[fic; spn] staring down the barrel of a .45
Title: staring down the barrel of a .45
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP, maybe some angst
Summary: Dean watches Cas clean his shotgun.
Warnings: Kind of spoilers for 5x04, all the angst that comes with the territory.
Word Count: 1070
Notes: Is it bad that when prompted with "Gun," the first place my mind goes is porn? Written for my SPN Prompt Table, 036. Gun Set in 5x04!verse, 2013-ish.
Cas has a nice, big bed for all his orgies. Dean settles in near the headboard, arms folding behind his head as his legs cross, eyes fixed on where Cas is systematically cleaning his shotgun. Cas doesn't spare him a glance but the quirk of his lips tells Dean he knows he's being watched. A playful light sparks in the ex-angel's eyes that tell Dean he's a little far gone right now, not that it makes much difference. They all lost part of themselves when the outbreak came and nobody is really handling it.
Cas' tongue pokes out in an absent way that gets Dean's cock stirring as he wipes out the bore, oil dripping onto his pants and spreading just about everywhere from there. The sound of boots clunking to the floor registers dully somewhere in the back of Dean's mind as Cas slips out of them and pulls his legs up to sit Indian style and straight backed on the mattress. He finishes wiping down the gun, oil having somehow spread from the toe of his socks to fringing the tips of his hair, smudged in between at random intervals. He doesn't seem to notice until he's finished reassembling the gun. It's quickly shoved to the side as he drops his hands down to the hem of his thin Henley to draw it slowly up his sides. The act itself is innocent enough. Dean would probably have missed the subtle seduction if he hadn't taught it to the man himself. The shirt finds it's way over to the gun as Cas leans back to give Dean a better view as he pops the button of his jeans, slips the zipper down and shimmies out with a small lift of his hips. Dean can't see the maneuver through all the denim, but when the pants drop to the ground, Cas isn't wearing socks anymore and he hadn't been wearing anything else.
Dean expects him to crawl over the way he's seen him do before and palms his slowly filling erection through the material of his own jeans at the thought. Cas doesn't, though, and instead looks for all the world as if he doesn't even know Dean is there, sinking into the soft mattress and stroking himself leisurely. His eyes flutter shut and his head drops back as a lazy moan works it's way out of his throat. Dean's heavy coat is already in a small pile on the floor and his plain black shirt and muddied jeans join it quickly after that scene. He slides down to where Cas is still ignoring him and replaces Cas' hand with his own. The action rips a groan out of the other man as his head falls to the side and his eyes lock on Dean's face, looking more sober than Dean had seen them in months. The clarity was quickly drowned out by an entirely different kind of high, pleasure clouding the blue eyes in a way Dean knows none of the women or the drugs are able to do. He's a little sick from the way his erection twitches at the knowledge of the kind of power he still has over Cas, even after everything. He shifts his focus back to the pulsing flesh in his hand so he doesn't have to think about it.
He swipes his thumb over the head and fists slowly downward, reveling in the sounds of Cas' harsh breathing from somewhere up north. He only pauses in his ministrations to seek out one of the many bottles of oil Cas keeps practically within arm's reach at all times. He scrunches his nose at the scent but doesn't hesitate in slicking up his fingers. Cas' eyes are on him again, burning holes in the top of his ducked head in anticipation. There's impatience there, too, and Dean smirks as he slowly teases at Cas' puckered hole with his index finger. He puts a challenge in his eyes before sending Cas a look through his eyelashes. Cas lets out a frustrated noise and wraps his fingers around Dean's wrist, applying more pressure and gasping as it penetrates. Cas' eyes are blown from more than just the sex but his wide eyes and the perfectly round "o" of his mouth go straight to Dean's cock and encourage the crook of his finger against the bundle of nerves buried inside Cas. His other hand toys with the wiry hairs just under Cas' navel before drawing back to find the oil and slicking up his cock. He works another finger into the tight ring of muscle and begins to scissor the two apart. Dean's name pours out of Cas' lips in between a mess of other words.
"Fuck, Dean, please... God, m-more..."
Cas' voice, the other Cas, the Cas from before everything had gotten so fucked up, fills Dean's head. Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain. Dean shivers as if the gravelly voice was still right there, still too awkwardly close and yet not close enough. The higher pitched gaspy moans and half words coming from above him felt like a slap in the face, felt like failure. He remembers a time when he would have done anything to protect Cas and he wishes he could get that back, but his own words from years ago, from when his father had died, come to him and he lets out a humorless chuckle. Too little, too late.
The pleas are coming out of Cas now like a prayer and Dean finally complies, pulling his fingers free and gripping Cas' lean hip to get the leverage he needs to push in. When his other hand finishes guiding his cock to the small opening, it finds it's way to Cas' instead and tugs mercilessly. Dean can't tell if the breath Cas sucks in at that is from pleasure or pain but he doesn't stop. He thinks about the months Cas had been laid up with a broken foot, remembers being surprised at how powerless he was. Maybe he's not the same but fuck if he isn't still dangerous. He brings out things in Dean that neither of them are ready or willing to face. It's going to get them both killed if Dean doesn't do something about it and he knows it. Cas comes with a shout. Dean pulls out without finishing up and leaves before he has to see the disappointment in Cas' eyes.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP, maybe some angst
Summary: Dean watches Cas clean his shotgun.
Warnings: Kind of spoilers for 5x04, all the angst that comes with the territory.
Word Count: 1070
Notes: Is it bad that when prompted with "Gun," the first place my mind goes is porn? Written for my SPN Prompt Table, 036. Gun Set in 5x04!verse, 2013-ish.
Cas has a nice, big bed for all his orgies. Dean settles in near the headboard, arms folding behind his head as his legs cross, eyes fixed on where Cas is systematically cleaning his shotgun. Cas doesn't spare him a glance but the quirk of his lips tells Dean he knows he's being watched. A playful light sparks in the ex-angel's eyes that tell Dean he's a little far gone right now, not that it makes much difference. They all lost part of themselves when the outbreak came and nobody is really handling it.
Cas' tongue pokes out in an absent way that gets Dean's cock stirring as he wipes out the bore, oil dripping onto his pants and spreading just about everywhere from there. The sound of boots clunking to the floor registers dully somewhere in the back of Dean's mind as Cas slips out of them and pulls his legs up to sit Indian style and straight backed on the mattress. He finishes wiping down the gun, oil having somehow spread from the toe of his socks to fringing the tips of his hair, smudged in between at random intervals. He doesn't seem to notice until he's finished reassembling the gun. It's quickly shoved to the side as he drops his hands down to the hem of his thin Henley to draw it slowly up his sides. The act itself is innocent enough. Dean would probably have missed the subtle seduction if he hadn't taught it to the man himself. The shirt finds it's way over to the gun as Cas leans back to give Dean a better view as he pops the button of his jeans, slips the zipper down and shimmies out with a small lift of his hips. Dean can't see the maneuver through all the denim, but when the pants drop to the ground, Cas isn't wearing socks anymore and he hadn't been wearing anything else.
Dean expects him to crawl over the way he's seen him do before and palms his slowly filling erection through the material of his own jeans at the thought. Cas doesn't, though, and instead looks for all the world as if he doesn't even know Dean is there, sinking into the soft mattress and stroking himself leisurely. His eyes flutter shut and his head drops back as a lazy moan works it's way out of his throat. Dean's heavy coat is already in a small pile on the floor and his plain black shirt and muddied jeans join it quickly after that scene. He slides down to where Cas is still ignoring him and replaces Cas' hand with his own. The action rips a groan out of the other man as his head falls to the side and his eyes lock on Dean's face, looking more sober than Dean had seen them in months. The clarity was quickly drowned out by an entirely different kind of high, pleasure clouding the blue eyes in a way Dean knows none of the women or the drugs are able to do. He's a little sick from the way his erection twitches at the knowledge of the kind of power he still has over Cas, even after everything. He shifts his focus back to the pulsing flesh in his hand so he doesn't have to think about it.
He swipes his thumb over the head and fists slowly downward, reveling in the sounds of Cas' harsh breathing from somewhere up north. He only pauses in his ministrations to seek out one of the many bottles of oil Cas keeps practically within arm's reach at all times. He scrunches his nose at the scent but doesn't hesitate in slicking up his fingers. Cas' eyes are on him again, burning holes in the top of his ducked head in anticipation. There's impatience there, too, and Dean smirks as he slowly teases at Cas' puckered hole with his index finger. He puts a challenge in his eyes before sending Cas a look through his eyelashes. Cas lets out a frustrated noise and wraps his fingers around Dean's wrist, applying more pressure and gasping as it penetrates. Cas' eyes are blown from more than just the sex but his wide eyes and the perfectly round "o" of his mouth go straight to Dean's cock and encourage the crook of his finger against the bundle of nerves buried inside Cas. His other hand toys with the wiry hairs just under Cas' navel before drawing back to find the oil and slicking up his cock. He works another finger into the tight ring of muscle and begins to scissor the two apart. Dean's name pours out of Cas' lips in between a mess of other words.
"Fuck, Dean, please... God, m-more..."
Cas' voice, the other Cas, the Cas from before everything had gotten so fucked up, fills Dean's head. Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain. Dean shivers as if the gravelly voice was still right there, still too awkwardly close and yet not close enough. The higher pitched gaspy moans and half words coming from above him felt like a slap in the face, felt like failure. He remembers a time when he would have done anything to protect Cas and he wishes he could get that back, but his own words from years ago, from when his father had died, come to him and he lets out a humorless chuckle. Too little, too late.
The pleas are coming out of Cas now like a prayer and Dean finally complies, pulling his fingers free and gripping Cas' lean hip to get the leverage he needs to push in. When his other hand finishes guiding his cock to the small opening, it finds it's way to Cas' instead and tugs mercilessly. Dean can't tell if the breath Cas sucks in at that is from pleasure or pain but he doesn't stop. He thinks about the months Cas had been laid up with a broken foot, remembers being surprised at how powerless he was. Maybe he's not the same but fuck if he isn't still dangerous. He brings out things in Dean that neither of them are ready or willing to face. It's going to get them both killed if Dean doesn't do something about it and he knows it. Cas comes with a shout. Dean pulls out without finishing up and leaves before he has to see the disappointment in Cas' eyes.