annundriel: ([spn] Tease)
[personal profile] annundriel
Between Four Walls
Dean, Dean/Castiel
NC-17
1613
Set in "The End" 'verse. Thigh holster porn.
Being a leader weighs heavy on Dean's shoulders. He finds a way to relax.

Many thanks for [livejournal.com profile] stellamaris99 for beta-ing and [livejournal.com profile] obstinatrix for cheerleading. ♥♥

For [livejournal.com profile] daggomus_prime, who is awesome. Based loosely on her seriously hot piece of art.


Dean sighs, fingers teasing over his skin as he checks the straps around his thigh. The top one's loose he finds when he straightens his leg; that won't do. He tightens it, adjusts it until there's the hint of a bite into the muscle, until the feel of the straps alone is enough to make his cock twitch where it's curved hard and leaking against his stomach.

He stares down at the bands against his skin, the black in stark contrast to the paleness of his inner thigh, and shudders. Feels jittery and aching and, fuck, he shouldn't touch himself yet, he should draw this out as long as possible. A free evening? He should make it last.

Except his hands smell like gun powder and oil and the holster is heavy against his thigh and every time Dean moves it shifts against him. Makes him aware of his leg and his thigh and the heavy weight of his cock. The holster's a blessing and a curse during the day; handy, but it leaves him aching in his jeans, horny like he hasn't been since he was a teenager, since before this all happened and all Dean wanted to do was hunt things and save people and maybe fuck his way through middle America.

He thinks Cas knows. He's seen Cas watching him when he squirms, caught Cas with that old headtilt in place every time he's thought about slipping off to slide a hand down his pants. He'd push them down just far enough, let them catch on the holster...

Dean's fingers skip across the sweaty skin at the crease of his hip to trace the line of the uppermost strap and he shivers, his nipples tightening. He wants to touch his cock, wants to wrap his fingers tight around it and jerk himself off with abandon until his balls are drawing up and he's coming all over himself, painting his hands and his chest.

He doesn't, though, not yet. Dean knows that if he waits, it will be better. That the tease of his fingers and the loops of the straps will ramp him higher if he lets them. He's done this before.

Tracing the line of the strap, Dean trails his fingers inward, brushing the inside of his thigh. He journeys down then, tucks his thumb against his balls and teases the skin behind them with careful fingers, a too-light touch that leaves his thighs trembling. He could dip farther, move lower, press one finger, two against his hole. Fingerfuck himself. A challenge to see if he can come with the holster around his thigh and nothing around his cock.

He lets himself brush his hole but goes no farther. Teases at it but doesn't push in. He slides his other hand up his stomach, up his chest, presses his fingers against his lips before sucking them in, getting them wet. If Cas were here, he could have a cock in his mouth, a cock in his ass. He could have Cas whatever way he wanted him, Cas' fingers tangling tight in the straps of the holster. In the morning Dean would be bruised, lines on his thighs a template for next time.

He's alone now, though; he'll make the most of it.

Pulling his wet fingers from his mouth, Dean presses them against a nipple, shifts his hips at the zing that goes through him. Wants to feel them elsewhere, get them sticky and slick with precome, spreading it around before wrapping his fingers below the head.

He lets his hand move lower, light enough to be almost ticklish. If he closes his eyes, he can almost fool himself into thinking it's a foreign touch, someone else's fingers teasing his skin. Spreading them across his stomach, he moves them lower, sneaking past the head of his cock, the precome welling in the slit, to ring them around the base. Dean groans and bites his lip, sucking it between his teeth. It gives him something to do with his mouth, his tongue, and, fuck, next time he's getting Cas here. Next time he’s dragging him back to his room or Cas’ and making him fuck him, making him take him and hold him down and mark him. Making Cas fill him up until all of the empty spaces are gone and there’s nothing but Dean and Cas and the feeling of finally, finally being whole.

Later, though. Later. For now, he’s got this; fingers tight around the base of his cock, holster tight around his thigh. Dean slides his other hand away from his ass, turns it and pushes his fingers up and under the nearest strap, wrapping them around it, pulling it even tighter. He groans at the sensation and slides the ring of his fingers up his cock, twisting as he nears the head. It’s all he can do not to jerk up into it, to keep his hips still against the mattress.

There’s nothing stopping him, nothing stopping him at all. No one to say, No, Dean, slower. The only thing holding him back is his own willpower. That makes it better, makes it more. He’s testing himself, pacing himself. Finding his own weaknesses and waiting to exploit them. When he comes, he wants it to feel like a punch to the gut, wants it to leave him shaking and aching and spent against the sheets, useless until the morning.

Rubbing his thumb over the head of his cock, Dean shivers, flexes his fingers around the shaft. Sucks on his bottom lip and breathes deep through his nose before slowly stroking downward, fingers loosening as he goes until they’re just a tease around the base, fingertips feather-light against his balls. Dean’s lip slides free with a slick sound, the breath that gusts over it chilling it. His skin feels too tight, his body heavy, and all he wants, all Dean really wants, is to have Cas here with him, to feel the head of Cas’ cock pressed against his entrance, to look up and see Cas’ eyes—too blue even with their blown pupils—looking down, pinning him against the sheets. If he closes his eyes, he can see it perfectly; Cas’ flushed chest and kiss-bruised mouth, his sweat-damp hair. Cas’ fingers on his thighs and hips and tangling with Dean’s own fingers on the strap of the holster, pulling it tight, tighter, tightest.

Tugging at the strap in his hand, Dean feels it bite into the back of his thigh, the pain of it throbbing through him, hitting all of the important points, nipples and cock, leaving him breathing hard. The sheets are damp around him, clinging to his skin, and he figures, fuck it, why wait? Rewraps his fingers around his cock, a snug ring to thrust into, and holds on to the holster, grounds himself there against the feeling like he’s flying apart, falling apart, falling—

He twists the strap hard and plants his feet on the bed, fucks up into his fist. Eyes squeezed shut and mouth dropping open, Dean chases that feeling building low in his gut. His muscles contract, everything tight. Everything hot and hard and aching, wet with sweat and spit and precome and, god, it’s there, it’s right there and Dean can feel it, Dean can taste it, sharp on the back of his tongue. He pulls at the straps and squeezes his cock and comes with a shout, unintelligible and louder than it should be given he’s alone.

Dean doesn’t stop, though, doesn’t let go of the holster or his cock. Hangs on until he can hardly stand it, skin sensitized, everything just this side of too much. Then, only then, with his thighs twitching and his heart slowly losing the frantic kerthump it’s taken up behind his ribs, does Dean release himself, fingers slowly loosening, leaving his cock lying spent against his thigh. Fingers freed, he drags them through the come, smears it on his skin, lifts his hand and laps it up, tasting himself. Tasting come and sweat and gun oil beneath it all, the lingering traces of his day.

Sucking his fingers clean, Dean lowers his unadorned leg, not quite ready to release his hold on the holster yet, liking the way it digs into the muscle. It’s a good pain, a pleasant ache. He wants to hold onto it a little longer, doesn’t want to clean up and get up and be anyone’s fearless leader, not tonight.

So he doesn’t. Dean stretches his legs and spreads out across the damp sheets and refuses, for now, to move. Refuses to do anything but lie there, hand curled around the holster strapped to his thigh, come cooling on his skin. He doesn’t think about the way the bed feels half-empty or the way his body still aches for...something. Doesn’t think about where Cas is if he isn’t here or what he might be doing or with who. Instead, Dean closes his eyes and breathes in, breathes deep, pushes away the phantom Cas that lives in his head at moments like these. The one whose eyes are still clear and who isn’t followed by a haze of smoke and incense, who took Dean too seriously and didn’t laugh for all the wrong reasons.

Fingers wrapped tight around the nylon, Dean grounds himself in the cut of the straps against his thigh, focuses on that and nothing else, nothing beyond the four walls of the room and the four corners of the bed. Nothing past the boundary of his skin and the straps holding it all together. Breathing deep, Dean holds on to the holster like a lifeline.
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February 2013

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