look easy, often controlling it single-handedly, but something with only five buttons mustn’t be terribly complicated, Castiel supposes. Even children know how to use iPods, and he refuses to be outwitted by something named after biblical fruit.
From what Castiel understands, Sam’s taste in music is “gay, godawful and proof that you might have been switched at birth,” according to Dean. Without firsthand evidence to substantiate this claim, Castiel cannot agree or disagree. He does not dislike Dean’s own musical preferences, heavy on guitars and wailing vocals, but Castiel finds within him the capacity to enjoy all of Dean’s tastes-even when, to his ears, the music consists of nothing more than screeching guitars and the words “back in black” sung repetitively in a soul-stealing, banshee wail; he also appreciates that the elder Winchester is not always the more open-minded of the two.
And so, he is curious about what lies within this ridiculous, infuriating toy.
The brothers Winchester and Castiel are at the bar down the road from their motel when the discussion about music begins.
As is often the case, Sam is not initially supportive of Dean’s suggestion to go out drinking, citing reasons that range from limited funds to the looming apocalypse. Castiel sees the merit of his argument-Sam rarely produces faulty logic, at least not in comparison to Dean, whose own way of thinking is either terribly creative or more advanced than anyone knows-but his opinion in the matter is cemented the moment Dean offers to buy him a round of shots all to himself. Castiel isn’t stupid: he knows straight away that this is more for Dean’s amusement than anything, but if drinking a row of tequila shots one after the other can elicit a laugh and a smile from Dean, Castiel is prepared to do his duty. Not only is he bound to enjoy it, but he feels it is a waste to pass up any opportunities to relax and unwind before the final confrontation with Lucifer.
Predictably, Dean unwinds a bit faster than anyone else, but it is Sam who finds himself deep in conversation with two very beautiful women in front of the dartboards, trying to ignore all the winks and cat-calls Dean sends his way. Annoyed their game of darts seems to be over, Castiel sulks and wanders back to where Dean and a pitcher of beer are waiting for him. Dean elbows him in the ribs in an obvious way when the girls, Carrie and Noelle, return with Sam to their table. Even with a critical eye, Castiel can admit that they are lovely, not blonde and ostentatious like some of the women Dean flirts with at bars, but dark-haired and normal-seeming. Castiel has no desire to talk to either of them beyond the expected pleasantries, but the drink that is placed in front of him by Dean helpfully reduces the need for him to say much of anything. His strategy for navigating bar conversations is as follows: Speak only when the other man has a drink to his face, and no more.
Together they put back a round of something Dean calls Deer's Blood, and Castiel vaguely remembers the taste from the incident at the liquor store. He finds it unpleasant, but decides it doesn't matter when the brown liquid settles in his belly in a soothing way, and he feels the solid press of Dean’s thigh against his own afterwards, present even while Noelle whispers and giggles into Dean’s ear.
Flirtatiously, Carrie licks the liquor from her top lip and says, “Phew, if we keep this up, I’m going to get myself into trouble,” and a moment later excuses herself and Noelle to the powder room with a significant glance at Sam. Castiel doesn’t fail to notice that the two of them giggle and look over their shoulders at the brothers the whole way there, and his lips curl into a smile.
“I think you got yourself a done deal, Sammy,” says Dean, accurately reading Castiel’s expression and the girls’ behaviour. “Want us to take off so that you can get this show on the road?”
“What?” asks Sam, looking stricken. At this, Castiel laughs. It overjoys him to see Sam operating at a level of social fluency that makes Castiel feel like the most normal person in the room. Sam glares at him, but shakes his head. “You aren’t going anywhere, man. No way am I letting you stick me with both of them just so you can watch me squirm.”
“C’mon, it’s nothing,” says Dean, generously. “Go back with them to their hotel and throw on some Massive Attack; the rest will take care of itself.”
“What do you mean?” asks Castiel, confused.
Dean claps Castiel on the shoulder and says, mostly into his ear but at a volume audible to Sam, “My baby brother here might just land himself a threesome before the world ends, Cas. And you and I are here to see history in the making.”
This only addresses about fifty percent of his question, and not the half Castiel intended; of course he understands Dean is attempting to subject his brother to some sexual rite of passage in the same as with Castiel and the prostitute, Chastity. It is the reference to this massive attack, however, that he fails to comprehend: is Dean suggesting Sam attempt to force these women, sexually? He opens his mouth to clarify, but Sam cuts him off.
“Okay, first of all,” says Sam, “I don’t want anything to ‘take care of itself’. Secondly, I’m pretty sure that whole Massive Attack thing is a lie.”
Castiel is still struggling to keep up, but is relieved Sam seems not to share Dean’s enthusiasm for suggested rape. “I still don’t know what that means.”
“What?” asks Dean, and his hand comes to settle on Castiel’s shoulder with a squeeze. Through the fabric of his white shirt, Castiel can feel that his palm is warm and comforting and slightly damp, but he shrugs it away.
“You keep suggesting Sam should attack these girls, Dean. If he wishes to have sex with them, why can’t he just... ask?” Castiel’s frown worsens when both of the brothers burst out laughing at him; he is sure the furrows in his brow are never so deep as when he listens to Sam and Dean talk about sex.
“Christ, man,” chuckles Dean, and in a moment of unbridled, drunken affection, gives Castiel the sloppiest of kisses upon the cheek. “You are just too fucking much sometimes.”
Grinning, Sam explains, “No one’s talking about attacking anyone, Cas. Massive Attack is a band, like Zeppelin or the Stones.”
“Just nowhere near as good,” Dean adds. “To their credit, they did sample some Zeppelin, though.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Sam shoots back. To Castiel, he elaborates, “The type of music they make isn’t anything like what we listen to in the car. It’s... slower. Usually. More... tribal?”
Castiel can see he is struggling with the appropriate descriptors. “It is ethnic music,” he suggests, trying to help.
“No, no, not exactly,” Sam says. “Sometimes there are elements of that, but Massive Attack are more about the drums and the bass and the-”
“Sex,” Dean cuts in. “What Sammy is trying to say is Massive Attack songs are like sex.”
When Dean says the word ‘sex’, Castiel’s eyes drop to his mouth in pure reflex, and he is intoxicated enough that the habit fails even to make him blush. Dean notices, and smiles in a way that makes Sam roll his eyes and sigh loudly, even if the smile is for Cas alone. Heat creeps up his spine, and Castiel thinks if this music is anything at all like that, he is going to have to expand his repertoire beyond loud guitars and men who wear black spandex and face paint.
Sam, ever informative, is still attempting to clarify. “There's a rumour, I guess, that this one album of theirs called ‘Mezzanine’ is an aphrodisiac. I don’t think there’s anything to it; it’s just an album. But some people, including Dean, believe it’s a one-way ticket into a woman’s pants. Or a guy's, I guess.”
“Is he right?” Castiel asks-reasonably, he thinks.
The question actually seems to stump Sam; he pauses, and crinkles his brow at Castiel and Dean as he does whenever he's thinking very hard about something. “I... I’ve actually never tried it.”
Dean gives him a very brotherly slap on the back, and wiggles his eyebrows so cartoonishly even Castiel chuckles; only Dean could work this hard at getting women to sleep with Sam. “Well, now’s your chance to find out one way or another, big guy,” he points out to Sam. “You’ve got Mezzanine on your iPod thing, right?” Sam just shrugs. “Okay, then. They’re coming back over.”
“I’m still not letting you leave,” Sam tells his brother, looking over at the girls nervously enough he could have been facing down a demon horde, rather than an attractive prospective partner or two. “Carrie, maybe. And Noelle’s all over you, anyway.”
He shuts up as the women reach their table, and Dean huffs, “Okay, fine. Pussy.”
Noelle, or Carrie-Castiel is too uninterested and slightly too drunk to care-raises an eyebrow in response. Dean smiles at her and says, “Not you, sweetie.” More drinks are ordered.
It isn’t that Castiel feels he is being excluded or asked to leave, but he decides that if Sam and Dean are busy entertaining these girls, trying to secure some late-night activity so lucrative that special music is required, this is a good opportunity to depart and find some other form of entertainment for himself. Unbidden, he has a perfectly clear mental picture of the inside of Sam and Dean’s motel room, where a small, metallic-blue device sits on the nightstand beside Sam’s bed, plugged into a portable set of speakers.
Curiosity piqued, indeed.
Prior to losing so much of his Grace, an iPod would have been of little consequence to Castiel, either in theory or in practice. Assuming he would even care for something as trivial as the-rumoured-aphrodisiac properties of a human musical group, scarcely more than a snap of his fingers would be required to operate the device. Dean calls this cheating, but that Castiel is reduced to pressing buttons at random and squinting at such a tiny screen is as pathetic a display of human inadequacy as he has ever seen. The thought makes him flush angrily and his left hand clench into the duvet on Sam’s bed, while the right continues to fiddle with the controls. Technology made simple, his ass. Castiel could operate the Antikythera mechanism with more accuracy.
He has ascertained that the white wheel on the front is not simply a series of buttons that can be pressed, but a sort of touchpad Castiel can navigate by dragging his fingers in a circle in either direction. This he discovers by accident, of course, but it adds a level of understanding and mastery of the thing that he has so far lacked. The little blue bar on the screen moves up and down in sync with his fingers, highlighting what he supposes are menu items. Castiel scrolls carefully through a list of unfamiliar bands and curses his fingers that are too clumsy and alcohol-stupid to be very precise. On a whole other level of complicatedness, if his fingers move too quickly, the letters will skip ahead by entire sections, letters flashing across the screen in rapid succession, going from A to G to X. All Castiel desperately, desperately wants is M. And perhaps more tequila.
“Come on, you infernal piece of-”
He has to backtrack through much of the alphabet in order to reach what he isn’t even sure is worth it by now, a single entry showing Massive Attack sandwiched between two bands called Maroon Five and Matchbox 20. Castiel does not know if they produce the same quality of music as Massive Attack, or Metallica or Led Zeppelin. He jabs at the centre button with more viciousness than is necessary, but gives a satisfied huff when he is taken to a sub-menu listing the album Sam and Dean referenced: Mezzanine. He fails to see what could be sexy about a balcony, but his lips quirk into a genuine smile when he sees the first song is aptly named “Angel”. Castiel settles the iPod into the speaker attachment the way he has seen Sam do when Dean isn’t in the room, and presses the play button.
At first, nothing happens, and Castiel settles himself back against the headboard with such a colossal sense of disappointment the apocalypse seems minor in comparison. He is about to aim a peevish kick at the iPod when his ears pick up the quiet rumbling that starts from the speakers, a line of bass so dark and in such a low register he wonders how anyone lacking in supernatural ability could hear it. As he cocks his head to listen, he realizes it is in fact two notes being played in a pulsing rhythm, gradually becoming louder and more defined. It grows and grows. A slow drumbeat joins in, and as the whole thing gains in intensity, flooding the room and vibrating the window, Castiel notices it is difficult to distinguish between the thudding bass and his own heart, as though the two share the same beat. By the time strings of muted guitar noise drift into the song, Castiel is completely rapt.
He breathes in time with the beat and concentrates on the silky male voice that curls into the music, the way each syllable is dragged out in a kind of stuttering moan that makes Castiel’s breath catch, though he doesn’t know why. It’s unlike any voice he’s ever heard, not particularly bright or clear or melodious, not the kind of voice angels would consider beautiful, but. The way it creeps through the track is like smoke, winding, enveloping, almost gypsy-like in its quality; a spell. Additional layers of sound are introduced, ambient and suggestive, and the way the song builds makes it almost impossible to focus on any one thing. The effort of hearing each intricate element is almost hypnotic, constantly changing, swelling, reaching a crescendo that Castiel wonders if he can see the end of. Guitars mount, pushing the heartbeat rhythm into something more urgent. The voice threads through it all, unobtrusively, a constant purr of you are my angel, come from way above.
When Castiel breaks free long enough to consider what Dean said about the music, he discovers with a start that his body has been one step ahead of him the entire time, already flushed and warm. His trousers are tented in the front with the insistent rush of arousal, cock half-hard and decidedly interested in the correlation between the music and the purse of Dean’s lips as he said, “It’s like sex.” Castiel realizes why it felt as though the rhythm of the song seemed to suffuse his entire body; it was his heartbeat after all, the pounding of blood. Although he thinks he sighs in comprehension, the sound comes out as a low groan, lost in the pulse of the chorus.
Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Castiel tips his head back against the wooden headboard before he reaches for his belt, unthreading the tongue with one hand and pulling his shirttails free of his pants with the other. Even the brush of fabric against his skin is intensified with his attention half-trained on the music, and a foggy-very small-part of Castiel’s brain feels guilty Sam and Dean won’t have the iPod around to enhance their experience with the girls, because Castiel has it for himself. The faintest tremor runs through his hands as he undoes the trouser button and lowers the fly, levering his heels against the mattress so he can slide the plain black slacks and underwear down his legs. He does so languidly, hissing as his cock pops free; the current atmosphere doesn’t seem to call for impatience. Even as he pushes the hem of his shirt up his belly, fingers trailing, the pace feels dictated by the song, steady and purposeful, but unhurried.
As usual, the image of Dean forms in Castiel’s mind when he reaches beneath the shirt to skirt over his nipples, the other hand wrapping a sure, familiar grip around his cock. Castiel exhales heavily, feeling the skin burn hot against his palm, and can very nearly feel Dean’s full lips against his ear, his neck, when he makes the first delicious, deliberate upstroke. Although this is not something Castiel has been doing for long, he enjoys masturbation in spite of how utterly human it is.
Regardless, the first stroke is very definitely his favourite, that lovely shiver of pleasure that washes through him like the initial slow whisper of this song that pulled him out of the motel room and into something dark and rich and consuming. His free hand slides over the bones of his hip and down into the space between his legs, nails scraping through the coarse hair, fingers moving to gently roll and fondle and press against the soft weight of his balls. Still going slow, he swipes the pad of his thumb across the head of his dick in order to spread the accumulating fluid that leaks from the slit in clear, wet beads. Slick, tight, the slide back down is so achingly good that Castiel has no hope of swallowing the moan that is pulled from his throat.
It could be that the genius of the song, by now so powerful and unrelenting it fills the whole room, is it makes the listener a part of it; Castiel’s every movement, every breath, every sound, seems to swirl into the music, playing him. While he should be the one responsible for setting the rhythm of his hand upon his own flesh, he isn’t: he moves according to the beat, only half-conscious of what he’s doing except for how blinding and excruciating it feels. He doesn’t think he could go faster if he wanted to, and the concentration teases him closer to orgasm and then draws him away, a steady ebb like a note struck once and fading into the air before it is struck again.
In a way, it makes it easier for him to close his eyes and imagine Dean’s hands doing this to him, setting this exacting slow pace so unerringly as to drive Castiel mad. The fantasy is so close to the surface, Castiel barely has to think of Dean’s name before it overtakes him. He can picture Dean’s rough fingers pale against the red, swollen skin of his cock, pulling and stroking up and down in a perfect tempo, murmuring loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou into his ear as the restrained pump of Castiel’s hips keeps the time. Dean’s name slides past Castiel’s lips in a long, low rumble that is almost indistinguishable from the final pulse of bass near the end of the song.
The process is so slow and drawn-out Castiel doesn’t notice that the song changes, and changes again, and he is all the way into the first few bars of “Inertia Creeps” when the motel room door rattles softly, then opens. Sweat-drenched, shaking, breathing in great gulps like there isn’t enough air in the room, he is too far gone to hear anything except his name, which Dean says first in gentle surprise and then once more, sharp enough that Castiel’s eyes fly open and he gasps.
“Dean,” he mumbles, but no louder than that because his voice is already shredded and hoarse from moaning. It occurs to him he should be rushing to cover himself in some human display of shame, but his hand cannot even stop its movement, fingers trailing gently up his length because anything more would end this too soon.
It should mean something that Dean’s face reddens, but he doesn’t look away from Castiel’s eyes except to focus precisely on the spot where Castiel is touching himself, stroking, stroking like he’s the instrument waiting for Dean to come over and put his hands on him. Shutting the door gently behind him-Sam is nowhere in sight, thank God-Dean pads closer to where Castiel is stretched out on the bed, footfalls light as though not to disturb anything. Castiel sees the moment Dean’s ears recognize the song; his mouth opens and the green eyes close in realization, opening again with so much heat and intensity Castiel could whimper, or very probably does.
“Cas, what’re you-That was just supposed to be a joke, the aphrodisiac thing.” Dean shakes his head like he can never believe the unusual things Castiel does, but the slackness of his mouth suggests he hasn’t yet brought himself to mind; he’s starting to wonder if there isn’t some truth to a silly rumour about what a song can do.
“Dean,” Castiel chokes out again, possessing just enough presence of mind still to be annoyed the man is trying to lecture him while Castiel comes apart at the edges, seams fraying a little more with each beat. “Either you’re staying, or you’re leaving.” His breath hitches. “This isn’t a spectator sport.” It isn't that he is embarrassed-Dean has come to him before, seeking Castiel out when the night is at its darkest-but Castiel would really rather be left to his own devices if Dean only plans to stand in front of the door like a very unsubtle peeping Tom.
Visibly, Dean shakes himself. “Right. No, it’s not,” he says, and just like that goes to lock the door and pull his t-shirt over his head, the muscles of his stomach going taught and gorgeous with the stretch of it.
As if in afterthought, Dean secures the motel desk chair under the doorknob before he crosses the room again, crawling forward onto the bed. He stops just short of Castiel, looking up at him hotly from his hands and knees, breath sighing along Castiel's jaw. In the horrible, dim lighting of the room, Dean’s skin looks radiant and brushed with warmth, darkened such a deep bronze he might have been replaced by an exotic creature, if there can be such a thing beyond a man whom God ordered out of Hell to stop the apocalypse.
But, Castiel thinks, that could simply be the song talking. Guitars twist together with foreign-sounding stringed instruments in a dizzying loop, set against a steady, pounding beat he is beginning to recognize as the band's trademark. This song reminds him of the music of the Middle East, sensual and lush, utterly unhurried. For humans, he suspects, it probably conjures images of exotic lands, oversexualied ideas of the Far East or India as portrayed in the pages of the Kama Sutra. Certainly this music could not be anything but sexual, but the associations are completely different from the previous tracks; Sam's suggestion that it is like tribal music is not incorrect. It is more percussive than the first song, still pulsing with rich basslines and ambient sounds, but driven by thudding drums and a low male voice that half-sings, half-speaks the lyrics. The tight, even cadence of the words and recitative style makes Castiel think it could be a poem set to music, but the two are so indistinguishable from one another he could not imagine hearing either of them played separately.
Transported, he lifts a hand to Dean’s neck when the other man begins to press kisses to his throat and the delicate patch of skin behind his ear, as though it is a game Dean desperately wants to join. Maybe it is.
"What about your friends from the bar?" Castiel asks, and immediately berates himself for asking what could be the most irrelevant and inopportune question in the history of the universe. Perhaps even more than he thinks about diverting the end of the world or finding his Father, Castiel thinks about being in Dean Winchester's bed, kissing his mouth and feeling the press of those broad, calloused hands on his body; questioning why Dean is not elsewhere is just poor strategy, plain and simple. It isn't jealously-he genuinely doesn't understand how Dean's mind works sometimes, the factors that go into his decision-making process. And what Castiel does not comprehend, he must investigate, no matter how inconvenient his timing. It is one of his more bizarre compulsions that probably bears no relation to his encroaching humanity. "I thought you went with Sam to their hotel."
"Nah," says Dean, against the curve of his jaw. "I like you way better. Here I came back thinking I'd have to get you in the mood, but I never expected to find you like this. If I'd known, I would have introduced you to Massive Attack ages ago."
At the feel of Dean's tongue and teeth gently working his earlobe into tender redness, Castiel hears himself make a sound more animal than human, something that could be a laugh or a grunt or a moan. The idea that Dean came back on his account makes Castiel's chest feel tight in ways unconnected to the music. It only improves when Dean leans in and glides a finger down the length of Castiel's cock, tracing the purplish vein along the underside. Helpless, Castiel jerks his hips and growls as tiny stars sparkle behind his eyelids.
"The music is-" Castiel has to stop and swallow, his throat parched. "How does anyone listen to this in public? It's indescribable. I didn't realize what I was getting myself into."
"Mmm, yeah," whispers Dean, shimmying closer against his side. "Lucky me." His free hand cups himself through his jeans, making long, easy strokes to which Castiel's dick twitches in sympathy. He glances over at Dean’s face, which looks as drugged and wrecked as Castiel feels. Dean tells him, "I love you this way, Cas. You always sing when you fuck, but this is a whole 'nother level of awesome," and Castiel can only respond by rubbing his cheek against Dean’s lips like a domestic animal.
A stubborn hiss escapes Castiel the moment Dean withdraws and sits back on his heels, staring at him down his nose. "Is there a problem?" he asks.
"Nope," Dean answers, then adds, with a gesture towards Castiel that could mean anything, "Kinda. Let me undress you."
He begins to do so without waiting for a response from Castiel, who admittedly is wearing every item of clothing he owns except for his trench and suit jacket. The dull black shoes are first to go, followed by his socks, trousers, and boxers, whereupon he must assist Dean by lifting his legs enough for the pants to be pulled free from his body. A small part of Castiel is disappointed "Inertia Creeps" is ending, with nothing more exciting going on than Dean reaching over to unbutton his shirt and loosen his tie. Not that he minds Dean unclothing him in the slightest, but he was rather enjoying the song. Anything that isn’t Dean, but can arouse him to such an extent, is worth investigating, he thinks.
Apparently Dean catches the look on his face, because he parrots Castiel's line back at him while divesting him of his shirt. "Now is there a problem?"
"The song is ending," Castiel says simply.
"Then let me introduce you to the magic of the rewind button," Dean quips with a smirk that warms Castiel down to his toes, charmed by his boyish cockiness. Bringing their faces teasingly close, Dean ghosts a kiss over Castiel's lips before breaking away and pressing a button on the iPod. The music stops and the unusual chiming noises from the beginning of the song begin again. Dean asks, "Better?"
"Almost," Castiel sighs, and releases his grip on himself in order to touch Dean instead.
With Dean's help, shedding his jeans and boots and socks is an easy enough process, and before the song has even reached the first verse they are pressed together on the bed, naked and side-by-side, lips sliding against one another so languidly Castiel can taste every part of Dean's mouth. Never before have they kissed for so long or with such deliberate slowness but, as before, Castiel can't seem to move in any other way. The intensity of the kiss builds with the song, and he can tell from Dean's moans colliding with his that their enjoyment is equal. And yet, neither of them tries to hurry the pace or break time with the music.
There are few things Castiel loves so much as touching Dean, feeling each inch of his body the way he thinks no one else can, because Castiel knows all of it down to the last molecule. He has applied himself quite enthusiastically to stroking Dean from shoulder to flank, pressing in ever so slightly with his fingernails, while his other hand tests the stiffness of Dean's cock against his own. Dean alternates between clutching and pulling at Castiel’s hair in exactly the way he likes and gripping the back of the leg that lies across Dean’s hip. The occasional bump of their cocks together is wonderful, but when Dean tries to wrap his fist around Castiel’s erection, Cas retreats and jerks away with a gasp, worried the whole experience will end the moment Dean touches him.
“What the hell?” demands Dean, pulling back so Castiel can see how his pupils are blown, green irises almost consumed by the black. He looks so beautiful it takes a moment for Castiel to find his voice, lost somewhere around his toes.
“Too much, it’s too much,” he gasps out in a rush. “I’ve been trying to hold off since before you got here.”
“Jesus,” Dean breathes, forehead creased in surprise. His fingers twitch with impatience, digging into the flesh of Castiel’s thigh. “Is the music really affecting you that badly?” When Castiel scowls, Dean goes about emphasizing his point in entirely the wrong way, by grabbing a handful of Castiel’s ass and grinding their hips together so hard Castiel makes something dreadfully like a squeal.
Much of Castiel's angel strength faded along with his Grace, but only a hint is required when he strikes out in retaliation. Castiel flips Dean onto his back before the man can even exhale, let alone react. Cowed, Dean smirks up at him to show his approval, but groans low in his throat when Castiel says, “Yes,” and leans forward to bite into the skin of his neck. “The music is really affecting me that badly, you ass.”
“Touché,” says Dean.
He slides his hands down the length of Castiel’s sides with the barest hint of nails, making him squirm, and when he stops Castiel doesn’t know in which direction to arch to elicit more of the touch. It is, thus far, the quickest way Castiel has ever known himself to lose an argument, when Dean touches him that way. Although he rarely underestimates the man's intelligence or cunning, Castiel occasionally forgets Dean’s hunter training-and failing that, his skill at a hand of poker-has taught him how to catalogue all these little tells, tucking them away for when they might come in handy. Castiel is still learning it isn’t such a terrible thing to be at Dean’s mercy now and again.
“So what do you suggest?” asks Dean.
“Anything,” sighs Castiel, pushing himself back against Dean’s cock just so, earning himself a moan that burns its way past his senses with all the gentleness of a flash flood.
As Dean would tell it, Castiel’s gravelly voice is perfect for sex, but he has a hard time imagining he sounds anything near as sinful as Dean once he gets going, who manages to sound like he’s been shouting Castiel’s name for hours before they’ve shared a single kiss. Though he has never tried it, Castiel suspects Dean could bring him off by growling his name over and over again; it affects him that much. This is not something he'll ever admit, however, at risk of future ridicule. Dean would handle the information about as maturely as expected.
Castiel says instead, “Just don’t touch me there, not yet. But you might continue touching me elsewhere.”
Dean’s face goes sly in response. In repayment for the earlier move, Dean hooks his legs around Castiel’s calves and grips his biceps hard in his hands, moving quick enough to throw Castiel under him again. Dean’s breathing is slightly increased from the effort, but he looks pleased and very turned-on, eyes bright and devastating like all things Dean does. “Get back up there,” he orders.
Recognizing the face Dean gets when he has an idea, Castiel scoots backwards until he feels the headboard behind him, sitting up in the exact same position he was in when Dean found him. Unbelievably, the music is still playing the same pounding rhythm, and Castiel would have déjà-vu were it not for his lack of clothing.
He watches Dean push off of the bed and saunter over to where his duffle bag lies open on the floor, digging through its contents until he finds the half-full bottle of lubricant they've managed to blow through in the past couple of months. When Dean returns to the bed, he settles himself in the vee of Castiel’s legs, hooking them over his shoulders at the knee. His face is so close to the place Castiel desperately wants it that he can feel Dean’s wet breath across his groin, almost as though he has already put his mouth on him. Swallowing, Castiel tries to keep himself quiet in order to hide how enthusiastic he is about this proposition, but his cock gives a traitorously hard jerk against his stomach, nearly batting Dean across the lips.
“Oh yeah,” says Dean, grinning wolfishly at the movement. “I think Cas is a fan.”
“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, as nonchalantly as possible.
“Trying to see how close to batshit insane we can drive you,” Dean informs him, so casual that he could be ordering coffee. “Kindly place your hands on the bedspread on either side of you,” he instructs. Castiel obeys. “Keep them there.”
Squeezing a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, Dean begins pressing hot, sucking kisses along the length of Castiel’s left thigh, moving ever closer to where his cock arches desperately against his navel, twitching periodically. Without touching it, Dean lowers his mouth to the crease of Castiel’s hip, and asks, “May I?”
Thinking he knows what's coming, Castiel answers, “I’ll kill you if you don’t,” his voice a growl. To his horror, it turns into a high-pitched whine as Dean shoves a lubed finger into his ass with no warning whatsoever, pushing inside until Castiel can feel the base of his hand against his skin.
Dulled somewhat by his remaining Grace so as not to be completely uncomfortable, the intrusion is still sharp and surprising, and Castiel feels it everywhere, deep in his bones and to the end of every strand of hair. Counting upon this fact, Dean begins working his finger in a rhythm that would be punishing to a human not suitably prepared, but that floors Castiel in the rush of hot pleasure. He gasps incoherently and strains against the finger, toes curling, and finds his hand slapped away quite rudely when he tries to touch his own cock, resolve forgotten.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Dean snaps, stilling his hand. He delivers a rough bite to the inside of Castiel's thigh to emphasize his point, and the angel winces. “We’re not touching you there, remember?”
Castiel glares, and flings his head back against the headboard with a crack when Dean slides the finger in again, much more slowly this time. The stretch of his body around the digit is excruciatingly good, so much so that Castiel can scarcely keep himself from trying to rock his hips against the untroubled, dirty rhythm of Dean's hand.
“Are you still married to doing this to the music?” Dean asks.
Experimentally, he finds the same tempo as the song, driving in and out against the singer's chant of she comes moving up slowly, she comes. Perhaps the ragged moans and cries it elicits from Castiel is encouragement enough, because no amount of grunting or cursing can force Dean to speed up.
He does, however, lick a long, slow line across Castiel’s hip, mouthing at the sharp ridge of bone as he adds a second finger, sliding past his entrance with more gentleness than before. Castiel stops short of howling, but allows himself a gentle crooning noise that he hopes is lost in the cacophony of the music. The sensation of Dean’s fingers inside of him, working and working, is so intense and electric that Castiel is momentarily concerned that he can’t handle it all. He has died before; he remembers this feeling, every synapse firing at once, white-hot, like a tower struck by lightning.
Just when he begins to ground himself, the muscles in his legs unclenching and starting to relax, body adjusting to the onslaught of relentless fire, Dean presses in with a third digit, unasked, slipping the pads of his fingers across Castiel’s prostate with wicked accuracy. At this, Castiel relinquishes all hope of controlling the sounds that pull from his throat, unable to concentrate on anything except Dean fucking him open and the clash of drums and bass and noise. The music is slick, or Dean’s hand is, and everything else is so slow and painfully bright that Castiel struggles to remember his own name and if he has a purpose beyond letting Dean take him apart bit by bit. He remembers Dean’s name, though, and feels himself shouting it over and over again, testing out different pitches, different decibels, different degrees of undone.
Even amidst the claustrophobia of it all, he hears the songs change, soul-reggage-hip hop-rock all blending together and alternately slowing or speeding up the pace of Dean’s fingers. He mutters endearments and obscenities to Castiel through it all, encouraging him to fall apart each time he is brought almost to the brink of orgasm, even without a hand on his cock, and then eased back again. His erection has gone almost purple by now, and though it’s been little more than a half hour since this began, to Castiel it could be an age, his own forty years in hell.
“Don’t be cruel,” Castiel sobs out, hips rutting against empty air as he pulls in desperate gasps through his mouth and twists the bedcover in his fists. His eyes are-no. Not crying. “Please, Dean... Dean, don’t be-”
Ironically, Castiel has to acknowledge that Dean looks no less bothered, looking up at him with hooded eyes and lips bitten bloody and red. “Are you asking me something?” he asks, and his voice sounds utterly, utterly wrecked.
“I’m begging, you son of a bitch.” The whine erupts from him at another beautiful jab of fingers against his prostate, pitchy and desperate. “I’ll do anything you want, just-”
“No need to get melodramatic,” Dean informs him, somehow managing to smirk through the mask of desire on his face.
As Castiel writhes on the bed, back arched and heels dug uselessly into Dean’s shoulders, he can vaguely appreciate the extent to which Dean enjoys the show, drinking in the picture Castiel makes as much as he would surely appreciate the feel of Castiel’s lips wrapped around him, or his hands roughly stroking Dean to orgasm. As a concept, sex is not foreign to Castiel; what confounded him initially-and continues to confound, if he’s honest-are the hundreds of sensations for him to keep up with, amongst them the deep, creeping pleasure of watching one’s lover at work. He is familiar with the idea that human males are highly visual creatures, and he supposes that in this respect at least, he and Dean are very similar. If he could see what Dean’s fingers are doing, as Dean can, there would be no hope of him retaining any sanity at all.
“Tell me what you want,” Dean purrs into the sensitive underside of his thigh, growling so deep in his throat that Castiel can actually feel the vibrations against his skin. “Use that beautiful mouth of yours and tell me, Cas. Say it, and I’ll do it.” He’s out of breath.
Cursewords are one aspect of human language with which Castiel is unfamiliar, since as an angel he rarely angered so such an extent that expletives were needed; but now that he is so emotional and on edge, he could use them all, exhausting the limits of every dialect of every language. “You know what the fuck I want, Dean. Stop playing with me and let me finish, I don’t care how you do it. Use your mouth, your hands, I don’t give a shit. Just please, please-ah, fuck.”
Without waiting for further instruction, Dean tilts his head just so, mouth perfectly angled to make a long, slow, controlled lick up the underside of Castiel’s cock, catching on skin that is alternatively slick and tacky where the pre-come has dried. Pausing at the top to tongue at the frenulum and slit, fingers still tormenting his body, Dean lets Castiel feel the heat and sweep of his breath for a moment before sliding his lips completely over the head of his penis and sucking with hard, laser-like determination.
Castiel says, “Oh,” and doesn’t manage anything further before he slams headfirst into orgasm. It winds him brutally, but he still somehow has voice enough to shout Dean's name, hands mobilizing in a flurry and grabbing at as much of the man's hair as will fit into them. Dean grunts in approval or annoyance, Castiel isn't sure which, but swallows dutifully.
Though he has stopped ejaculating, Castiel is still shaking with aftershock when Dean shifts his body and grabs the back of Castiel's knees, hauling his entire body down the bed in order to press their pelvises together. Blissful, Castiel goes from stiff with pleasure to pliant in the space of a blink. He is not as large as Dean, but Castiel's vessel-or him, as the case seems to be-is not that of a small man, and certainly he is the stronger of the two. Despite this, however, Castiel thrills at how easily Dean manhandles him into position, locking eyes for a second before he guides his cock into Castiel's lubricated and finger-loosened hole, bottoming out with a groan so harsh and broken that Castiel responds in kind without even realizing it.
“Oh fuck, Cas,” Dean breathes, pressing Castiel's knees back against his shoulders as though he is little more than a figure of clay, waiting to be shaped or destroyed. “C’mon, c’mon, baby, let me feel you, let me hear you...”
Castiel is quite helpless but to obey, moaning himself hoarse and finding his favourite spot on Dean’s neck to bite, trying to grind his hips upwards despite the awkward position. Hissing, Dean delivers a sharp, vengeful thrust, and wraps a hand in Castiel’s sweat-damp hair so that he can jerk their lips together, teeth clashing. As if to prove Dean’s earlier point regarding his refractory period, Castiel shivers with arousal at the sound of Dean’s voice and the burn of his kiss, scarcely aware of anything else around him. Of course, it helps to have the feeling of Dean seated fully inside of him, shoving in and out in an increasingly erratic rhythm that suggests he will not be long to follow Castiel into release-provided, that is, Castiel does not beat him there on his second time around. The fleshy bump of Dean’s cock against his prostrate makes him shiver and moan and clutch at every part of Dean’s body he can reach. He can feel his erection growing again between them, oversensitized but still incredibly receptive to the friction generated by their bodies rubbing against one another.
More vocal now than even the music drifting from the speakers, Dean gleams with perspiration and effort, skin deeply flushed on his face and chest. The salt of their sweat mingles with the taste of blood and semen and saliva as their mouths gasp and pant and slide together, a combination that Castiel can feel himself growing more intoxicated by. The fist that Dean works between their bellies to wrap around Castiel’s dick is what nudges him towards the edge again, and each rough, twisting stroke of his hand jerks him forward little by little.
Trembling with tension and need, Castiel clenches his ass hard around Dean’s cock, and in that instant feels the man go rigid, pushing twice more more back into his body before he shouts Castiel’s name, surprised-sounding, and comes hard. Two things happen to shock Castiel’s system into its second orgasm of the night: Dean’s teeth clamp down instinctively on his lower lip, breaking through the skin, and his hand tightens punishingly around Castiel’s erection. Already empty, Castiel aches with the force of it, so taut with pleasure and pain that it seems to come from his blood.
Nails anchored into Dean for a brief moment, Castiel blacks out as though punched, and wakes up to discover Dean looking at him worriedly, the room silent. Though he couldn’t have been out long, apparently Dean had enough time to arrange them into a more comfortable position. Every part of Castiel’s body seems to hurt and tingle pleasantly at the same time.
Seeing his blink, Dean huffs out a sigh of relief, and drops his forehead against Castiel’s. “Christ,” he says. “Thank god you’re awake.” Laughing at the choice of words, Castiel tightens his hand against where it rests on Dean’s hip and is rewarded by a sheepish smile. “What the hell happened just now?” Dean asks.
“I think you succeeded in your plan to drive me insane,” he deadpans, and winces at the stretched-out feeling of his muscles. Already the ache in his ass is fading, but not quickly enough for him to forget how it got there. If anything, Castiel wishes that his tendency to heal so quickly didn't apply to this one area of his life. He wouldn't object to carrying the feel of Dean around with him everywhere, an invisible souvenir.
“That makes two of us,” chuckles Dean, wiping at the blood on Castiel’s lip with a look of apology for the bite. “I didn’t think I’d be saying this so close to the goddamned apocalypse, but that was seriously the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever done.” Castiel thinks he sounds both reverent and proud, and can’t decide which sentiment he likes more.
“It was certainly more than adequate,” he answers, earning himself a swat of annoyance from Dean. With a contemplative glance towards the night stand where Sam’s iPod is still plugged into the speakers, he says, “Do you suppose we definitively proved the rumour about this recording as truth?”
Affectionately, Dean pulls him in for a kiss, tonguing at his torn bottom lip until Castiel squirms and sighs against him. “We certainly made a strong fucking case,” Dean responds, after he pulls away.
Although Castiel is sure that Dean could not possibly recover fast enough to initiate a second round without first having to sleep, the look on his face makes him suspicious. Castiel raises an eyebrow and asks, “What? Not so soon again, surely...?”
“No, no,” Dean laughs, banishing the thought with a yawn and a shake of his head. One of his hands settles comfortingly on the swell of Castiel’s ass, and gives a squeeze so lazy that he would suspect Dean of having fallen asleep if it weren't for his eyes remaining open. It is necessary for Castiel to bite his lip to hold back the smile at Dean gone so sleepy and possessive. “I was just thinking, if that’s what one freaking album can do, we really owe it to ourselves to listen to the others.”
“That could take a while,” Castiel points out, mouth twitching.
Dean nods, and yawns again, and at this Castiel does smile. Infuriating or no, he thinks he might be rather a long time before Sam sees his iPod again.
Fin
Sequel: We're Gonna Groove
AUTHOR: Nansense
RATING: NC-17 for language and graphic depictions of sex.
PAIRINGS: Dean/Cas, implied Sam/OFC, implied Dean/OFC (kinda)
SPOILERS: General season 5, with reference to bender!Cas in 5x17.
WARNINGS: Slash (you don’t say!), PWP, crack, schmoop, established (sexual) relationship, masturbation, orgasm refusal, other stuff, and... music kink? Does that even warrant a warning? Does it even exist?
WORD COUNT: 8, 317
SUMMARY: "Technology made simple, his ass. Castiel could operate the Antikythera mechanism with more accuracy." Dean tries to help Sam get laid with the help of a pretty unusual prop; he inadvertently turns Cas on to the magic of Massive Attack and Apple products.
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all associated content is, sadly, owned by others much more fortunate and creative than I. Up yours, Kripke.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: So, uh... this bit of crack started because I gave a pseudo-music prompt to hellozombies: thanks for the add, my lovelies!
Paradise Circus by nanoochka
On his first three tries with the iPod, the negligible piece of metal and plastic almost breaks apart in Castiel’s hands. Humans, or so he has noticed, have a perverse fascination with electronics that are over-simplified and bear no resemblance to the purpose they serve, and this tiny bit of blue-and-white technology is no exception. As he fumbles the controls with a mixture of inexperience and mounting frustration, he has absolutely no idea if he’s even pressing the right buttons, or if it is a matter of some trick or code that angels aren’t equipped to comprehend. It seems doubtful that the thing would even respond if Castiel were to crush it beneath his shoe.
The woozy, tingling sense of intoxication that flooded his body soon after leaving the bar is certainly not improving his finesse, but Castiel has watched Sam manipulate the tiny device countless times, seemingly whenever he tires of Dean’s endless supply of classic rock and heavy metal, or simply wishes to zone out by himself in the passenger seat of the car. He makes it look easy, often controlling it single-handedly, but something with only five buttons mustn’t be terribly complicated, Castiel supposes. Even children know how to use iPods, and he refuses to be outwitted by something named after biblical fruit.
From what Castiel understands, Sam’s taste in music is “gay, godawful and proof that you might have been switched at birth,” according to Dean. Without firsthand evidence to substantiate this claim, Castiel cannot agree or disagree. He does not dislike Dean’s own musical preferences, heavy on guitars and wailing vocals, but Castiel finds within him the capacity to enjoy all of Dean’s tastes-even when, to his ears, the music consists of nothing more than screeching guitars and the words “back in black” sung repetitively in a soul-stealing, banshee wail; he also appreciates that the elder Winchester is not always the more open-minded of the two.
And so, he is curious about what lies within this ridiculous, infuriating toy.
The brothers Winchester and Castiel are at the bar down the road from their motel when the discussion about music begins.
As is often the case, Sam is not initially supportive of Dean’s suggestion to go out drinking, citing reasons that range from limited funds to the looming apocalypse. Castiel sees the merit of his argument-Sam rarely produces faulty logic, at least not in comparison to Dean, whose own way of thinking is either terribly creative or more advanced than anyone knows-but his opinion in the matter is cemented the moment Dean offers to buy him a round of shots all to himself. Castiel isn’t stupid: he knows straight away that this is more for Dean’s amusement than anything, but if drinking a row of tequila shots one after the other can elicit a laugh and a smile from Dean, Castiel is prepared to do his duty. Not only is he bound to enjoy it, but he feels it is a waste to pass up any opportunities to relax and unwind before the final confrontation with Lucifer.
Predictably, Dean unwinds a bit faster than anyone else, but it is Sam who finds himself deep in conversation with two very beautiful women in front of the dartboards, trying to ignore all the winks and cat-calls Dean sends his way. Annoyed their game of darts seems to be over, Castiel sulks and wanders back to where Dean and a pitcher of beer are waiting for him. Dean elbows him in the ribs in an obvious way when the girls, Carrie and Noelle, return with Sam to their table. Even with a critical eye, Castiel can admit that they are lovely, not blonde and ostentatious like some of the women Dean flirts with at bars, but dark-haired and normal-seeming. Castiel has no desire to talk to either of them beyond the expected pleasantries, but the drink that is placed in front of him by Dean helpfully reduces the need for him to say much of anything. His strategy for navigating bar conversations is as follows: Speak only when the other man has a drink to his face, and no more.
Together they put back a round of something Dean calls Deer's Blood, and Castiel vaguely remembers the taste from the incident at the liquor store. He finds it unpleasant, but decides it doesn't matter when the brown liquid settles in his belly in a soothing way, and he feels the solid press of Dean’s thigh against his own afterwards, present even while Noelle whispers and giggles into Dean’s ear.
Flirtatiously, Carrie licks the liquor from her top lip and says, “Phew, if we keep this up, I’m going to get myself into trouble,” and a moment later excuses herself and Noelle to the powder room with a significant glance at Sam. Castiel doesn’t fail to notice that the two of them giggle and look over their shoulders at the brothers the whole way there, and his lips curl into a smile.
“I think you got yourself a done deal, Sammy,” says Dean, accurately reading Castiel’s expression and the girls’ behaviour. “Want us to take off so that you can get this show on the road?”
“What?” asks Sam, looking stricken. At this, Castiel laughs. It overjoys him to see Sam operating at a level of social fluency that makes Castiel feel like the most normal person in the room. Sam glares at him, but shakes his head. “You aren’t going anywhere, man. No way am I letting you stick me with both of them just so you can watch me squirm.”
“C’mon, it’s nothing,” says Dean, generously. “Go back with them to their hotel and throw on some Massive Attack; the rest will take care of itself.”
“What do you mean?” asks Castiel, confused.
Dean claps Castiel on the shoulder and says, mostly into his ear but at a volume audible to Sam, “My baby brother here might just land himself a threesome before the world ends, Cas. And you and I are here to see history in the making.”
This only addresses about fifty percent of his question, and not the half Castiel intended; of course he understands Dean is attempting to subject his brother to some sexual rite of passage in the same as with Castiel and the prostitute, Chastity. It is the reference to this massive attack, however, that he fails to comprehend: is Dean suggesting Sam attempt to force these women, sexually? He opens his mouth to clarify, but Sam cuts him off.
“Okay, first of all,” says Sam, “I don’t want anything to ‘take care of itself’. Secondly, I’m pretty sure that whole Massive Attack thing is a lie.”
Castiel is still struggling to keep up, but is relieved Sam seems not to share Dean’s enthusiasm for suggested rape. “I still don’t know what that means.”
“What?” asks Dean, and his hand comes to settle on Castiel’s shoulder with a squeeze. Through the fabric of his white shirt, Castiel can feel that his palm is warm and comforting and slightly damp, but he shrugs it away.
“You keep suggesting Sam should attack these girls, Dean. If he wishes to have sex with them, why can’t he just... ask?” Castiel’s frown worsens when both of the brothers burst out laughing at him; he is sure the furrows in his brow are never so deep as when he listens to Sam and Dean talk about sex.
“Christ, man,” chuckles Dean, and in a moment of unbridled, drunken affection, gives Castiel the sloppiest of kisses upon the cheek. “You are just too fucking much sometimes.”
Grinning, Sam explains, “No one’s talking about attacking anyone, Cas. Massive Attack is a band, like Zeppelin or the Stones.”
“Just nowhere near as good,” Dean adds. “To their credit, they did sample some Zeppelin, though.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Sam shoots back. To Castiel, he elaborates, “The type of music they make isn’t anything like what we listen to in the car. It’s... slower. Usually. More... tribal?”
Castiel can see he is struggling with the appropriate descriptors. “It is ethnic music,” he suggests, trying to help.
“No, no, not exactly,” Sam says. “Sometimes there are elements of that, but Massive Attack are more about the drums and the bass and the-”
“Sex,” Dean cuts in. “What Sammy is trying to say is Massive Attack songs are like sex.”
When Dean says the word ‘sex’, Castiel’s eyes drop to his mouth in pure reflex, and he is intoxicated enough that the habit fails even to make him blush. Dean notices, and smiles in a way that makes Sam roll his eyes and sigh loudly, even if the smile is for Cas alone. Heat creeps up his spine, and Castiel thinks if this music is anything at all like that, he is going to have to expand his repertoire beyond loud guitars and men who wear black spandex and face paint.
Sam, ever informative, is still attempting to clarify. “There's a rumour, I guess, that this one album of theirs called ‘Mezzanine’ is an aphrodisiac. I don’t think there’s anything to it; it’s just an album. But some people, including Dean, believe it’s a one-way ticket into a woman’s pants. Or a guy's, I guess.”
“Is he right?” Castiel asks-reasonably, he thinks.
The question actually seems to stump Sam; he pauses, and crinkles his brow at Castiel and Dean as he does whenever he's thinking very hard about something. “I... I’ve actually never tried it.”
Dean gives him a very brotherly slap on the back, and wiggles his eyebrows so cartoonishly even Castiel chuckles; only Dean could work this hard at getting women to sleep with Sam. “Well, now’s your chance to find out one way or another, big guy,” he points out to Sam. “You’ve got Mezzanine on your iPod thing, right?” Sam just shrugs. “Okay, then. They’re coming back over.”
“I’m still not letting you leave,” Sam tells his brother, looking over at the girls nervously enough he could have been facing down a demon horde, rather than an attractive prospective partner or two. “Carrie, maybe. And Noelle’s all over you, anyway.”
He shuts up as the women reach their table, and Dean huffs, “Okay, fine. Pussy.”
Noelle, or Carrie-Castiel is too uninterested and slightly too drunk to care-raises an eyebrow in response. Dean smiles at her and says, “Not you, sweetie.” More drinks are ordered.
It isn’t that Castiel feels he is being excluded or asked to leave, but he decides that if Sam and Dean are busy entertaining these girls, trying to secure some late-night activity so lucrative that special music is required, this is a good opportunity to depart and find some other form of entertainment for himself. Unbidden, he has a perfectly clear mental picture of the inside of Sam and Dean’s motel room, where a small, metallic-blue device sits on the nightstand beside Sam’s bed, plugged into a portable set of speakers.
Curiosity piqued, indeed.
Prior to losing so much of his Grace, an iPod would have been of little consequence to Castiel, either in theory or in practice. Assuming he would even care for something as trivial as the-rumoured-aphrodisiac properties of a human musical group, scarcely more than a snap of his fingers would be required to operate the device. Dean calls this cheating, but that Castiel is reduced to pressing buttons at random and squinting at such a tiny screen is as pathetic a display of human inadequacy as he has ever seen. The thought makes him flush angrily and his left hand clench into the duvet on Sam’s bed, while the right continues to fiddle with the controls. Technology made simple, his ass. Castiel could operate the Antikythera mechanism with more accuracy.
He has ascertained that the white wheel on the front is not simply a series of buttons that can be pressed, but a sort of touchpad Castiel can navigate by dragging his fingers in a circle in either direction. This he discovers by accident, of course, but it adds a level of understanding and mastery of the thing that he has so far lacked. The little blue bar on the screen moves up and down in sync with his fingers, highlighting what he supposes are menu items. Castiel scrolls carefully through a list of unfamiliar bands and curses his fingers that are too clumsy and alcohol-stupid to be very precise. On a whole other level of complicatedness, if his fingers move too quickly, the letters will skip ahead by entire sections, letters flashing across the screen in rapid succession, going from A to G to X. All Castiel desperately, desperately wants is M. And perhaps more tequila.
“Come on, you infernal piece of-”
He has to backtrack through much of the alphabet in order to reach what he isn’t even sure is worth it by now, a single entry showing Massive Attack sandwiched between two bands called Maroon Five and Matchbox 20. Castiel does not know if they produce the same quality of music as Massive Attack, or Metallica or Led Zeppelin. He jabs at the centre button with more viciousness than is necessary, but gives a satisfied huff when he is taken to a sub-menu listing the album Sam and Dean referenced: Mezzanine. He fails to see what could be sexy about a balcony, but his lips quirk into a genuine smile when he sees the first song is aptly named “Angel”. Castiel settles the iPod into the speaker attachment the way he has seen Sam do when Dean isn’t in the room, and presses the play button.
At first, nothing happens, and Castiel settles himself back against the headboard with such a colossal sense of disappointment the apocalypse seems minor in comparison. He is about to aim a peevish kick at the iPod when his ears pick up the quiet rumbling that starts from the speakers, a line of bass so dark and in such a low register he wonders how anyone lacking in supernatural ability could hear it. As he cocks his head to listen, he realizes it is in fact two notes being played in a pulsing rhythm, gradually becoming louder and more defined. It grows and grows. A slow drumbeat joins in, and as the whole thing gains in intensity, flooding the room and vibrating the window, Castiel notices it is difficult to distinguish between the thudding bass and his own heart, as though the two share the same beat. By the time strings of muted guitar noise drift into the song, Castiel is completely rapt.
He breathes in time with the beat and concentrates on the silky male voice that curls into the music, the way each syllable is dragged out in a kind of stuttering moan that makes Castiel’s breath catch, though he doesn’t know why. It’s unlike any voice he’s ever heard, not particularly bright or clear or melodious, not the kind of voice angels would consider beautiful, but. The way it creeps through the track is like smoke, winding, enveloping, almost gypsy-like in its quality; a spell. Additional layers of sound are introduced, ambient and suggestive, and the way the song builds makes it almost impossible to focus on any one thing. The effort of hearing each intricate element is almost hypnotic, constantly changing, swelling, reaching a crescendo that Castiel wonders if he can see the end of. Guitars mount, pushing the heartbeat rhythm into something more urgent. The voice threads through it all, unobtrusively, a constant purr of you are my angel, come from way above.
When Castiel breaks free long enough to consider what Dean said about the music, he discovers with a start that his body has been one step ahead of him the entire time, already flushed and warm. His trousers are tented in the front with the insistent rush of arousal, cock half-hard and decidedly interested in the correlation between the music and the purse of Dean’s lips as he said, “It’s like sex.” Castiel realizes why it felt as though the rhythm of the song seemed to suffuse his entire body; it was his heartbeat after all, the pounding of blood. Although he thinks he sighs in comprehension, the sound comes out as a low groan, lost in the pulse of the chorus.
Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Castiel tips his head back against the wooden headboard before he reaches for his belt, unthreading the tongue with one hand and pulling his shirttails free of his pants with the other. Even the brush of fabric against his skin is intensified with his attention half-trained on the music, and a foggy-very small-part of Castiel’s brain feels guilty Sam and Dean won’t have the iPod around to enhance their experience with the girls, because Castiel has it for himself. The faintest tremor runs through his hands as he undoes the trouser button and lowers the fly, levering his heels against the mattress so he can slide the plain black slacks and underwear down his legs. He does so languidly, hissing as his cock pops free; the current atmosphere doesn’t seem to call for impatience. Even as he pushes the hem of his shirt up his belly, fingers trailing, the pace feels dictated by the song, steady and purposeful, but unhurried.
As usual, the image of Dean forms in Castiel’s mind when he reaches beneath the shirt to skirt over his nipples, the other hand wrapping a sure, familiar grip around his cock. Castiel exhales heavily, feeling the skin burn hot against his palm, and can very nearly feel Dean’s full lips against his ear, his neck, when he makes the first delicious, deliberate upstroke. Although this is not something Castiel has been doing for long, he enjoys masturbation in spite of how utterly human it is.
Regardless, the first stroke is very definitely his favourite, that lovely shiver of pleasure that washes through him like the initial slow whisper of this song that pulled him out of the motel room and into something dark and rich and consuming. His free hand slides over the bones of his hip and down into the space between his legs, nails scraping through the coarse hair, fingers moving to gently roll and fondle and press against the soft weight of his balls. Still going slow, he swipes the pad of his thumb across the head of his dick in order to spread the accumulating fluid that leaks from the slit in clear, wet beads. Slick, tight, the slide back down is so achingly good that Castiel has no hope of swallowing the moan that is pulled from his throat.
It could be that the genius of the song, by now so powerful and unrelenting it fills the whole room, is it makes the listener a part of it; Castiel’s every movement, every breath, every sound, seems to swirl into the music, playing him. While he should be the one responsible for setting the rhythm of his hand upon his own flesh, he isn’t: he moves according to the beat, only half-conscious of what he’s doing except for how blinding and excruciating it feels. He doesn’t think he could go faster if he wanted to, and the concentration teases him closer to orgasm and then draws him away, a steady ebb like a note struck once and fading into the air before it is struck again.
In a way, it makes it easier for him to close his eyes and imagine Dean’s hands doing this to him, setting this exacting slow pace so unerringly as to drive Castiel mad. The fantasy is so close to the surface, Castiel barely has to think of Dean’s name before it overtakes him. He can picture Dean’s rough fingers pale against the red, swollen skin of his cock, pulling and stroking up and down in a perfect tempo, murmuring loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou into his ear as the restrained pump of Castiel’s hips keeps the time. Dean’s name slides past Castiel’s lips in a long, low rumble that is almost indistinguishable from the final pulse of bass near the end of the song.
The process is so slow and drawn-out Castiel doesn’t notice that the song changes, and changes again, and he is all the way into the first few bars of “Inertia Creeps” when the motel room door rattles softly, then opens. Sweat-drenched, shaking, breathing in great gulps like there isn’t enough air in the room, he is too far gone to hear anything except his name, which Dean says first in gentle surprise and then once more, sharp enough that Castiel’s eyes fly open and he gasps.
“Dean,” he mumbles, but no louder than that because his voice is already shredded and hoarse from moaning. It occurs to him he should be rushing to cover himself in some human display of shame, but his hand cannot even stop its movement, fingers trailing gently up his length because anything more would end this too soon.
It should mean something that Dean’s face reddens, but he doesn’t look away from Castiel’s eyes except to focus precisely on the spot where Castiel is touching himself, stroking, stroking like he’s the instrument waiting for Dean to come over and put his hands on him. Shutting the door gently behind him-Sam is nowhere in sight, thank God-Dean pads closer to where Castiel is stretched out on the bed, footfalls light as though not to disturb anything. Castiel sees the moment Dean’s ears recognize the song; his mouth opens and the green eyes close in realization, opening again with so much heat and intensity Castiel could whimper, or very probably does.
“Cas, what’re you-That was just supposed to be a joke, the aphrodisiac thing.” Dean shakes his head like he can never believe the unusual things Castiel does, but the slackness of his mouth suggests he hasn’t yet brought himself to mind; he’s starting to wonder if there isn’t some truth to a silly rumour about what a song can do.
“Dean,” Castiel chokes out again, possessing just enough presence of mind still to be annoyed the man is trying to lecture him while Castiel comes apart at the edges, seams fraying a little more with each beat. “Either you’re staying, or you’re leaving.” His breath hitches. “This isn’t a spectator sport.” It isn't that he is embarrassed-Dean has come to him before, seeking Castiel out when the night is at its darkest-but Castiel would really rather be left to his own devices if Dean only plans to stand in front of the door like a very unsubtle peeping Tom.
Visibly, Dean shakes himself. “Right. No, it’s not,” he says, and just like that goes to lock the door and pull his t-shirt over his head, the muscles of his stomach going taught and gorgeous with the stretch of it.
As if in afterthought, Dean secures the motel desk chair under the doorknob before he crosses the room again, crawling forward onto the bed. He stops just short of Castiel, looking up at him hotly from his hands and knees, breath sighing along Castiel's jaw. In the horrible, dim lighting of the room, Dean’s skin looks radiant and brushed with warmth, darkened such a deep bronze he might have been replaced by an exotic creature, if there can be such a thing beyond a man whom God ordered out of Hell to stop the apocalypse.
But, Castiel thinks, that could simply be the song talking. Guitars twist together with foreign-sounding stringed instruments in a dizzying loop, set against a steady, pounding beat he is beginning to recognize as the band's trademark. This song reminds him of the music of the Middle East, sensual and lush, utterly unhurried. For humans, he suspects, it probably conjures images of exotic lands, oversexualied ideas of the Far East or India as portrayed in the pages of the Kama Sutra. Certainly this music could not be anything but sexual, but the associations are completely different from the previous tracks; Sam's suggestion that it is like tribal music is not incorrect. It is more percussive than the first song, still pulsing with rich basslines and ambient sounds, but driven by thudding drums and a low male voice that half-sings, half-speaks the lyrics. The tight, even cadence of the words and recitative style makes Castiel think it could be a poem set to music, but the two are so indistinguishable from one another he could not imagine hearing either of them played separately.
Transported, he lifts a hand to Dean’s neck when the other man begins to press kisses to his throat and the delicate patch of skin behind his ear, as though it is a game Dean desperately wants to join. Maybe it is.
"What about your friends from the bar?" Castiel asks, and immediately berates himself for asking what could be the most irrelevant and inopportune question in the history of the universe. Perhaps even more than he thinks about diverting the end of the world or finding his Father, Castiel thinks about being in Dean Winchester's bed, kissing his mouth and feeling the press of those broad, calloused hands on his body; questioning why Dean is not elsewhere is just poor strategy, plain and simple. It isn't jealously-he genuinely doesn't understand how Dean's mind works sometimes, the factors that go into his decision-making process. And what Castiel does not comprehend, he must investigate, no matter how inconvenient his timing. It is one of his more bizarre compulsions that probably bears no relation to his encroaching humanity. "I thought you went with Sam to their hotel."
"Nah," says Dean, against the curve of his jaw. "I like you way better. Here I came back thinking I'd have to get you in the mood, but I never expected to find you like this. If I'd known, I would have introduced you to Massive Attack ages ago."
At the feel of Dean's tongue and teeth gently working his earlobe into tender redness, Castiel hears himself make a sound more animal than human, something that could be a laugh or a grunt or a moan. The idea that Dean came back on his account makes Castiel's chest feel tight in ways unconnected to the music. It only improves when Dean leans in and glides a finger down the length of Castiel's cock, tracing the purplish vein along the underside. Helpless, Castiel jerks his hips and growls as tiny stars sparkle behind his eyelids.
"The music is-" Castiel has to stop and swallow, his throat parched. "How does anyone listen to this in public? It's indescribable. I didn't realize what I was getting myself into."
"Mmm, yeah," whispers Dean, shimmying closer against his side. "Lucky me." His free hand cups himself through his jeans, making long, easy strokes to which Castiel's dick twitches in sympathy. He glances over at Dean’s face, which looks as drugged and wrecked as Castiel feels. Dean tells him, "I love you this way, Cas. You always sing when you fuck, but this is a whole 'nother level of awesome," and Castiel can only respond by rubbing his cheek against Dean’s lips like a domestic animal.
A stubborn hiss escapes Castiel the moment Dean withdraws and sits back on his heels, staring at him down his nose. "Is there a problem?" he asks.
"Nope," Dean answers, then adds, with a gesture towards Castiel that could mean anything, "Kinda. Let me undress you."
He begins to do so without waiting for a response from Castiel, who admittedly is wearing every item of clothing he owns except for his trench and suit jacket. The dull black shoes are first to go, followed by his socks, trousers, and boxers, whereupon he must assist Dean by lifting his legs enough for the pants to be pulled free from his body. A small part of Castiel is disappointed "Inertia Creeps" is ending, with nothing more exciting going on than Dean reaching over to unbutton his shirt and loosen his tie. Not that he minds Dean unclothing him in the slightest, but he was rather enjoying the song. Anything that isn’t Dean, but can arouse him to such an extent, is worth investigating, he thinks.
Apparently Dean catches the look on his face, because he parrots Castiel's line back at him while divesting him of his shirt. "Now is there a problem?"
"The song is ending," Castiel says simply.
"Then let me introduce you to the magic of the rewind button," Dean quips with a smirk that warms Castiel down to his toes, charmed by his boyish cockiness. Bringing their faces teasingly close, Dean ghosts a kiss over Castiel's lips before breaking away and pressing a button on the iPod. The music stops and the unusual chiming noises from the beginning of the song begin again. Dean asks, "Better?"
"Almost," Castiel sighs, and releases his grip on himself in order to touch Dean instead.
With Dean's help, shedding his jeans and boots and socks is an easy enough process, and before the song has even reached the first verse they are pressed together on the bed, naked and side-by-side, lips sliding against one another so languidly Castiel can taste every part of Dean's mouth. Never before have they kissed for so long or with such deliberate slowness but, as before, Castiel can't seem to move in any other way. The intensity of the kiss builds with the song, and he can tell from Dean's moans colliding with his that their enjoyment is equal. And yet, neither of them tries to hurry the pace or break time with the music.
There are few things Castiel loves so much as touching Dean, feeling each inch of his body the way he thinks no one else can, because Castiel knows all of it down to the last molecule. He has applied himself quite enthusiastically to stroking Dean from shoulder to flank, pressing in ever so slightly with his fingernails, while his other hand tests the stiffness of Dean's cock against his own. Dean alternates between clutching and pulling at Castiel’s hair in exactly the way he likes and gripping the back of the leg that lies across Dean’s hip. The occasional bump of their cocks together is wonderful, but when Dean tries to wrap his fist around Castiel’s erection, Cas retreats and jerks away with a gasp, worried the whole experience will end the moment Dean touches him.
“What the hell?” demands Dean, pulling back so Castiel can see how his pupils are blown, green irises almost consumed by the black. He looks so beautiful it takes a moment for Castiel to find his voice, lost somewhere around his toes.
“Too much, it’s too much,” he gasps out in a rush. “I’ve been trying to hold off since before you got here.”
“Jesus,” Dean breathes, forehead creased in surprise. His fingers twitch with impatience, digging into the flesh of Castiel’s thigh. “Is the music really affecting you that badly?” When Castiel scowls, Dean goes about emphasizing his point in entirely the wrong way, by grabbing a handful of Castiel’s ass and grinding their hips together so hard Castiel makes something dreadfully like a squeal.
Much of Castiel's angel strength faded along with his Grace, but only a hint is required when he strikes out in retaliation. Castiel flips Dean onto his back before the man can even exhale, let alone react. Cowed, Dean smirks up at him to show his approval, but groans low in his throat when Castiel says, “Yes,” and leans forward to bite into the skin of his neck. “The music is really affecting me that badly, you ass.”
“Touché,” says Dean.
He slides his hands down the length of Castiel’s sides with the barest hint of nails, making him squirm, and when he stops Castiel doesn’t know in which direction to arch to elicit more of the touch. It is, thus far, the quickest way Castiel has ever known himself to lose an argument, when Dean touches him that way. Although he rarely underestimates the man's intelligence or cunning, Castiel occasionally forgets Dean’s hunter training-and failing that, his skill at a hand of poker-has taught him how to catalogue all these little tells, tucking them away for when they might come in handy. Castiel is still learning it isn’t such a terrible thing to be at Dean’s mercy now and again.
“So what do you suggest?” asks Dean.
“Anything,” sighs Castiel, pushing himself back against Dean’s cock just so, earning himself a moan that burns its way past his senses with all the gentleness of a flash flood.
As Dean would tell it, Castiel’s gravelly voice is perfect for sex, but he has a hard time imagining he sounds anything near as sinful as Dean once he gets going, who manages to sound like he’s been shouting Castiel’s name for hours before they’ve shared a single kiss. Though he has never tried it, Castiel suspects Dean could bring him off by growling his name over and over again; it affects him that much. This is not something he'll ever admit, however, at risk of future ridicule. Dean would handle the information about as maturely as expected.
Castiel says instead, “Just don’t touch me there, not yet. But you might continue touching me elsewhere.”
Dean’s face goes sly in response. In repayment for the earlier move, Dean hooks his legs around Castiel’s calves and grips his biceps hard in his hands, moving quick enough to throw Castiel under him again. Dean’s breathing is slightly increased from the effort, but he looks pleased and very turned-on, eyes bright and devastating like all things Dean does. “Get back up there,” he orders.
Recognizing the face Dean gets when he has an idea, Castiel scoots backwards until he feels the headboard behind him, sitting up in the exact same position he was in when Dean found him. Unbelievably, the music is still playing the same pounding rhythm, and Castiel would have déjà-vu were it not for his lack of clothing.
He watches Dean push off of the bed and saunter over to where his duffle bag lies open on the floor, digging through its contents until he finds the half-full bottle of lubricant they've managed to blow through in the past couple of months. When Dean returns to the bed, he settles himself in the vee of Castiel’s legs, hooking them over his shoulders at the knee. His face is so close to the place Castiel desperately wants it that he can feel Dean’s wet breath across his groin, almost as though he has already put his mouth on him. Swallowing, Castiel tries to keep himself quiet in order to hide how enthusiastic he is about this proposition, but his cock gives a traitorously hard jerk against his stomach, nearly batting Dean across the lips.
“Oh yeah,” says Dean, grinning wolfishly at the movement. “I think Cas is a fan.”
“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, as nonchalantly as possible.
“Trying to see how close to batshit insane we can drive you,” Dean informs him, so casual that he could be ordering coffee. “Kindly place your hands on the bedspread on either side of you,” he instructs. Castiel obeys. “Keep them there.”
Squeezing a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, Dean begins pressing hot, sucking kisses along the length of Castiel’s left thigh, moving ever closer to where his cock arches desperately against his navel, twitching periodically. Without touching it, Dean lowers his mouth to the crease of Castiel’s hip, and asks, “May I?”
Thinking he knows what's coming, Castiel answers, “I’ll kill you if you don’t,” his voice a growl. To his horror, it turns into a high-pitched whine as Dean shoves a lubed finger into his ass with no warning whatsoever, pushing inside until Castiel can feel the base of his hand against his skin.
Dulled somewhat by his remaining Grace so as not to be completely uncomfortable, the intrusion is still sharp and surprising, and Castiel feels it everywhere, deep in his bones and to the end of every strand of hair. Counting upon this fact, Dean begins working his finger in a rhythm that would be punishing to a human not suitably prepared, but that floors Castiel in the rush of hot pleasure. He gasps incoherently and strains against the finger, toes curling, and finds his hand slapped away quite rudely when he tries to touch his own cock, resolve forgotten.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Dean snaps, stilling his hand. He delivers a rough bite to the inside of Castiel's thigh to emphasize his point, and the angel winces. “We’re not touching you there, remember?”
Castiel glares, and flings his head back against the headboard with a crack when Dean slides the finger in again, much more slowly this time. The stretch of his body around the digit is excruciatingly good, so much so that Castiel can scarcely keep himself from trying to rock his hips against the untroubled, dirty rhythm of Dean's hand.
“Are you still married to doing this to the music?” Dean asks.
Experimentally, he finds the same tempo as the song, driving in and out against the singer's chant of she comes moving up slowly, she comes. Perhaps the ragged moans and cries it elicits from Castiel is encouragement enough, because no amount of grunting or cursing can force Dean to speed up.
He does, however, lick a long, slow line across Castiel’s hip, mouthing at the sharp ridge of bone as he adds a second finger, sliding past his entrance with more gentleness than before. Castiel stops short of howling, but allows himself a gentle crooning noise that he hopes is lost in the cacophony of the music. The sensation of Dean’s fingers inside of him, working and working, is so intense and electric that Castiel is momentarily concerned that he can’t handle it all. He has died before; he remembers this feeling, every synapse firing at once, white-hot, like a tower struck by lightning.
Just when he begins to ground himself, the muscles in his legs unclenching and starting to relax, body adjusting to the onslaught of relentless fire, Dean presses in with a third digit, unasked, slipping the pads of his fingers across Castiel’s prostate with wicked accuracy. At this, Castiel relinquishes all hope of controlling the sounds that pull from his throat, unable to concentrate on anything except Dean fucking him open and the clash of drums and bass and noise. The music is slick, or Dean’s hand is, and everything else is so slow and painfully bright that Castiel struggles to remember his own name and if he has a purpose beyond letting Dean take him apart bit by bit. He remembers Dean’s name, though, and feels himself shouting it over and over again, testing out different pitches, different decibels, different degrees of undone.
Even amidst the claustrophobia of it all, he hears the songs change, soul-reggage-hip hop-rock all blending together and alternately slowing or speeding up the pace of Dean’s fingers. He mutters endearments and obscenities to Castiel through it all, encouraging him to fall apart each time he is brought almost to the brink of orgasm, even without a hand on his cock, and then eased back again. His erection has gone almost purple by now, and though it’s been little more than a half hour since this began, to Castiel it could be an age, his own forty years in hell.
“Don’t be cruel,” Castiel sobs out, hips rutting against empty air as he pulls in desperate gasps through his mouth and twists the bedcover in his fists. His eyes are-no. Not crying. “Please, Dean... Dean, don’t be-”
Ironically, Castiel has to acknowledge that Dean looks no less bothered, looking up at him with hooded eyes and lips bitten bloody and red. “Are you asking me something?” he asks, and his voice sounds utterly, utterly wrecked.
“I’m begging, you son of a bitch.” The whine erupts from him at another beautiful jab of fingers against his prostate, pitchy and desperate. “I’ll do anything you want, just-”
“No need to get melodramatic,” Dean informs him, somehow managing to smirk through the mask of desire on his face.
As Castiel writhes on the bed, back arched and heels dug uselessly into Dean’s shoulders, he can vaguely appreciate the extent to which Dean enjoys the show, drinking in the picture Castiel makes as much as he would surely appreciate the feel of Castiel’s lips wrapped around him, or his hands roughly stroking Dean to orgasm. As a concept, sex is not foreign to Castiel; what confounded him initially-and continues to confound, if he’s honest-are the hundreds of sensations for him to keep up with, amongst them the deep, creeping pleasure of watching one’s lover at work. He is familiar with the idea that human males are highly visual creatures, and he supposes that in this respect at least, he and Dean are very similar. If he could see what Dean’s fingers are doing, as Dean can, there would be no hope of him retaining any sanity at all.
“Tell me what you want,” Dean purrs into the sensitive underside of his thigh, growling so deep in his throat that Castiel can actually feel the vibrations against his skin. “Use that beautiful mouth of yours and tell me, Cas. Say it, and I’ll do it.” He’s out of breath.
Cursewords are one aspect of human language with which Castiel is unfamiliar, since as an angel he rarely angered so such an extent that expletives were needed; but now that he is so emotional and on edge, he could use them all, exhausting the limits of every dialect of every language. “You know what the fuck I want, Dean. Stop playing with me and let me finish, I don’t care how you do it. Use your mouth, your hands, I don’t give a shit. Just please, please-ah, fuck.”
Without waiting for further instruction, Dean tilts his head just so, mouth perfectly angled to make a long, slow, controlled lick up the underside of Castiel’s cock, catching on skin that is alternatively slick and tacky where the pre-come has dried. Pausing at the top to tongue at the frenulum and slit, fingers still tormenting his body, Dean lets Castiel feel the heat and sweep of his breath for a moment before sliding his lips completely over the head of his penis and sucking with hard, laser-like determination.
Castiel says, “Oh,” and doesn’t manage anything further before he slams headfirst into orgasm. It winds him brutally, but he still somehow has voice enough to shout Dean's name, hands mobilizing in a flurry and grabbing at as much of the man's hair as will fit into them. Dean grunts in approval or annoyance, Castiel isn't sure which, but swallows dutifully.
Though he has stopped ejaculating, Castiel is still shaking with aftershock when Dean shifts his body and grabs the back of Castiel's knees, hauling his entire body down the bed in order to press their pelvises together. Blissful, Castiel goes from stiff with pleasure to pliant in the space of a blink. He is not as large as Dean, but Castiel's vessel-or him, as the case seems to be-is not that of a small man, and certainly he is the stronger of the two. Despite this, however, Castiel thrills at how easily Dean manhandles him into position, locking eyes for a second before he guides his cock into Castiel's lubricated and finger-loosened hole, bottoming out with a groan so harsh and broken that Castiel responds in kind without even realizing it.
“Oh fuck, Cas,” Dean breathes, pressing Castiel's knees back against his shoulders as though he is little more than a figure of clay, waiting to be shaped or destroyed. “C’mon, c’mon, baby, let me feel you, let me hear you...”
Castiel is quite helpless but to obey, moaning himself hoarse and finding his favourite spot on Dean’s neck to bite, trying to grind his hips upwards despite the awkward position. Hissing, Dean delivers a sharp, vengeful thrust, and wraps a hand in Castiel’s sweat-damp hair so that he can jerk their lips together, teeth clashing. As if to prove Dean’s earlier point regarding his refractory period, Castiel shivers with arousal at the sound of Dean’s voice and the burn of his kiss, scarcely aware of anything else around him. Of course, it helps to have the feeling of Dean seated fully inside of him, shoving in and out in an increasingly erratic rhythm that suggests he will not be long to follow Castiel into release-provided, that is, Castiel does not beat him there on his second time around. The fleshy bump of Dean’s cock against his prostrate makes him shiver and moan and clutch at every part of Dean’s body he can reach. He can feel his erection growing again between them, oversensitized but still incredibly receptive to the friction generated by their bodies rubbing against one another.
More vocal now than even the music drifting from the speakers, Dean gleams with perspiration and effort, skin deeply flushed on his face and chest. The salt of their sweat mingles with the taste of blood and semen and saliva as their mouths gasp and pant and slide together, a combination that Castiel can feel himself growing more intoxicated by. The fist that Dean works between their bellies to wrap around Castiel’s dick is what nudges him towards the edge again, and each rough, twisting stroke of his hand jerks him forward little by little.
Trembling with tension and need, Castiel clenches his ass hard around Dean’s cock, and in that instant feels the man go rigid, pushing twice more more back into his body before he shouts Castiel’s name, surprised-sounding, and comes hard. Two things happen to shock Castiel’s system into its second orgasm of the night: Dean’s teeth clamp down instinctively on his lower lip, breaking through the skin, and his hand tightens punishingly around Castiel’s erection. Already empty, Castiel aches with the force of it, so taut with pleasure and pain that it seems to come from his blood.
Nails anchored into Dean for a brief moment, Castiel blacks out as though punched, and wakes up to discover Dean looking at him worriedly, the room silent. Though he couldn’t have been out long, apparently Dean had enough time to arrange them into a more comfortable position. Every part of Castiel’s body seems to hurt and tingle pleasantly at the same time.
Seeing his blink, Dean huffs out a sigh of relief, and drops his forehead against Castiel’s. “Christ,” he says. “Thank god you’re awake.” Laughing at the choice of words, Castiel tightens his hand against where it rests on Dean’s hip and is rewarded by a sheepish smile. “What the hell happened just now?” Dean asks.
“I think you succeeded in your plan to drive me insane,” he deadpans, and winces at the stretched-out feeling of his muscles. Already the ache in his ass is fading, but not quickly enough for him to forget how it got there. If anything, Castiel wishes that his tendency to heal so quickly didn't apply to this one area of his life. He wouldn't object to carrying the feel of Dean around with him everywhere, an invisible souvenir.
“That makes two of us,” chuckles Dean, wiping at the blood on Castiel’s lip with a look of apology for the bite. “I didn’t think I’d be saying this so close to the goddamned apocalypse, but that was seriously the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever done.” Castiel thinks he sounds both reverent and proud, and can’t decide which sentiment he likes more.
“It was certainly more than adequate,” he answers, earning himself a swat of annoyance from Dean. With a contemplative glance towards the night stand where Sam’s iPod is still plugged into the speakers, he says, “Do you suppose we definitively proved the rumour about this recording as truth?”
Affectionately, Dean pulls him in for a kiss, tonguing at his torn bottom lip until Castiel squirms and sighs against him. “We certainly made a strong fucking case,” Dean responds, after he pulls away.
Although Castiel is sure that Dean could not possibly recover fast enough to initiate a second round without first having to sleep, the look on his face makes him suspicious. Castiel raises an eyebrow and asks, “What? Not so soon again, surely...?”
“No, no,” Dean laughs, banishing the thought with a yawn and a shake of his head. One of his hands settles comfortingly on the swell of Castiel’s ass, and gives a squeeze so lazy that he would suspect Dean of having fallen asleep if it weren't for his eyes remaining open. It is necessary for Castiel to bite his lip to hold back the smile at Dean gone so sleepy and possessive. “I was just thinking, if that’s what one freaking album can do, we really owe it to ourselves to listen to the others.”
“That could take a while,” Castiel points out, mouth twitching.
Dean nods, and yawns again, and at this Castiel does smile. Infuriating or no, he thinks he might be rather a long time before Sam sees his iPod again.
Fin
Sequel: We're Gonna Groove