annundriel (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
annundriel) wrote2011-03-14 02:22 am
annundriel) wrote2011-03-14 02:22 am
Entry tags:
SPN Fic: Tactility, Dean/Castiel (PG)
Tactility
Dean/Castiel
PG
380
There are many things Castiel would like to do.
I was in the mood for some shower fic. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chicklet25.
Castiel doesn’t need to shower, but he’s fascinated by the fall of water across Dean’s shoulders, the way it travels down his back, along the curve of spine. It leaves Dean’s skin glistening and clean and so touchable Castiel’s palms itch. (He’s only ever experienced this around Dean. He’s found the only cure is to indulge it, and even then the feeling can take hours to dissipate.)
Dean ducks his head under the spray to wash shampoo from his hair and rinse it from his eyes. He turns, and the rivulets of water making their way down Dean’s chest, over and around Dean’s nipples, draw Castiel’s eyes. It’s his lips that tingle this time.
“Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel looks up to find Dean’s eyes on him, green going dark even in the brighter light of the bathroom. “What’re you thinking?”
Many things, Castiel wants to say. Or, Nothing in particular. He could tell Dean all of the things he’d like to do to him, the sensations he’d like to experience, the touches he’d like to try. He could describe the many ways he’d like to use his mouth and teeth and tongue, his fingers, the places he’d like to put them all. The sounds he’d like to hear Dean make.
The sounds he’d like Dean to pull from him.
He could use Dean’s body as a template, a map of all of the places he himself would like to be touched and tasted. The ways he would like to learn to experience pleasure, this new and shining thing ringing through his being like bells and chimes and joy.
There are not words to express the things he feels, the things he wants. Not in English, not in Enochian. Not in any of the languages, ancient or modern, living or dead. A few of them get close, but none of them—none of them—bear the weight and meaning that Castiel wishes they would.
“Cas?”
Castiel looks down at Dean’s hand on his bare shoulder, the contrast of tan against pale, and keeps silent, doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t have to. He closes the distance between them, seals his mouth against Dean’s, and shows him all the things he could ever mean, words slipping like soap bubbles down the drain.
Dean/Castiel
PG
380
There are many things Castiel would like to do.
I was in the mood for some shower fic. For
chicklet25.Castiel doesn’t need to shower, but he’s fascinated by the fall of water across Dean’s shoulders, the way it travels down his back, along the curve of spine. It leaves Dean’s skin glistening and clean and so touchable Castiel’s palms itch. (He’s only ever experienced this around Dean. He’s found the only cure is to indulge it, and even then the feeling can take hours to dissipate.)
Dean ducks his head under the spray to wash shampoo from his hair and rinse it from his eyes. He turns, and the rivulets of water making their way down Dean’s chest, over and around Dean’s nipples, draw Castiel’s eyes. It’s his lips that tingle this time.
“Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel looks up to find Dean’s eyes on him, green going dark even in the brighter light of the bathroom. “What’re you thinking?”
Many things, Castiel wants to say. Or, Nothing in particular. He could tell Dean all of the things he’d like to do to him, the sensations he’d like to experience, the touches he’d like to try. He could describe the many ways he’d like to use his mouth and teeth and tongue, his fingers, the places he’d like to put them all. The sounds he’d like to hear Dean make.
The sounds he’d like Dean to pull from him.
He could use Dean’s body as a template, a map of all of the places he himself would like to be touched and tasted. The ways he would like to learn to experience pleasure, this new and shining thing ringing through his being like bells and chimes and joy.
There are not words to express the things he feels, the things he wants. Not in English, not in Enochian. Not in any of the languages, ancient or modern, living or dead. A few of them get close, but none of them—none of them—bear the weight and meaning that Castiel wishes they would.
“Cas?”
Castiel looks down at Dean’s hand on his bare shoulder, the contrast of tan against pale, and keeps silent, doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t have to. He closes the distance between them, seals his mouth against Dean’s, and shows him all the things he could ever mean, words slipping like soap bubbles down the drain.