SPN Fic: Blown, Dean/Castiel (NC-17)
Apr. 26th, 2010 06:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
annundrielBlown
Dean/Castiel
NC-17
1641
General spoilers for season five.
Dean doesn't know what he's saying.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ember_firedrake, who commented after 5.18 with, Dean, you shouldn't say stuff like that unless you want a certain angel to follow-up on that. This started life as comment!fic and then I couldn't let it go. Thanks go to mclachlan and olivelavonne for being helpful and generally awesome.
“Blow me, Cas.”
Dean starts saying it all the time. It’s quick, it’s easy, it gets the point across.
Plus, it’s more than a little bit suggestive, and Dean figures any time he can say or use something vaguely sexual on an angel is a good time.
He forgets, however, Castiel’s tendency to take the things Dean says at face value.
He forgets, that is, until Cas reminds him.
They’re alone for once, like it used to be back before Lucifer rose and they had an apocalypse to avert. Except instead of Sam off gallivanting with that demon hosebeast, he’s off doing research on their latest post-apocalyptic monster of the week like it’s extra credit.
Distracted by the maps on the table, by the pages of Sam’s notes, Dean doesn’t realize Cas has moved closer until he’s standing right at Dean’s side, his chest hot all up Dean’s arm even through their clothes.
“Dean,” Castiel says. “I thought at first it was an expression of anger, but you have frequently told me to…blow you. I’m beginning to think you mean something else by it.”
At a loss for words, Dean’s distracted by the way Cas’ mouth shapes the word blow, the almost coy sweep of his eyelashes and tilt of his head. Like he’s already found out the answer, already knows Dean’s deepest and darkest—oh, wait—and is toying with him. Waiting for Dean to voice what he really wants.
Dean can do that; he’s been doing that and didn’t even realize it, his subconscious apparently jumping up and down, yelling, “DO ME, CAS. DO ME NOW.” He swallows, mouth feeling dry, and licks his lips, enjoying the way Cas’ eyes dip to follow the movement.
“Blow me, Cas.”
Cas’ eyes flicker back up to Dean’s. Heat races down Dean’s back to curl at the base of his spine, pool low in his belly.
“Okay.”
Dean blinks. “Okay?”
Cas’ mouth twitches, the barest hint of movement Dean would miss if they weren’t standing so close. “Yes, Dean,” he says. “Okay.”
Hand at Dean’s hip, Cas turns him, pressing him back against the table until Dean’s perched on the edge. His legs fall open naturally, and Cas fills the space between them like he’s meant to be there.
Using Dean’s hips for balance, Cas drops to his knees. There’s a brief moment where Dean wants to stop him, wants to pull him back up and say, Hey, don’t do that, don’t ever do that. He almost does, but then Castiel looks up at him and there’s nothing in this action that they don’t want.
Heart thudding in his chest, dick already hard, Dean grips the edge of the table. He wants to reach out and touch, run his hands through Cas’ hair, feel the stubble on his jaw beneath his fingers, the curve of Cas’ bottom lip cradling his thumb.
Cas moves to unbutton Dean’s jeans, lowering the zipper carefully over him, and Dean can’t resist longer than that, not anymore. He touches Cas’ cheek, feels the drag of skin as Cas turns his head into it, lips pressed against the palm of Dean’s hand. His breath is hot and moist and Dean feels his dick throb in response.
Hidden in his cupped palm, Cas presses a kiss there, chaste save for a teasing flicker of tongue, before turning away from Dean’s hand to go back to work on his pants. Hooking his fingers beneath the elastic of Dean’s underwear, Cas works them down with Dean’s jeans.
Dean shudders when his cock bobs free, shivers when Cas’ breath hits it. He settles back against the table, the edge digging into his palms.
Eyes intent, Cas wraps a careful hand around the base before he looks up. “Is this what you wanted, Dean?” he asks. His eyes are dark and hot and his mouth is right there and Dean wants to say something, wants to say yes and do it and please, but his voice is caught in the back of his throat and no sound comes out and then it doesn’t matter because Cas’ mouth is on him, lips closing around the head.
Dean groans, whatever was keeping him silent before removed with the slide of Cas’ mouth, the glide of his tongue, the perfect press of his fingers around Dean’s cock.
Cas drags his hand up and slides his lips down, messy and slick and better than perfect because this is the first, his and theirs, and this is just the beginning.
“Fuck,” Dean breathes. “Cas.”
Pulling back until only the head of Dean’s cock remains in his mouth, Cas blinks up at him and sucks, eyes full of heat and promise and all sorts of things Dean’s too chickenshit to name. Maybe someday, and maybe soon, but not yet.
Instead, Dean brushes his fingers against ridge of Cas’ cheek, strokes his thumb around the stretched shape of Cas’ mouth, and watches Cas’ eyelashes flutter closed. It’s such a pretty picture, Dean can hardly stand it.
Cas makes a wordless sound at the back of his throat that vibrates through Dean. He pulls off, releasing Dean’s cock in favor of wrapping his hand around Dean’s wrist, and draws Dean’s thumb into his mouth, sucking and laving it with his tongue. Dean’s hips jerk in response, but Cas’ hand still at his hip holds Dean steady.
Dean fully expects to find a bruise there when they’re done. He doesn’t mind.
Cas slides off Dean’s thumb, nips at the end. “Don’t distract me,” he says, letting go of Dean’s wrist to take Dean’s cock back in hand, in mouth.
He doesn’t place Dean’s hand back on the table, though; Dean takes it as permission to keep touching.
So he does. Resting his hand against Cas’ face, Dean can feel the movement of his cock on the other side of Cas’ cheek, the barest tickle of Cas’ lashes across the end of his thumb whenever Cas blinks. Stubble scratches against the palm of his hand and Dean wonders what it would be like to kiss Cas, wishes he already knew.
He’ll get to, if he has his way. Soon, if Cas has his.
Cas’ fingers press harder into Dean’s hip as he picks up a rhythm that’s timeless and recognizable and meant to drive Dean crazy in all the best ways. It’s hot and fast and wet and perfect and Dean tries to warn Cas that he’s close, that he’s right fucking there, but Cas ignores him and swallows him down until Dean’s got nothing left to give.
Under the thundering of his heart in his ears, the only sound in the room is the harsh in and out of Dean’s breathing and the soft-slick sounds of Cas’ tongue against him, licking and tasting. Dean watches him until it becomes too much. He’s going to be the death of Dean. Sam will come back and want to know what happened.
“I’m sorry, Sam, but your brother died in your absence. His heart couldn’t handle it when I sucked his brain out through his dick.”
Dean chuckles to himself.
“Dean?”
He opens his eyes to see Cas still on his knees. His face shows hints of uncertainty around the edges, if you know where to look.
Dean knows where to look, and that just doesn’t fly.
“Get up here,” Dean says, tugging at Cas’ coat—and how messed up is that? Cas didn’t even remove the goddamn coat—until Cas is standing in front of him. His lips are parted and pink, shiny with saliva, and Dean goes with his gut, does what he’s been wanting to do since…since…
Since he’s not even sure when. He doesn’t know why he didn’t realize he wanted this before. Blame the apocalypse and all of its distractions.
Dean pulls Cas to him and kisses him, kisses him for all he’s worth, feels the scrape of stubble and the catch of teeth and wants it all. Cas tastes mostly like Dean and somewhere, buried beneath that, he tastes like Cas, like something Dean wants to cozy up to and get familiar with. Chasing the taste of himself through Cas’ mouth—along gums and behind molars—Dean kisses him until there’s nothing left but Cas himself.
And Cas lets him. Cas kisses back, following his tongue, following his lead. Following Dean until they’re both breathless and panting, clutching at each other through their clothes.
Cas is hard against him, and Dean would love to drop to his knees and return the favor, but he can’t seem to stop kissing Cas long enough to do anything about it. Cas doesn’t seem about ready to let him go, either, not now that they’ve started this.
Dean wraps his arms around him, pulls Cas as close as he can, provides a hip for Cas to rut against. He whispers encouragement when his mouth isn’t otherwise occupied and hangs on when he feels Cas stiffen against him, coming in a rush of heat with a groan that sounds like Dean’s name.
Holding them both up against the table, Dean kisses Cas lazily as they both come down. He wants nothing more than to strip everything off of both of them and crawl between the sheets of the nearest bed, to forget the rest of the world and whatever prompted him to tell Cas to blow him in the first place.
He can’t, though. Papers rustle behind him and he knows that they have work to do. That they may have taken care of the main event, but there are still the consequences of the world almost ending to deal with.
He and Sam are back to the basics, but he’s got this now, too.
Saving people, hunting things. Blowjobs from your angel at the end of a long day.
It’s pretty fucking fantastic.
Dean/Castiel
NC-17
1641
General spoilers for season five.
Dean doesn't know what he's saying.
For
ember_firedrake, who commented after 5.18 with, Dean, you shouldn't say stuff like that unless you want a certain angel to follow-up on that. This started life as comment!fic and then I couldn't let it go. Thanks go to mclachlan and olivelavonne for being helpful and generally awesome.“Blow me, Cas.”
Dean starts saying it all the time. It’s quick, it’s easy, it gets the point across.
Plus, it’s more than a little bit suggestive, and Dean figures any time he can say or use something vaguely sexual on an angel is a good time.
He forgets, however, Castiel’s tendency to take the things Dean says at face value.
He forgets, that is, until Cas reminds him.
They’re alone for once, like it used to be back before Lucifer rose and they had an apocalypse to avert. Except instead of Sam off gallivanting with that demon hosebeast, he’s off doing research on their latest post-apocalyptic monster of the week like it’s extra credit.
Distracted by the maps on the table, by the pages of Sam’s notes, Dean doesn’t realize Cas has moved closer until he’s standing right at Dean’s side, his chest hot all up Dean’s arm even through their clothes.
“Dean,” Castiel says. “I thought at first it was an expression of anger, but you have frequently told me to…blow you. I’m beginning to think you mean something else by it.”
At a loss for words, Dean’s distracted by the way Cas’ mouth shapes the word blow, the almost coy sweep of his eyelashes and tilt of his head. Like he’s already found out the answer, already knows Dean’s deepest and darkest—oh, wait—and is toying with him. Waiting for Dean to voice what he really wants.
Dean can do that; he’s been doing that and didn’t even realize it, his subconscious apparently jumping up and down, yelling, “DO ME, CAS. DO ME NOW.” He swallows, mouth feeling dry, and licks his lips, enjoying the way Cas’ eyes dip to follow the movement.
“Blow me, Cas.”
Cas’ eyes flicker back up to Dean’s. Heat races down Dean’s back to curl at the base of his spine, pool low in his belly.
“Okay.”
Dean blinks. “Okay?”
Cas’ mouth twitches, the barest hint of movement Dean would miss if they weren’t standing so close. “Yes, Dean,” he says. “Okay.”
Hand at Dean’s hip, Cas turns him, pressing him back against the table until Dean’s perched on the edge. His legs fall open naturally, and Cas fills the space between them like he’s meant to be there.
Using Dean’s hips for balance, Cas drops to his knees. There’s a brief moment where Dean wants to stop him, wants to pull him back up and say, Hey, don’t do that, don’t ever do that. He almost does, but then Castiel looks up at him and there’s nothing in this action that they don’t want.
Heart thudding in his chest, dick already hard, Dean grips the edge of the table. He wants to reach out and touch, run his hands through Cas’ hair, feel the stubble on his jaw beneath his fingers, the curve of Cas’ bottom lip cradling his thumb.
Cas moves to unbutton Dean’s jeans, lowering the zipper carefully over him, and Dean can’t resist longer than that, not anymore. He touches Cas’ cheek, feels the drag of skin as Cas turns his head into it, lips pressed against the palm of Dean’s hand. His breath is hot and moist and Dean feels his dick throb in response.
Hidden in his cupped palm, Cas presses a kiss there, chaste save for a teasing flicker of tongue, before turning away from Dean’s hand to go back to work on his pants. Hooking his fingers beneath the elastic of Dean’s underwear, Cas works them down with Dean’s jeans.
Dean shudders when his cock bobs free, shivers when Cas’ breath hits it. He settles back against the table, the edge digging into his palms.
Eyes intent, Cas wraps a careful hand around the base before he looks up. “Is this what you wanted, Dean?” he asks. His eyes are dark and hot and his mouth is right there and Dean wants to say something, wants to say yes and do it and please, but his voice is caught in the back of his throat and no sound comes out and then it doesn’t matter because Cas’ mouth is on him, lips closing around the head.
Dean groans, whatever was keeping him silent before removed with the slide of Cas’ mouth, the glide of his tongue, the perfect press of his fingers around Dean’s cock.
Cas drags his hand up and slides his lips down, messy and slick and better than perfect because this is the first, his and theirs, and this is just the beginning.
“Fuck,” Dean breathes. “Cas.”
Pulling back until only the head of Dean’s cock remains in his mouth, Cas blinks up at him and sucks, eyes full of heat and promise and all sorts of things Dean’s too chickenshit to name. Maybe someday, and maybe soon, but not yet.
Instead, Dean brushes his fingers against ridge of Cas’ cheek, strokes his thumb around the stretched shape of Cas’ mouth, and watches Cas’ eyelashes flutter closed. It’s such a pretty picture, Dean can hardly stand it.
Cas makes a wordless sound at the back of his throat that vibrates through Dean. He pulls off, releasing Dean’s cock in favor of wrapping his hand around Dean’s wrist, and draws Dean’s thumb into his mouth, sucking and laving it with his tongue. Dean’s hips jerk in response, but Cas’ hand still at his hip holds Dean steady.
Dean fully expects to find a bruise there when they’re done. He doesn’t mind.
Cas slides off Dean’s thumb, nips at the end. “Don’t distract me,” he says, letting go of Dean’s wrist to take Dean’s cock back in hand, in mouth.
He doesn’t place Dean’s hand back on the table, though; Dean takes it as permission to keep touching.
So he does. Resting his hand against Cas’ face, Dean can feel the movement of his cock on the other side of Cas’ cheek, the barest tickle of Cas’ lashes across the end of his thumb whenever Cas blinks. Stubble scratches against the palm of his hand and Dean wonders what it would be like to kiss Cas, wishes he already knew.
He’ll get to, if he has his way. Soon, if Cas has his.
Cas’ fingers press harder into Dean’s hip as he picks up a rhythm that’s timeless and recognizable and meant to drive Dean crazy in all the best ways. It’s hot and fast and wet and perfect and Dean tries to warn Cas that he’s close, that he’s right fucking there, but Cas ignores him and swallows him down until Dean’s got nothing left to give.
Under the thundering of his heart in his ears, the only sound in the room is the harsh in and out of Dean’s breathing and the soft-slick sounds of Cas’ tongue against him, licking and tasting. Dean watches him until it becomes too much. He’s going to be the death of Dean. Sam will come back and want to know what happened.
“I’m sorry, Sam, but your brother died in your absence. His heart couldn’t handle it when I sucked his brain out through his dick.”
Dean chuckles to himself.
“Dean?”
He opens his eyes to see Cas still on his knees. His face shows hints of uncertainty around the edges, if you know where to look.
Dean knows where to look, and that just doesn’t fly.
“Get up here,” Dean says, tugging at Cas’ coat—and how messed up is that? Cas didn’t even remove the goddamn coat—until Cas is standing in front of him. His lips are parted and pink, shiny with saliva, and Dean goes with his gut, does what he’s been wanting to do since…since…
Since he’s not even sure when. He doesn’t know why he didn’t realize he wanted this before. Blame the apocalypse and all of its distractions.
Dean pulls Cas to him and kisses him, kisses him for all he’s worth, feels the scrape of stubble and the catch of teeth and wants it all. Cas tastes mostly like Dean and somewhere, buried beneath that, he tastes like Cas, like something Dean wants to cozy up to and get familiar with. Chasing the taste of himself through Cas’ mouth—along gums and behind molars—Dean kisses him until there’s nothing left but Cas himself.
And Cas lets him. Cas kisses back, following his tongue, following his lead. Following Dean until they’re both breathless and panting, clutching at each other through their clothes.
Cas is hard against him, and Dean would love to drop to his knees and return the favor, but he can’t seem to stop kissing Cas long enough to do anything about it. Cas doesn’t seem about ready to let him go, either, not now that they’ve started this.
Dean wraps his arms around him, pulls Cas as close as he can, provides a hip for Cas to rut against. He whispers encouragement when his mouth isn’t otherwise occupied and hangs on when he feels Cas stiffen against him, coming in a rush of heat with a groan that sounds like Dean’s name.
Holding them both up against the table, Dean kisses Cas lazily as they both come down. He wants nothing more than to strip everything off of both of them and crawl between the sheets of the nearest bed, to forget the rest of the world and whatever prompted him to tell Cas to blow him in the first place.
He can’t, though. Papers rustle behind him and he knows that they have work to do. That they may have taken care of the main event, but there are still the consequences of the world almost ending to deal with.
He and Sam are back to the basics, but he’s got this now, too.
Saving people, hunting things. Blowjobs from your angel at the end of a long day.
It’s pretty fucking fantastic.
