Fic: And Dean So Loved The World
Title: And Dean So Loved The World
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,019
Summary/Notes: Blatant, unapologetic PWP, inset for 5x03. SPN has recently eaten me. I blame - you guessed it - starcrossedgirl. Tonight - by which I mean, actually, last night (*facepalm*) - we watched SPN until 3 am, ending with 5x03 and a lot of bouncing and me saying there must surely be endless amounts of fic for this episode. And her saying actually there wasn't that much. And me being incredulous. And then us saying virtuously that we should go to sleep, since it was 3 am. And then - uh - me writing this. Yeah. (It's for you, bb, of course. :))
Warnings: SEE ABOVE. I wrote this from 3 - 5 in the morning and I haven't read it back, so it probably sucks. Pun unintentional but hilarious to me in my current state, so I shall leave it. AHAHA.
In retrospect, Dean blames his own damned kind-heartedness, and Jimmy Novak's hips.
Sure, as an explanation, it holds together about as well as a New England drystone wall against a runaway Chevy Impala ( - a metaphor pulled entirely out of Dean's ass, and owing nothing at all to any personal experiences, no sir). But, Dean figures, what with the goddamn Apocalypse-in-progress and all, a man's got to make do with what he can get, and even a little mortar is more than can be expected. Dean made a promise, after all, and if you're willing to overlook the credit card fraud, pool hustling and casual assault in favour of the big picture, he's a generally decent guy. Hey, a hero, even, you might say (if Dean were drunk enough, or sufficiently desperate for sex or salvation). As far as Dean can see, the bricks in this wall sit together on a pretty firm foundation - heroes don't let friends face the Apocalypse without ever figuring out what their dicks are for. Especially when said friends apparently don't even piss, and therefore presumably think the damn things are for decoration only. And hell, if the humble penis was God's idea of a decorative feature, Dean doesn't think much of His eye for aesthetics.
Anyway.
Dean's getting ahead of himself. Funny, really, in a graveyard sort of way, that this thought doesn't strike him till he's kneeling at Cas's feet in the dark damp dirt, tongue between his teeth in concentration. Luckily, Dean's a fan of the macabre. Castiel's face is shadowed, his eyes pale glints catching the light pollution when he turns his head, but Dean can see all the same the way his brows are drawn together in puzzlement; knows the look on his face just as well as if it were midsummer noon. The zipper of Cas's pants is stiff-sticky as Dean eases it down, and he wonders if Cas has even touched it in all the months he's worn Jimmy's clothes. Probably, he thinks (laugh catching in the back of his throat as he palms the fabric open, spreads the flaps) Cas didn't know this capability existed. He'd never thought to straighten his damn tie, for Chrissakes; Dean's willing to bet that these clothes might just as well be skin to him. Skin, substance, the surface of himself, and Dean's peeling it back, parting it so's he can slip inside.
The evening's too mild to make him shiver, but he blames it anyway.
Dean can't help thinking this would all be less awkward if there weren't goddamn undershorts in the way, really it would. But Cas was dressed by a good Christian boy, and that means another layer of fabric, palely visible in the dark; another chance for Dean to change his mind.
"Cas," he grates, rough, wanting reassurance. "You want this, right? You want to know what it's like before we're all strawberry jam?"
Again, Dean feels Castiel's expression changing, the pull of his brows towards each other, confused. "I was unaware that jam would be a feature."
"Only in Amsterdam," Dean mutters, under his breath. "Look, just - " His fingers trace nervously back over the flap of Cas's open trousers, smoothing the fabric over the jut of a hipbone. "I can - I mean, we don't have to, man. If you don't want."
The pause that follows is deeper than the Pit, and as tortuous. The breeze crawls clammy and tight down the nape of Dean's neck. Then, Cas's voice, gravel ground and soft: "I am - curious."
Curiosity is not something a good angel is permitted. Words beat in Dean's mind, disconnected and soft: iniquity, first; licentiousness. The spike in his groin is adrenaline, right? The thrill of the chase, the pride of the hunter, or the missionary.
"Curious," Dean breathes; "Right." And with that, he's moving.
Cas is only half-hard, at first, against the palm of Dean's hand, and Dean takes a moment to thank the powers that be for small graces. Easier, like this, to work his pants and underwear down over his hips without too much interference. Easier, even, to just do his goddamn job if he can start off small.
Problem is, Cas doesn't seem to come in small. As it were. Dean swallows hard, spit pooling in the back of his mouth for reasons totally unrelated to the way Cas is growing under nothing but Dean's scrutiny and the breeze. Motherfucker's packing, and Dean isn't drunk enough for this.
It's a minute or two of actual time - and that's a lot longer than it sounds - before he recognises that he's still idly stroking Cas's hip, smooth line of bone projecting clear through the fine pale skin. There's a simplicity to it that draws him, soothes and compels him, and because he isn't ready yet to put another man's cock in his mouth (even if it is the heroic thing to do, here), touching his parted lips to the jut of bone seems an obvious first step. Cas trembles a little under the touch, faint shivering of the skin of his abdomen, and the answering liquid spread of heat in Dean's belly jerks his mouth a little wider on a breath, rough and surprised. "Okay?" he whispers, lips brushing damply, thumbs still tracing circles over skin.
"Intriguing," says Castiel, and the strained tone to his voice sets Dean's pulse rushing hotly in his neck, in his wrists, in his thighs. "Go on." His hand settles gently on the back of Dean's skull.
The experimental swipe of his tongue happens entirely without his input. The salt-sweat taste of Cas's skin fills his senses before he's even registered why; and then Cas's breath is catching, low startled whimper breaking free, and suddenly retreating is no longer an option. Dean's fingers curl around Cas's hips, anchoring, unthinking, and he curls his tongue again, again, chasing those stuttered gasps from above.
"Oh," says Castiel, fingers seeking purchase in Dean's hair. "Dean, is this - " (buck of his hips, abrupt and involuntary, as Dean tongues the cut of his pelvis) "Is this the sexual act?"
"Oho, nowhere near," Dean tells him; which is a lie, because he's very near indeed. The heat of Cas's cock is an inch from his cheekbone, the scent of him thick and musky-sweet and God help him, Dean's tongue doesn't want to stop at skin. It's hooked, now, on the salt taste of Cas, and no matter what Dean says, it wants that pulse of precome slicking the head of Cas's cock; wants to lick it clean and soak up the sex-strong tang of it. Nothing to do with Dean, at this stage. Hey, he's straight. Ain't like he goes in much for cocksucking.
Lucky then, really, that Dean's tongue's in disagreement with the rest of him; it'd be really damn rude to bail on Cas on the eve of destruction. Lucky Dean's tongue seems to know what it's doing, broad flat stroke from the root of Cas's cock to the tip, to the gleaming crown of him.
"Oh," says Cas: like the taste of him, it's so fucking human. "Is this - Dean - are you - "
"I am if you shut up," Dean shoots back, although he doesn't mean it, not at all. He's never done this before - obviously - and Cas is bigger erect than he thinks he can manage, but the sound he makes when Dean curls his fingers around the shaft tells him that it won't really matter. Another second, and Dean's lips are around the head, brief flick of his tongue to the slit drawing a cry from Cas that's worth a few awkward hours in the morning just for the sound of it. He's doing it, now, whether Castiel shuts up or not, and some part of Dean kind of hopes he won't be able to. Easier that way, with guidance; perfectly logical. Easier, Cas breathing rough-ragged as Dean takes him in a couple inches and sucks him. Easier like this: that's why he wants noise, that's all.
Maybe he's great, for a first-timer - and Dean would love to believe that, much as he's not sure it's still cool to be an instinctive cocksucker the way it is to make a girl come under your mouth your very first try. But this is Cas's first time in however many thousands of years, and Dean knows, really, that it's more about the silk heat of his mouth being great all on its own, just the way Kate Hannigan's mouth was awesome when Dean was fourteen, despite the teeth and excessive drooling. Whatever. Cas's fingers have tightened at the base of his skull; both hands, now, cradling him, and his hips jerking upwards in incremental movements that make Dean's pants tighten even while they make his job more crazy difficult than it already is. The raggedness of his breathing gives way to jagged cries somewhere in the middle, and when Dean chances an upward glance he's greeted by the pale underside of Cas's jaw, his head thrown up and back against the wall. Dean curls his tongue, and Cas's hips buck away from their anchor entirely, thrusting into Dean in a way that jars his soft palate painfully. The sound that accompanies the motion, though, is raw enough to cancel out the pain, transmuting it into something else, and the next thing he knows, Dean's got his own pants open, cock pistoning sticky-slick through his fist.
"Dean," Cas's voice breaks, and then there is only wordlessness, an escalating sound that speeds Dean's hand in time with his mouth, the same three inches of bitter slicked cock slipping furiously through the circle of his lips. The sound cuts off abruptly with a sharp, peaked cry, and then Dean's mouth is full of white heat; and it's thick and kinda gross and there's so much of it he can't keep it all inside; and the spike of arousal as it dribbles out is forty seven kinds of amazing. He presses his forehead to the sweat-sticky skin of Cas's abdomen, and comes and comes in heavy spurts through his fingers. Cas is rasping, boneless, collapsing. Dean catches him when he falls, and breathes, and breathes.
Dean is a hero, goddammit; a brave man and a true. He's done right by the world, here, holding up his angel in the dirt and the dark, sweat cooling on their human bodies, semen congealing on the ground. God knows what, on Cas's divine (or whatever) soul. Heroes don't let friends die virgins. Even when everyone said hero knows seems to die so frequently, the 'last chance' thing's gotten to be kind of a stretch. He's pretty sure you don't get another go-round with Armageddon. So Dean sucked cock for Jesus, so what. Fuck you.
He'll think all these things in the morning, when he cares. For now, he's kind of preoccupied with the way Cas's head has dropped to his shoulder, limp and trusting; the wonder in the eyes of this - being - who's seen things Dean can't even wrap his head around. Dean did that, with his lips and his hands and his tongue. Dean did that, and the scrape of Cas's breath makes him fucking swell.
Dean Winchester, he thinks, you son of a gun.
He lets himself push back Cas's hair, just once, before he hauls him to his feet.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,019
Summary/Notes: Blatant, unapologetic PWP, inset for 5x03. SPN has recently eaten me. I blame - you guessed it - starcrossedgirl. Tonight - by which I mean, actually, last night (*facepalm*) - we watched SPN until 3 am, ending with 5x03 and a lot of bouncing and me saying there must surely be endless amounts of fic for this episode. And her saying actually there wasn't that much. And me being incredulous. And then us saying virtuously that we should go to sleep, since it was 3 am. And then - uh - me writing this. Yeah. (It's for you, bb, of course. :))
Warnings: SEE ABOVE. I wrote this from 3 - 5 in the morning and I haven't read it back, so it probably sucks. Pun unintentional but hilarious to me in my current state, so I shall leave it. AHAHA.
In retrospect, Dean blames his own damned kind-heartedness, and Jimmy Novak's hips.
Sure, as an explanation, it holds together about as well as a New England drystone wall against a runaway Chevy Impala ( - a metaphor pulled entirely out of Dean's ass, and owing nothing at all to any personal experiences, no sir). But, Dean figures, what with the goddamn Apocalypse-in-progress and all, a man's got to make do with what he can get, and even a little mortar is more than can be expected. Dean made a promise, after all, and if you're willing to overlook the credit card fraud, pool hustling and casual assault in favour of the big picture, he's a generally decent guy. Hey, a hero, even, you might say (if Dean were drunk enough, or sufficiently desperate for sex or salvation). As far as Dean can see, the bricks in this wall sit together on a pretty firm foundation - heroes don't let friends face the Apocalypse without ever figuring out what their dicks are for. Especially when said friends apparently don't even piss, and therefore presumably think the damn things are for decoration only. And hell, if the humble penis was God's idea of a decorative feature, Dean doesn't think much of His eye for aesthetics.
Anyway.
Dean's getting ahead of himself. Funny, really, in a graveyard sort of way, that this thought doesn't strike him till he's kneeling at Cas's feet in the dark damp dirt, tongue between his teeth in concentration. Luckily, Dean's a fan of the macabre. Castiel's face is shadowed, his eyes pale glints catching the light pollution when he turns his head, but Dean can see all the same the way his brows are drawn together in puzzlement; knows the look on his face just as well as if it were midsummer noon. The zipper of Cas's pants is stiff-sticky as Dean eases it down, and he wonders if Cas has even touched it in all the months he's worn Jimmy's clothes. Probably, he thinks (laugh catching in the back of his throat as he palms the fabric open, spreads the flaps) Cas didn't know this capability existed. He'd never thought to straighten his damn tie, for Chrissakes; Dean's willing to bet that these clothes might just as well be skin to him. Skin, substance, the surface of himself, and Dean's peeling it back, parting it so's he can slip inside.
The evening's too mild to make him shiver, but he blames it anyway.
Dean can't help thinking this would all be less awkward if there weren't goddamn undershorts in the way, really it would. But Cas was dressed by a good Christian boy, and that means another layer of fabric, palely visible in the dark; another chance for Dean to change his mind.
"Cas," he grates, rough, wanting reassurance. "You want this, right? You want to know what it's like before we're all strawberry jam?"
Again, Dean feels Castiel's expression changing, the pull of his brows towards each other, confused. "I was unaware that jam would be a feature."
"Only in Amsterdam," Dean mutters, under his breath. "Look, just - " His fingers trace nervously back over the flap of Cas's open trousers, smoothing the fabric over the jut of a hipbone. "I can - I mean, we don't have to, man. If you don't want."
The pause that follows is deeper than the Pit, and as tortuous. The breeze crawls clammy and tight down the nape of Dean's neck. Then, Cas's voice, gravel ground and soft: "I am - curious."
Curiosity is not something a good angel is permitted. Words beat in Dean's mind, disconnected and soft: iniquity, first; licentiousness. The spike in his groin is adrenaline, right? The thrill of the chase, the pride of the hunter, or the missionary.
"Curious," Dean breathes; "Right." And with that, he's moving.
Cas is only half-hard, at first, against the palm of Dean's hand, and Dean takes a moment to thank the powers that be for small graces. Easier, like this, to work his pants and underwear down over his hips without too much interference. Easier, even, to just do his goddamn job if he can start off small.
Problem is, Cas doesn't seem to come in small. As it were. Dean swallows hard, spit pooling in the back of his mouth for reasons totally unrelated to the way Cas is growing under nothing but Dean's scrutiny and the breeze. Motherfucker's packing, and Dean isn't drunk enough for this.
It's a minute or two of actual time - and that's a lot longer than it sounds - before he recognises that he's still idly stroking Cas's hip, smooth line of bone projecting clear through the fine pale skin. There's a simplicity to it that draws him, soothes and compels him, and because he isn't ready yet to put another man's cock in his mouth (even if it is the heroic thing to do, here), touching his parted lips to the jut of bone seems an obvious first step. Cas trembles a little under the touch, faint shivering of the skin of his abdomen, and the answering liquid spread of heat in Dean's belly jerks his mouth a little wider on a breath, rough and surprised. "Okay?" he whispers, lips brushing damply, thumbs still tracing circles over skin.
"Intriguing," says Castiel, and the strained tone to his voice sets Dean's pulse rushing hotly in his neck, in his wrists, in his thighs. "Go on." His hand settles gently on the back of Dean's skull.
The experimental swipe of his tongue happens entirely without his input. The salt-sweat taste of Cas's skin fills his senses before he's even registered why; and then Cas's breath is catching, low startled whimper breaking free, and suddenly retreating is no longer an option. Dean's fingers curl around Cas's hips, anchoring, unthinking, and he curls his tongue again, again, chasing those stuttered gasps from above.
"Oh," says Castiel, fingers seeking purchase in Dean's hair. "Dean, is this - " (buck of his hips, abrupt and involuntary, as Dean tongues the cut of his pelvis) "Is this the sexual act?"
"Oho, nowhere near," Dean tells him; which is a lie, because he's very near indeed. The heat of Cas's cock is an inch from his cheekbone, the scent of him thick and musky-sweet and God help him, Dean's tongue doesn't want to stop at skin. It's hooked, now, on the salt taste of Cas, and no matter what Dean says, it wants that pulse of precome slicking the head of Cas's cock; wants to lick it clean and soak up the sex-strong tang of it. Nothing to do with Dean, at this stage. Hey, he's straight. Ain't like he goes in much for cocksucking.
Lucky then, really, that Dean's tongue's in disagreement with the rest of him; it'd be really damn rude to bail on Cas on the eve of destruction. Lucky Dean's tongue seems to know what it's doing, broad flat stroke from the root of Cas's cock to the tip, to the gleaming crown of him.
"Oh," says Cas: like the taste of him, it's so fucking human. "Is this - Dean - are you - "
"I am if you shut up," Dean shoots back, although he doesn't mean it, not at all. He's never done this before - obviously - and Cas is bigger erect than he thinks he can manage, but the sound he makes when Dean curls his fingers around the shaft tells him that it won't really matter. Another second, and Dean's lips are around the head, brief flick of his tongue to the slit drawing a cry from Cas that's worth a few awkward hours in the morning just for the sound of it. He's doing it, now, whether Castiel shuts up or not, and some part of Dean kind of hopes he won't be able to. Easier that way, with guidance; perfectly logical. Easier, Cas breathing rough-ragged as Dean takes him in a couple inches and sucks him. Easier like this: that's why he wants noise, that's all.
Maybe he's great, for a first-timer - and Dean would love to believe that, much as he's not sure it's still cool to be an instinctive cocksucker the way it is to make a girl come under your mouth your very first try. But this is Cas's first time in however many thousands of years, and Dean knows, really, that it's more about the silk heat of his mouth being great all on its own, just the way Kate Hannigan's mouth was awesome when Dean was fourteen, despite the teeth and excessive drooling. Whatever. Cas's fingers have tightened at the base of his skull; both hands, now, cradling him, and his hips jerking upwards in incremental movements that make Dean's pants tighten even while they make his job more crazy difficult than it already is. The raggedness of his breathing gives way to jagged cries somewhere in the middle, and when Dean chances an upward glance he's greeted by the pale underside of Cas's jaw, his head thrown up and back against the wall. Dean curls his tongue, and Cas's hips buck away from their anchor entirely, thrusting into Dean in a way that jars his soft palate painfully. The sound that accompanies the motion, though, is raw enough to cancel out the pain, transmuting it into something else, and the next thing he knows, Dean's got his own pants open, cock pistoning sticky-slick through his fist.
"Dean," Cas's voice breaks, and then there is only wordlessness, an escalating sound that speeds Dean's hand in time with his mouth, the same three inches of bitter slicked cock slipping furiously through the circle of his lips. The sound cuts off abruptly with a sharp, peaked cry, and then Dean's mouth is full of white heat; and it's thick and kinda gross and there's so much of it he can't keep it all inside; and the spike of arousal as it dribbles out is forty seven kinds of amazing. He presses his forehead to the sweat-sticky skin of Cas's abdomen, and comes and comes in heavy spurts through his fingers. Cas is rasping, boneless, collapsing. Dean catches him when he falls, and breathes, and breathes.
Dean is a hero, goddammit; a brave man and a true. He's done right by the world, here, holding up his angel in the dirt and the dark, sweat cooling on their human bodies, semen congealing on the ground. God knows what, on Cas's divine (or whatever) soul. Heroes don't let friends die virgins. Even when everyone said hero knows seems to die so frequently, the 'last chance' thing's gotten to be kind of a stretch. He's pretty sure you don't get another go-round with Armageddon. So Dean sucked cock for Jesus, so what. Fuck you.
He'll think all these things in the morning, when he cares. For now, he's kind of preoccupied with the way Cas's head has dropped to his shoulder, limp and trusting; the wonder in the eyes of this - being - who's seen things Dean can't even wrap his head around. Dean did that, with his lips and his hands and his tongue. Dean did that, and the scrape of Cas's breath makes him fucking swell.
Dean Winchester, he thinks, you son of a gun.
He lets himself push back Cas's hair, just once, before he hauls him to his feet.