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Fic: Desecrate that sanctuary
Title: Desecrate that sanctuary
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
brokentoy85
Word count: 3536
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None
Summary: Dean develops a fascination with Cas' bones.
Author notes: this is a gift forkallista85, who first introduced me to the fandom. It is dedicated to her, to akane_87 and to the wonderful shadowrose81, who was my beta (and did an amazing job at it). Thank you bbs <3
Desecrate that sanctuary
It starts with a wrist. The left one, extended to pick up a book from the table, tendons stretching and muscle flexing under the weight. Sam would be able to list all the bones and joints involved in the movement, and he's sure it might be really interesting and all, but Sam is not here. He contents himself in looking in fascination at what he suspects might be the head of Cas' ulna jutting out to the external side of his hand.
He can only see a couple of inches of flesh and bones coming out of his jacket, still wrapped in the white cotton of his shirt. It's so enthralling that he barely catches himself from extending his hand and touching the skin like he has any right to do so.
***
It turns out Cas has particularly beautiful bones. His brain is conscious of the fact that it's all in Jimmy's genetic make up, but since Jimmy left, it's safe to assume that that body is all Castiel now.
Castiel with no grace. Except when he moves, lithe as he ever was, and stretches the length of that magnificent bag of bones and blood, cracking the joints with a soft hum of relief. Discovering how it is to be human and be stiff and tired after a whole day of hunting.
It's in a moment like this, while Cas is bending down to crack his spine, that Dean notices the infinite line of vertebrae pushing through the cotton of his shirt. He follows each and every one of them with his eyes, watching them stir and bend, a consequence of his companion's movements.
They crack, one after the other, and the sound is poetry to his ears.
That night Dean dreams of running his tongue along that very spine, imagining how wonderful it would be to just put his ear on it and feel as all the sensations he elicits in Cas' body run through the spinal cord to his brain.
He comes in his sleep, and the stickiness is worth it, for when he wakes up he remembers every single detail.
***
Dean is lost. There's really no other way to put it because yes, he's lost in the curves and planes of skin and muscle he can detect under the shield of the old t-shirts he passed on to Cas. It's under the palm of his hands when he's giving him stitches to a particularly nasty cut and in the brief moments when he gets a glimpse of Cas changing in his pajamas, brand new and soft. Because he's human now, and a pair of comfy pajama pants seems to have the same soothing effect a glass of whisky has for Dean.
It's while he watches him walk around the room like he'd never wear anything else, pulling that huge shirt low on his body, that he sees it.
His collarbone, peeking out of the neck of the black shirt, too huge for himself already and just too much for a leaner form as Cas'. If he wasn't lost before, Dean is sure there's no turning point for him now.
Just a little strip of flesh, reddened from a hot shower and pulled taut over delicate bone.
From the first moment he lays his eyes on it, the shape of his clavicle becomes a new favorite of his.
He licks his lips thinking about how it would taste, how good it would be to scrape his teeth on it and bite, bite and bite again. What would Castiel do? Would he let him, or say no? Caress the tender flesh with the tip of his fingers after each and every little lap of his tongue, holding him down and having his way with him.
He doesn't even pretend to wait to fall asleep before he starts touching himself on that picture that very night. He comes with a muffled cry, his teeth biting down his pillow. The disappointment of finding it too soft, too fake and not at all like a piece of Cas' body would feel, is enough to upset him into a restless sleep.
* * *
Now that he can no longer fly, Castiel enjoys going for long runs. He puts on his running gear and leaves the motel room for hours at a time, coming back covered in sweat and rosy cheeked. A satisfied smile for every mile he can add to his personal record, and the graceful expense of his calf from his shorts to his sneakers tempting Dean at each and every movement.
This obsession is bordering on ridiculous, he knows, but no rational thought is easy to entertain when he can let his eyes slide over the beautiful lines of his ankle, flexing and taunting him.
All he wants to do, all he ever wanted to do it seems, is grab that ankle and use it to slide the body attached to it down along his bed. Use that very same mass of so very human bones as the starting point on a journey of exploration for the benefit of his mouth and tongue.
In his mind's eye he can see himself, knelt in between his friend's legs, letting his fingers wander on that vast land made of muscle and tendons and everything they hold within themselves.
He would touch, and lick and whisper over every single inch of Cas, without stopping, for ever and ever as long as he would let him.
Desecrate that sanctuary untouched by human hand and destroy and rebuild it in the throws of mindless passion, panting his name and making him scream.
It's ridiculous, he thinks. But it's the way it is.
* * *
In the end, it's the hipbones that break him.
Of course it is.
Cas is back from his run, joyous and tired after a seven mile track around town, and he's talking about something or other that Dean is really not listening to. See, it's difficult to stay focused when the object of one's more profound obsessions starts stretching his arms over his head, a line of perfect flesh peeking from under his sweat soaked shirt for the barest of seconds before he relaxes again.
The jut of his hipbones, so delicate and pale, it's too much to witness and in that moment everything else is forgotten, and rational thought is suddenly not essential.
Castiel is human now, and he eats and breathes and bathes and sleeps, of course, but he never really learned the real value of personal space, always overing a little too close, a little too much.
Which is perfectly fine at the moment because it means that all Dean has to do to touch him is extend his arm. From his seated position at the table, a swift movement is sufficient for him to grab Cas' wrist with his hand, clenching his fingers around it and almost groaning at the feel of those joints moving under the smooth skin.
His friend stops talking, and Cas being Cas, he lets himself be dragged towards him, until he's standing in between Dean's legs, silence all around them.
It would be wise to look at his face, Dean thinks fleetingly. Assure himself he's not overstepping any boundaries. But Cas is right in front of him, and those hipbones, now hidden again under the soft material of his shirt, are calling for him.
He holds Cas' wrist in his hand, fingers grazing the silky skin of it, feeling the rush of blood and thumping of his pulse, while his other hand comes up to Cas' pelvis, and he splays it there, covering his hip.
They stay like this for a couple of seconds, neither moving, barely breathing. The air is heavy and all he can feel is the heath radiating from the body in front of him. Cas doesn't say a word, doesn't move and doesn't pull away, and in his mind Dean exhales a breath of relief because yeah, it's all right.
And then, slowly, so slowly he doubts it's even him moving his body, his left thumb starts moving, inching away from the rest of his hand and towards the inside of Cas' hips, following an invisible line as it finally lands on that single place that's been pulling him forward since his eyes licked the expanse of flesh before them.
As the pad of his thumb caresses him through the worn grey cotton, Cas exhales, and Dean leans his head to rest on his tummy, inhaling in his smell.
It's intoxicating, a mix of Cas' usual smell and sweat, all so familiar and relaxing that his stomach clenches with desire.
He drops the other man's wrist so he can palm him with both hands, fingers finally slipping under the useless fabric, reveling in the sheer heath of this body, so delicate and pliant under his shameless groping and perfect as it is, drawing him in with incredible strength without even moving.
The feel of those bones under his touch is the most erotic thing he's ever experienced. Fingertips sliding with little friction on the sweaty skin, and he tries to commit every inch to memory as he scrapes his nails on the jut of both hips, drawing a small, gorgeous sound from Cas' lips.
He nuzzles the plane of Cas' tummy, mouth barely touching his skin, inhaling and reveling on the sensation, and there's nothing like it, nothing like that first, magnificent taste on his tongue as it flicks for a fraction of a second on the surface of his friend's body.
He moans, and it is desperate and accomplished all at once, it could be ridiculous but it's actually not, for Castiel lifts a hand and tangles it in his short hair, keeping him still and pressed against him. As his tongue comes out of hiding once more to get a better taste, a longer one, and savor the luscious quality of untouched skin, he can feel him. Really feel him. Hot and ready and now pressed into him, vibrating with each tiny lap of his tongue.
As another moan escapes his mouth, his hands grip Cas tighter still, never to let him go, and while he scratches at his hips just because he can Dean finally decides to move from his sitting position. Sliding slowly and careful to keep his body pressed completely to the other man's, he climbs the remaining distance with not even a breath of air between them. This sliding motion, so intimate, so indicative of his passion and his want, stating loud and clear that he's here to take and keep forever.
His arms slide around Cas' waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the hand in his hair, still there, constant and heavy, clenching and unclenching, fingers slowly sliding to the nape of his neck when they're finally standing and completely in each other's embrace.
Dean would love to look at Castiel now, gaze deeply into his eyes, kiss him and bite his lips. But the comfort of having him this close, so close they're almost slipping under each other's skin, is too much to give up just yet, even for the joy of a first kiss.
So he still takes some time to take advantage of this, sliding the side of his head to Cas', feeling his stubble on his cheek, exhaling roughly at his ear. He bends his head just slightly then, just enough so he can take something more, the sound escaping the other man's mouth when he bites down on his flesh broken and beautiful and entirely too special to ever be heard by another human soul other then him.
He bites for a moment, hard and powerful, and then soothes the hurt and pleasure with his tongue, wet and raspy and languid on what must be an angry red mark by now.
Castiel has his arms around him, holding tight as if afraid he could ever let him go after this, and Dean finally pulls his head back a little, just enough to check the other's face and find it flushed, lips parted, brow furrowed like he's not really sure this is happening.
''it is'' he whispers, first words since Cas began his stretching session. Those blue eyes open wide and stare right through him in all his shocked realization, and Dean tips his head and kisses him, drowning in wetness and heath and spasming glory.
Cas, vocal as he's never been in his days as an Angel of the Lord, moans his approval at Dean's move, and the kiss transforms from something sweet and innocent (as sweet and innocent a kiss Dean Winchester could ever give) to a battle of tongues and teeth and growls of pleasure.
It's too much and too little at the same time, and the first thing to go, Dean decides, is their t-shirts. One swift motion, a complaining sound for the brief separation of their mouth, and the offending garments lie discarded on the floor. A couple of steps then, and Dean has Castiel exactly where he wants him.
Sprawled on his bed, bare chested and panting for more.
It is glorious and unbelievable and much too perfect to be real, but it is, it really is. In an effort to control himself Dean closes his eyes for a second, tight and tighter still until he sees stars shining under the surface of his eyelids. Then, he thinks, it's safe to open them back and bask on the view presenting itself in front of him.
One swift motion and he takes his belt off, looking Cas straight in the eye, lips parted and breathing heavily. He kneels in between those legs he fantasized so much about, trailing his fingers lightly on the kneecaps, and once he's eye level with that blue, eternal stare, he kisses the tip of his nose gently and whispers on his lips, words forming and dying between their mouths.
''Raise your arms above your head.''
And God bless him those arms raise without a word. A bundle of toned muscle, sinews and bones, exquisite and smooth, him for the taking as he bounds them in leather to the headboard.
When he's sure he's not hurting but merely restraining him, Dean slides back between Cas' thighs, whispering soft kisses along the way, flicking his tongue rapidly on his bottom lip, nuzzling his neck, ghosting over his chest.
There is nothing like this moment, all he's been craving and wanting and needing, fuck, needing so much, just displayed here for him, ready to be taken apart piece by piece.
Cas is flushed and gorgeous and breathing rapidly, his chest rising and falling and the temptation is too great, he can't help leaning down and trace the line of his ribs with his tongue, blowing on the wet paths he's leaving, nipping and gently biting at the flesh.
Castiel whimpers and writhes under him, huffing frustrated puffs of hair and blinking his eyes in an attempt to not lose focus. His body arches following Dean's mouth as he sits back up, and Dean has to kiss him, has to, because this man, so human now and fragile and flawed just like him, is giving himself up and it's all for his own benefit.
All for him, and no words can describe his gratitude and appreciation, so he lets his tongue write his thanks in Cas' mouth, whispering his love and devotion and ferocious passion with each wet stroke, biting his promise of forever in his bottom lip.
His hand finds his way again to the hip, caressing it, never tiring of discovering the slopes of unknown territory, drawing a map and committing it to memory. He lets the kiss become a lazy battle of tongues as his hands roam over pale skin, leaving red traces where nails decide to mark a turning point, and gentle strokes soothe in their wake.
He sits back up, slides back down, and nothing can deter him now from tracing those hipbones with his tongue. Scraping his teeth on it, testing the shape and how his mouth molds around it, sucking and nipping and licking and moaning at the salty taste. Hands can't keep still and he realizes he's been palming Cas' erection through his shorts when he hears a breath hitch, body suddenly tense, and a moan escape to freedom somewhere north of his head.
He can't be bothered to wait more than this, and while his lips are perfectly content marking a shameless tattoo on such an unblemished part of his companion's anatomy, his fingers drop inside the waistband of the shorts, dragging them down with his boxers.
Tracing paths from the height of his hipbone to the inside of Cas' tight with the tip of his tongue, panting wetly and so hard in his jeans he could die from it, Dean gently starts stroking Cas' erection with a new sense of purpose. He is acutely aware of his own inexperience on the matter, besides the one applicable to himself, and hopes to be good enough for the creature currently arching on the bed under his ministrations.
And judging by Cas' rocking motions, pants and groans, it has to be enough, because Dean has never even heard sounds like that from any other person who happened to fall in his bed, and the fact that they're coming from Castiel? That's awesome, really fucking great.
He opens his eyes, nuzzling that perfect piece of jutting bone one last time, and looks up to the disheveled man tossing his head back and forth, lips curved around a little 'oh' and arms straining in their bindings.
He's gorgeous, the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen, and all he ever wants is to have him here, with him, forever. Never let him go.
Cas' cock is leaking pleasure, pulsing in his hand in between strokes, and it looks too appetizing not to take a taste. He licks the tip, Cas very nearly screaming.
Dean has always been a visual guy, getting off on seeing things right before his eyes, but this taste, salty and rich and wonderful, it makes his mouth explode and want more. And so he takes more, taking Cas' in and sucking and licking and still stroking him, while his other hand gets down to stroke in between Cas' legs, ripping a moan from the tied up man that could have shattered the room had he been an angel still.
He's never done anything like this in his life, and he loves it. He loves every second of it, every motion of Cas' body under his, and the weight and feel of his cock on his tongue is comforting and erotic and leaves him raw with want.
He feels Cas starting to tense up, feels his whimper and ''Dean...'' in between moans, and his right hand reaches up over the other man's sternum, grazing a nipple on the way. His head bobs up and down on Cas's cock, full and red and ready, hollowing his cheeks and blowing him like that's what he was supposed to do all along.
The moment his fingers find his collarbone, gripping tight, nails encasing themselves in the tender flesh, a low cry climbs out of his man, and Castiel is coming, powerful and shocked and screaming around his very own name, and it's all Dean can do not to come in his pants at the sight.
Because wow. Wow.
As soon as Cas comes down from his high, spent and limp and beautifully flushed, Dean finishes licking him clean and swiftly climbs up the sated body. His legs on either side of Cas' abdomen, he hurriedly opens the fly of his jeans, relief washing over him as his erection breakes free of his boxer shorts, and he grips himself tight, smearing the leaked precome all along his shaft. Cas is just coming back to reality as Dean pets his hair, hand sliding down to cup his jaw.
''Open your mouth'' he whispers, and Cas, always obedient, does as he's told.
It's enough and Dean comes undone under heavy lidded eyes, a smile on his lips as he sees Cas' tongue tentatively lap at the corner of his mouth, kitty like, to try a taste.
So beautiful in his abandon, completely given to him, ready for anything he might want of his body and his very soul, Castiel waits for him to calm down and regain his bearings, lapping at the remains of his pleasure.
He breathes, heavy and sated, and moves on the side, sliding down to swiftly free Cas of his bindings.
They don't talk, they don't move, they just look at each other with stupid little smiles and the threat of sleep looming above them.
After an eternity, and before sinking into oblivion, Dean raises a hand and slightly traces his fingertips along Cas' clavicle, down to his arm until he reaches his wrist. He takes his hand, grips it tight and kisses the top of his shoulder.
It occurs to him that people might classify this as cuddling, but whatever, he can rock cuddling any time he wants, and people can just go fuck themselves.
Author:
brokentoy85Word count: 3536
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None
Summary: Dean develops a fascination with Cas' bones.
Author notes: this is a gift for
kallista85, who first introduced me to the fandom. It is dedicated to her, to akane_87 and to the wonderful shadowrose81, who was my beta (and did an amazing job at it). Thank you bbs <3It starts with a wrist. The left one, extended to pick up a book from the table, tendons stretching and muscle flexing under the weight. Sam would be able to list all the bones and joints involved in the movement, and he's sure it might be really interesting and all, but Sam is not here. He contents himself in looking in fascination at what he suspects might be the head of Cas' ulna jutting out to the external side of his hand.
He can only see a couple of inches of flesh and bones coming out of his jacket, still wrapped in the white cotton of his shirt. It's so enthralling that he barely catches himself from extending his hand and touching the skin like he has any right to do so.
***
It turns out Cas has particularly beautiful bones. His brain is conscious of the fact that it's all in Jimmy's genetic make up, but since Jimmy left, it's safe to assume that that body is all Castiel now.
Castiel with no grace. Except when he moves, lithe as he ever was, and stretches the length of that magnificent bag of bones and blood, cracking the joints with a soft hum of relief. Discovering how it is to be human and be stiff and tired after a whole day of hunting.
It's in a moment like this, while Cas is bending down to crack his spine, that Dean notices the infinite line of vertebrae pushing through the cotton of his shirt. He follows each and every one of them with his eyes, watching them stir and bend, a consequence of his companion's movements.
They crack, one after the other, and the sound is poetry to his ears.
That night Dean dreams of running his tongue along that very spine, imagining how wonderful it would be to just put his ear on it and feel as all the sensations he elicits in Cas' body run through the spinal cord to his brain.
He comes in his sleep, and the stickiness is worth it, for when he wakes up he remembers every single detail.
***
Dean is lost. There's really no other way to put it because yes, he's lost in the curves and planes of skin and muscle he can detect under the shield of the old t-shirts he passed on to Cas. It's under the palm of his hands when he's giving him stitches to a particularly nasty cut and in the brief moments when he gets a glimpse of Cas changing in his pajamas, brand new and soft. Because he's human now, and a pair of comfy pajama pants seems to have the same soothing effect a glass of whisky has for Dean.
It's while he watches him walk around the room like he'd never wear anything else, pulling that huge shirt low on his body, that he sees it.
His collarbone, peeking out of the neck of the black shirt, too huge for himself already and just too much for a leaner form as Cas'. If he wasn't lost before, Dean is sure there's no turning point for him now.
Just a little strip of flesh, reddened from a hot shower and pulled taut over delicate bone.
From the first moment he lays his eyes on it, the shape of his clavicle becomes a new favorite of his.
He licks his lips thinking about how it would taste, how good it would be to scrape his teeth on it and bite, bite and bite again. What would Castiel do? Would he let him, or say no? Caress the tender flesh with the tip of his fingers after each and every little lap of his tongue, holding him down and having his way with him.
He doesn't even pretend to wait to fall asleep before he starts touching himself on that picture that very night. He comes with a muffled cry, his teeth biting down his pillow. The disappointment of finding it too soft, too fake and not at all like a piece of Cas' body would feel, is enough to upset him into a restless sleep.
* * *
Now that he can no longer fly, Castiel enjoys going for long runs. He puts on his running gear and leaves the motel room for hours at a time, coming back covered in sweat and rosy cheeked. A satisfied smile for every mile he can add to his personal record, and the graceful expense of his calf from his shorts to his sneakers tempting Dean at each and every movement.
This obsession is bordering on ridiculous, he knows, but no rational thought is easy to entertain when he can let his eyes slide over the beautiful lines of his ankle, flexing and taunting him.
All he wants to do, all he ever wanted to do it seems, is grab that ankle and use it to slide the body attached to it down along his bed. Use that very same mass of so very human bones as the starting point on a journey of exploration for the benefit of his mouth and tongue.
In his mind's eye he can see himself, knelt in between his friend's legs, letting his fingers wander on that vast land made of muscle and tendons and everything they hold within themselves.
He would touch, and lick and whisper over every single inch of Cas, without stopping, for ever and ever as long as he would let him.
Desecrate that sanctuary untouched by human hand and destroy and rebuild it in the throws of mindless passion, panting his name and making him scream.
It's ridiculous, he thinks. But it's the way it is.
* * *
In the end, it's the hipbones that break him.
Of course it is.
Cas is back from his run, joyous and tired after a seven mile track around town, and he's talking about something or other that Dean is really not listening to. See, it's difficult to stay focused when the object of one's more profound obsessions starts stretching his arms over his head, a line of perfect flesh peeking from under his sweat soaked shirt for the barest of seconds before he relaxes again.
The jut of his hipbones, so delicate and pale, it's too much to witness and in that moment everything else is forgotten, and rational thought is suddenly not essential.
Castiel is human now, and he eats and breathes and bathes and sleeps, of course, but he never really learned the real value of personal space, always overing a little too close, a little too much.
Which is perfectly fine at the moment because it means that all Dean has to do to touch him is extend his arm. From his seated position at the table, a swift movement is sufficient for him to grab Cas' wrist with his hand, clenching his fingers around it and almost groaning at the feel of those joints moving under the smooth skin.
His friend stops talking, and Cas being Cas, he lets himself be dragged towards him, until he's standing in between Dean's legs, silence all around them.
It would be wise to look at his face, Dean thinks fleetingly. Assure himself he's not overstepping any boundaries. But Cas is right in front of him, and those hipbones, now hidden again under the soft material of his shirt, are calling for him.
He holds Cas' wrist in his hand, fingers grazing the silky skin of it, feeling the rush of blood and thumping of his pulse, while his other hand comes up to Cas' pelvis, and he splays it there, covering his hip.
They stay like this for a couple of seconds, neither moving, barely breathing. The air is heavy and all he can feel is the heath radiating from the body in front of him. Cas doesn't say a word, doesn't move and doesn't pull away, and in his mind Dean exhales a breath of relief because yeah, it's all right.
And then, slowly, so slowly he doubts it's even him moving his body, his left thumb starts moving, inching away from the rest of his hand and towards the inside of Cas' hips, following an invisible line as it finally lands on that single place that's been pulling him forward since his eyes licked the expanse of flesh before them.
As the pad of his thumb caresses him through the worn grey cotton, Cas exhales, and Dean leans his head to rest on his tummy, inhaling in his smell.
It's intoxicating, a mix of Cas' usual smell and sweat, all so familiar and relaxing that his stomach clenches with desire.
He drops the other man's wrist so he can palm him with both hands, fingers finally slipping under the useless fabric, reveling in the sheer heath of this body, so delicate and pliant under his shameless groping and perfect as it is, drawing him in with incredible strength without even moving.
The feel of those bones under his touch is the most erotic thing he's ever experienced. Fingertips sliding with little friction on the sweaty skin, and he tries to commit every inch to memory as he scrapes his nails on the jut of both hips, drawing a small, gorgeous sound from Cas' lips.
He nuzzles the plane of Cas' tummy, mouth barely touching his skin, inhaling and reveling on the sensation, and there's nothing like it, nothing like that first, magnificent taste on his tongue as it flicks for a fraction of a second on the surface of his friend's body.
He moans, and it is desperate and accomplished all at once, it could be ridiculous but it's actually not, for Castiel lifts a hand and tangles it in his short hair, keeping him still and pressed against him. As his tongue comes out of hiding once more to get a better taste, a longer one, and savor the luscious quality of untouched skin, he can feel him. Really feel him. Hot and ready and now pressed into him, vibrating with each tiny lap of his tongue.
As another moan escapes his mouth, his hands grip Cas tighter still, never to let him go, and while he scratches at his hips just because he can Dean finally decides to move from his sitting position. Sliding slowly and careful to keep his body pressed completely to the other man's, he climbs the remaining distance with not even a breath of air between them. This sliding motion, so intimate, so indicative of his passion and his want, stating loud and clear that he's here to take and keep forever.
His arms slide around Cas' waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the hand in his hair, still there, constant and heavy, clenching and unclenching, fingers slowly sliding to the nape of his neck when they're finally standing and completely in each other's embrace.
Dean would love to look at Castiel now, gaze deeply into his eyes, kiss him and bite his lips. But the comfort of having him this close, so close they're almost slipping under each other's skin, is too much to give up just yet, even for the joy of a first kiss.
So he still takes some time to take advantage of this, sliding the side of his head to Cas', feeling his stubble on his cheek, exhaling roughly at his ear. He bends his head just slightly then, just enough so he can take something more, the sound escaping the other man's mouth when he bites down on his flesh broken and beautiful and entirely too special to ever be heard by another human soul other then him.
He bites for a moment, hard and powerful, and then soothes the hurt and pleasure with his tongue, wet and raspy and languid on what must be an angry red mark by now.
Castiel has his arms around him, holding tight as if afraid he could ever let him go after this, and Dean finally pulls his head back a little, just enough to check the other's face and find it flushed, lips parted, brow furrowed like he's not really sure this is happening.
''it is'' he whispers, first words since Cas began his stretching session. Those blue eyes open wide and stare right through him in all his shocked realization, and Dean tips his head and kisses him, drowning in wetness and heath and spasming glory.
Cas, vocal as he's never been in his days as an Angel of the Lord, moans his approval at Dean's move, and the kiss transforms from something sweet and innocent (as sweet and innocent a kiss Dean Winchester could ever give) to a battle of tongues and teeth and growls of pleasure.
It's too much and too little at the same time, and the first thing to go, Dean decides, is their t-shirts. One swift motion, a complaining sound for the brief separation of their mouth, and the offending garments lie discarded on the floor. A couple of steps then, and Dean has Castiel exactly where he wants him.
Sprawled on his bed, bare chested and panting for more.
It is glorious and unbelievable and much too perfect to be real, but it is, it really is. In an effort to control himself Dean closes his eyes for a second, tight and tighter still until he sees stars shining under the surface of his eyelids. Then, he thinks, it's safe to open them back and bask on the view presenting itself in front of him.
One swift motion and he takes his belt off, looking Cas straight in the eye, lips parted and breathing heavily. He kneels in between those legs he fantasized so much about, trailing his fingers lightly on the kneecaps, and once he's eye level with that blue, eternal stare, he kisses the tip of his nose gently and whispers on his lips, words forming and dying between their mouths.
''Raise your arms above your head.''
And God bless him those arms raise without a word. A bundle of toned muscle, sinews and bones, exquisite and smooth, him for the taking as he bounds them in leather to the headboard.
When he's sure he's not hurting but merely restraining him, Dean slides back between Cas' thighs, whispering soft kisses along the way, flicking his tongue rapidly on his bottom lip, nuzzling his neck, ghosting over his chest.
There is nothing like this moment, all he's been craving and wanting and needing, fuck, needing so much, just displayed here for him, ready to be taken apart piece by piece.
Cas is flushed and gorgeous and breathing rapidly, his chest rising and falling and the temptation is too great, he can't help leaning down and trace the line of his ribs with his tongue, blowing on the wet paths he's leaving, nipping and gently biting at the flesh.
Castiel whimpers and writhes under him, huffing frustrated puffs of hair and blinking his eyes in an attempt to not lose focus. His body arches following Dean's mouth as he sits back up, and Dean has to kiss him, has to, because this man, so human now and fragile and flawed just like him, is giving himself up and it's all for his own benefit.
All for him, and no words can describe his gratitude and appreciation, so he lets his tongue write his thanks in Cas' mouth, whispering his love and devotion and ferocious passion with each wet stroke, biting his promise of forever in his bottom lip.
His hand finds his way again to the hip, caressing it, never tiring of discovering the slopes of unknown territory, drawing a map and committing it to memory. He lets the kiss become a lazy battle of tongues as his hands roam over pale skin, leaving red traces where nails decide to mark a turning point, and gentle strokes soothe in their wake.
He sits back up, slides back down, and nothing can deter him now from tracing those hipbones with his tongue. Scraping his teeth on it, testing the shape and how his mouth molds around it, sucking and nipping and licking and moaning at the salty taste. Hands can't keep still and he realizes he's been palming Cas' erection through his shorts when he hears a breath hitch, body suddenly tense, and a moan escape to freedom somewhere north of his head.
He can't be bothered to wait more than this, and while his lips are perfectly content marking a shameless tattoo on such an unblemished part of his companion's anatomy, his fingers drop inside the waistband of the shorts, dragging them down with his boxers.
Tracing paths from the height of his hipbone to the inside of Cas' tight with the tip of his tongue, panting wetly and so hard in his jeans he could die from it, Dean gently starts stroking Cas' erection with a new sense of purpose. He is acutely aware of his own inexperience on the matter, besides the one applicable to himself, and hopes to be good enough for the creature currently arching on the bed under his ministrations.
And judging by Cas' rocking motions, pants and groans, it has to be enough, because Dean has never even heard sounds like that from any other person who happened to fall in his bed, and the fact that they're coming from Castiel? That's awesome, really fucking great.
He opens his eyes, nuzzling that perfect piece of jutting bone one last time, and looks up to the disheveled man tossing his head back and forth, lips curved around a little 'oh' and arms straining in their bindings.
He's gorgeous, the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen, and all he ever wants is to have him here, with him, forever. Never let him go.
Cas' cock is leaking pleasure, pulsing in his hand in between strokes, and it looks too appetizing not to take a taste. He licks the tip, Cas very nearly screaming.
Dean has always been a visual guy, getting off on seeing things right before his eyes, but this taste, salty and rich and wonderful, it makes his mouth explode and want more. And so he takes more, taking Cas' in and sucking and licking and still stroking him, while his other hand gets down to stroke in between Cas' legs, ripping a moan from the tied up man that could have shattered the room had he been an angel still.
He's never done anything like this in his life, and he loves it. He loves every second of it, every motion of Cas' body under his, and the weight and feel of his cock on his tongue is comforting and erotic and leaves him raw with want.
He feels Cas starting to tense up, feels his whimper and ''Dean...'' in between moans, and his right hand reaches up over the other man's sternum, grazing a nipple on the way. His head bobs up and down on Cas's cock, full and red and ready, hollowing his cheeks and blowing him like that's what he was supposed to do all along.
The moment his fingers find his collarbone, gripping tight, nails encasing themselves in the tender flesh, a low cry climbs out of his man, and Castiel is coming, powerful and shocked and screaming around his very own name, and it's all Dean can do not to come in his pants at the sight.
Because wow. Wow.
As soon as Cas comes down from his high, spent and limp and beautifully flushed, Dean finishes licking him clean and swiftly climbs up the sated body. His legs on either side of Cas' abdomen, he hurriedly opens the fly of his jeans, relief washing over him as his erection breakes free of his boxer shorts, and he grips himself tight, smearing the leaked precome all along his shaft. Cas is just coming back to reality as Dean pets his hair, hand sliding down to cup his jaw.
''Open your mouth'' he whispers, and Cas, always obedient, does as he's told.
It's enough and Dean comes undone under heavy lidded eyes, a smile on his lips as he sees Cas' tongue tentatively lap at the corner of his mouth, kitty like, to try a taste.
So beautiful in his abandon, completely given to him, ready for anything he might want of his body and his very soul, Castiel waits for him to calm down and regain his bearings, lapping at the remains of his pleasure.
He breathes, heavy and sated, and moves on the side, sliding down to swiftly free Cas of his bindings.
They don't talk, they don't move, they just look at each other with stupid little smiles and the threat of sleep looming above them.
After an eternity, and before sinking into oblivion, Dean raises a hand and slightly traces his fingertips along Cas' clavicle, down to his arm until he reaches his wrist. He takes his hand, grips it tight and kisses the top of his shoulder.
It occurs to him that people might classify this as cuddling, but whatever, he can rock cuddling any time he wants, and people can just go fuck themselves.