New SPN Fic (why can't I quit youuuuuuuuuuuu)
Happy first week of hiatus! Here's some porn set two seasons ago!
*hands*
Rating: explicit
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Warning: graphic injury
Note: circa 10.01, 'Black'
Now that Dean's a demon, he thinks about Cas's hands.
GRIPPED by Jayne L.
Now that Dean’s a demon, he thinks about Cas’s hands.
Not that he hadn’t thought about them before. Furtively, and sidelong. They’d been guilty thoughts, then. Occasionally, on good days--days when Cas had helped out on a hunt, or stuck around to watch him and Sam have dinner, or fucking teleported into the passenger seat for no goddamn reason when Dean was out solo running errands; on rare, really good days--they’d even had some hope in them. No less guilt, though.
Now, Dean is black-eyed and blameless. He doesn’t have to feel guilty about anything, and he’s beyond all hope, so he thinks about Cas’s hands in glorious technicolour. Gives them the starring role he’s always wanted them to have.
Settling into the pillows propped against the headboard, Dean closes his eyes to conjure up Cas’s hands as he wraps one of his own around his stiffening dick. Fuck, they’re great hands. Broad palms; long, blunt fingers. Rounded thumbs that curve when they’re bent. Neat nails and hard knuckles. Strength when they close into fists, control in their flex and release. No callouses--but maybe that’s changed now that Cas’s grace is guttering out. Maybe there are sword callouses developing at the base of Cas’s fingers, on their fleshy pads. Dean imagines how they’d feel on his face, or pressing on his throat, Cas’s skin used roughly enough to wear hard little knots that Cas’s failing mojo can’t smooth away.
He frowns; his hand stills on his dick. Something about that doesn’t work for him. The Mark’s interested, twinging hotly inside his forearm the way it does when it scents blood in the water and wants Dean to spill a little more, but Dean--
Dean breathes in and out, deep and slow, and ignores it. It’s his fucking fantasy. Cas’s hands are smooth and strong when they touch his face, when they collar his throat, and yeah, that’s better. Dean’s nice and hard now. He collects a fresh smear of slick from the head of his cock and rubs it over himself.
In the dark behind his eyes, he’s kneeling. Cas stands before him, touching his face and his throat and the lines of his bare shoulders, too firm to be petting. Cas pays no attention to the shitty room they’re in, this shitty room where Dean’s been settling into his demonic undeath. Its floor is strewn with clothes stained by other people’s blood; its corners are crowded with empty fifths; its bedsheets are permanently wrinkled from all the fucking Dean’s been doing, and its chair is still angled toward the bed from the last time he didn’t care that Crowley was still in the room.
Briefly, Dean supposes he could stage his mental sex-show somewhere else. The Impala. The bunker. Any of the thousands of motel rooms he’s ever lived in for a night; any of the thousands of private spaces he’s ever dreamed up for himself while his hand was on his dick. He doesn’t have to picture them here, in this room, like this. It’s his fantasy. He could at least imagine the room tidied up a little.
He leaves them where they are, the room as it is. He has better details to focus on.
Details like Cas. Cas doesn’t care where they are. He watches Dean with avid eyes, dragging one hand from Dean’s collarbone up to the back of his neck. He fits his other hand to Dean’s jaw, long fingers splitting in a vee around his ear; his thumb swipes over Dean’s lips once, twice, before pushing between them, in, his bony bent knuckle scraping past Dean’s top teeth.
Dean’s hand stops at the crest of a stroke; he rubs his own thumb in needy little circles on the drooling head of his dick. He wants Cas in his mouth. He brings his free hand up and shoves in two of his own fingers, moans at the taste and weight on his tongue and rubs circles there, too. In his mind’s filthy eye, Cas now has two thick fingers, three, sliding through his lips and over his tongue, and Dean sucks them, licks up under them, between them. Fuck, Cas’s fingers. He wants them to fuck his mouth. He does it with his own hand, pretending.
The look on Cas’s face as he watches his fingers turn Dean’s mouth red and tender could be mistaken for clinical, if it weren’t for the glint in his eyes and the hard curve of his dick at his hip. Dean works himself faster, tighter, as he pictures Cas pulling his fingers out of his mouth, shiny with Dean’s spit, and wrapping them around himself, jacking himself. He does it slowly, almost like a taunt, watching Dean watch him and want. Finally, the flex of Cas’s hand on Dean’s nape draws him forward, and Cas smears the wet head of his dick on Dean’s slack lips, pushes it in.
Dean thinks about swallowing Cas’s cock, thick and heavy and filling him up, and soaks his own fingers with a hungry flood of saliva. After a few deliberate thrusts--cutting off Dean’s breath, aching in the dropped-wide hinge of his jaw and the spitslick stretch of his lips--Cas rakes strong fingers through Dean’s hair, splays his hands on Dean’s skull, holds him where he wants him and fucks his mouth.
Dean is held, and fucked, and needs it.
When he thinks about Cas spilling down his throat, Dean presses his own fingers down on his tongue and sucks them hard, his throat working and working around devastatingly empty swallows. He comes all over his belly, his chest; one short stripe hits his throat, and the feel of it makes him shudder and pulse out again, gasping. The fingers that were in his mouth fall to his chest, trailing spit into a streak of come. He strokes his dick ‘til he’s spent.
The fantasy keeps spooling out in his head. Cas keeps him close after slipping out of his mouth, pulling him in to press Dean’s forehead to the cut of his hip. His fingers scratch softly on Dean’s scalp, card his hair. His hands smooth down Dean’s nape and onto his back, warm and sure; he curls over him, rubbing down his spine, up to his shoulders, still too firm to be petting. Not gentle; gentling. Finally, he rests one hand between Dean’s shoulderblades, broad and steady, as the other skims to spread high on Dean’s arm, curve there, hold. Dean turns his face to Cas’s skin and sighs, waiting for the burn.
Dean opens his eyes, sprawled out naked and come-spattered and alone on his rumpled bedsheets in his shitty room. His skin prickles with the phantom weight and warmth of Cas’s hands. He misses the sear of holiness on his bare arm. He wants it.
He thinks: Some fucking demon I am.
Then again, somebody told him, way back when, and personal experience has only hammered it home: even demons want out of hell.
That's his fantasy, apparently.
Huffing derisively, Dean scrubs at his face, his hand tacky with dried saliva. “Shit,” he rasps. What a fucking joke of a jerk-off session. And to think he’d started out so smug about being beyond hope. “Fuck. Weak--pathetic--”
Cas’s fucking hands. Jesus.
Sunk in him like a taproot, the Mark latches onto his self-pity and shame and disgust and makes them livid. Dean blinks, and his eyes open beetle-black.
He needs to get his damn demonic head screwed on straight.
He starts to rub at his soft dick, and thinks about Cas’s hands.
He gives them callouses. Blisters. Fucking hangnails.
Scraped-up palms. Sliced-up palms. Blood-blistered nail beds.
Nails pried back and ripped off. Fingers snapped like matchsticks until they all hang crooked, bloated and dripping with blood, white splinters of bone poking through torn-up skin. Cas’s grace too rotten to do anything about any of it.
He puts Cas on his knees, on his hands and knees. On his broken hands and knees.
With each new iteration of brutality, the Mark throbs in Dean’s arm, triumphant and greedy.
Dean doesn’t even get hard.
*~*~*
This content is also available at http://serrico.dreamwidth.org/872015.html. Comment here or there, whichever you prefer. (Over there, there are
comments.)
*hands*
Rating: explicit
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Warning: graphic injury
Note: circa 10.01, 'Black'
Now that Dean's a demon, he thinks about Cas's hands.
GRIPPED by Jayne L.
Now that Dean’s a demon, he thinks about Cas’s hands.
Not that he hadn’t thought about them before. Furtively, and sidelong. They’d been guilty thoughts, then. Occasionally, on good days--days when Cas had helped out on a hunt, or stuck around to watch him and Sam have dinner, or fucking teleported into the passenger seat for no goddamn reason when Dean was out solo running errands; on rare, really good days--they’d even had some hope in them. No less guilt, though.
Now, Dean is black-eyed and blameless. He doesn’t have to feel guilty about anything, and he’s beyond all hope, so he thinks about Cas’s hands in glorious technicolour. Gives them the starring role he’s always wanted them to have.
Settling into the pillows propped against the headboard, Dean closes his eyes to conjure up Cas’s hands as he wraps one of his own around his stiffening dick. Fuck, they’re great hands. Broad palms; long, blunt fingers. Rounded thumbs that curve when they’re bent. Neat nails and hard knuckles. Strength when they close into fists, control in their flex and release. No callouses--but maybe that’s changed now that Cas’s grace is guttering out. Maybe there are sword callouses developing at the base of Cas’s fingers, on their fleshy pads. Dean imagines how they’d feel on his face, or pressing on his throat, Cas’s skin used roughly enough to wear hard little knots that Cas’s failing mojo can’t smooth away.
He frowns; his hand stills on his dick. Something about that doesn’t work for him. The Mark’s interested, twinging hotly inside his forearm the way it does when it scents blood in the water and wants Dean to spill a little more, but Dean--
Dean breathes in and out, deep and slow, and ignores it. It’s his fucking fantasy. Cas’s hands are smooth and strong when they touch his face, when they collar his throat, and yeah, that’s better. Dean’s nice and hard now. He collects a fresh smear of slick from the head of his cock and rubs it over himself.
In the dark behind his eyes, he’s kneeling. Cas stands before him, touching his face and his throat and the lines of his bare shoulders, too firm to be petting. Cas pays no attention to the shitty room they’re in, this shitty room where Dean’s been settling into his demonic undeath. Its floor is strewn with clothes stained by other people’s blood; its corners are crowded with empty fifths; its bedsheets are permanently wrinkled from all the fucking Dean’s been doing, and its chair is still angled toward the bed from the last time he didn’t care that Crowley was still in the room.
Briefly, Dean supposes he could stage his mental sex-show somewhere else. The Impala. The bunker. Any of the thousands of motel rooms he’s ever lived in for a night; any of the thousands of private spaces he’s ever dreamed up for himself while his hand was on his dick. He doesn’t have to picture them here, in this room, like this. It’s his fantasy. He could at least imagine the room tidied up a little.
He leaves them where they are, the room as it is. He has better details to focus on.
Details like Cas. Cas doesn’t care where they are. He watches Dean with avid eyes, dragging one hand from Dean’s collarbone up to the back of his neck. He fits his other hand to Dean’s jaw, long fingers splitting in a vee around his ear; his thumb swipes over Dean’s lips once, twice, before pushing between them, in, his bony bent knuckle scraping past Dean’s top teeth.
Dean’s hand stops at the crest of a stroke; he rubs his own thumb in needy little circles on the drooling head of his dick. He wants Cas in his mouth. He brings his free hand up and shoves in two of his own fingers, moans at the taste and weight on his tongue and rubs circles there, too. In his mind’s filthy eye, Cas now has two thick fingers, three, sliding through his lips and over his tongue, and Dean sucks them, licks up under them, between them. Fuck, Cas’s fingers. He wants them to fuck his mouth. He does it with his own hand, pretending.
The look on Cas’s face as he watches his fingers turn Dean’s mouth red and tender could be mistaken for clinical, if it weren’t for the glint in his eyes and the hard curve of his dick at his hip. Dean works himself faster, tighter, as he pictures Cas pulling his fingers out of his mouth, shiny with Dean’s spit, and wrapping them around himself, jacking himself. He does it slowly, almost like a taunt, watching Dean watch him and want. Finally, the flex of Cas’s hand on Dean’s nape draws him forward, and Cas smears the wet head of his dick on Dean’s slack lips, pushes it in.
Dean thinks about swallowing Cas’s cock, thick and heavy and filling him up, and soaks his own fingers with a hungry flood of saliva. After a few deliberate thrusts--cutting off Dean’s breath, aching in the dropped-wide hinge of his jaw and the spitslick stretch of his lips--Cas rakes strong fingers through Dean’s hair, splays his hands on Dean’s skull, holds him where he wants him and fucks his mouth.
Dean is held, and fucked, and needs it.
When he thinks about Cas spilling down his throat, Dean presses his own fingers down on his tongue and sucks them hard, his throat working and working around devastatingly empty swallows. He comes all over his belly, his chest; one short stripe hits his throat, and the feel of it makes him shudder and pulse out again, gasping. The fingers that were in his mouth fall to his chest, trailing spit into a streak of come. He strokes his dick ‘til he’s spent.
The fantasy keeps spooling out in his head. Cas keeps him close after slipping out of his mouth, pulling him in to press Dean’s forehead to the cut of his hip. His fingers scratch softly on Dean’s scalp, card his hair. His hands smooth down Dean’s nape and onto his back, warm and sure; he curls over him, rubbing down his spine, up to his shoulders, still too firm to be petting. Not gentle; gentling. Finally, he rests one hand between Dean’s shoulderblades, broad and steady, as the other skims to spread high on Dean’s arm, curve there, hold. Dean turns his face to Cas’s skin and sighs, waiting for the burn.
Dean opens his eyes, sprawled out naked and come-spattered and alone on his rumpled bedsheets in his shitty room. His skin prickles with the phantom weight and warmth of Cas’s hands. He misses the sear of holiness on his bare arm. He wants it.
He thinks: Some fucking demon I am.
Then again, somebody told him, way back when, and personal experience has only hammered it home: even demons want out of hell.
That's his fantasy, apparently.
Huffing derisively, Dean scrubs at his face, his hand tacky with dried saliva. “Shit,” he rasps. What a fucking joke of a jerk-off session. And to think he’d started out so smug about being beyond hope. “Fuck. Weak--pathetic--”
Cas’s fucking hands. Jesus.
Sunk in him like a taproot, the Mark latches onto his self-pity and shame and disgust and makes them livid. Dean blinks, and his eyes open beetle-black.
He needs to get his damn demonic head screwed on straight.
He starts to rub at his soft dick, and thinks about Cas’s hands.
He gives them callouses. Blisters. Fucking hangnails.
Scraped-up palms. Sliced-up palms. Blood-blistered nail beds.
Nails pried back and ripped off. Fingers snapped like matchsticks until they all hang crooked, bloated and dripping with blood, white splinters of bone poking through torn-up skin. Cas’s grace too rotten to do anything about any of it.
He puts Cas on his knees, on his hands and knees. On his broken hands and knees.
With each new iteration of brutality, the Mark throbs in Dean’s arm, triumphant and greedy.
Dean doesn’t even get hard.
*~*~*
This content is also available at http://serrico.dreamwidth.org/872015.html. Comment here or there, whichever you prefer. (Over there, there are
comments.)