[ No, that glass is necessary. Dean may not understand the value of his own life, but Castiel, lifeless immortal thing that he is, does. Dean is too valuable to risk. That's why he'd left that gas station when Dean couldn't understand him, why he'd begged Pamela not to summon him, and why he's still trapped in a human body: all for Dean. All so Dean can look at him like this, with wanting and reverence. All so Castiel can feel human in Dean's presence, even for a moment.
And he does. Even through the barrier of humanity that limits his angelic senses in an imperfect way, like looking at the world through an oily, discolored lens, he can still see Dean looking at him through the camera of his phone, touching him in gentle, teasing ways that fire off electric signals of pleasure that burn hot enough to feel even through his grace, and calling his name, telling Castiel— this poor excuse for an angel and worse imitation of a human being— that he's perfect.
Castiel is left flushed and shivering by Dean's attention. Every exhale he makes is a shaken gasp or pleasured sound, and though he tries to keep still to maintain the pose Dean's put him in, more and more his hips lift in response to the pull of Dean's hand on his cock, chasing an orgasm that's quickly approaching. Dean cups his face instead, and Castiel whines at the loss of friction, but it's an instinctual, meaningless sound. He leans his face into Dean's palm in exactly the same way, desperate to touch Dean in any way he's allowed. ]
[ The photos are nearly forgotten by the time Dean makes his way to Cas' face, fingers light over the soft skin by his collarbone, places normally hidden, places Dean would have normally never allowed himself to touch or think about. A moment of insanity led him to the text, and subsequently all of this.
This being Castiel naked and flushed, so obviously aroused by Dean's touch. It's unlikely it's because of him, specifically; Dean imagines Cas would probably be just as aroused were it someone else, but he's taking great pleasure in the fact that it's him, that this angel is choosing to be here in Dean's presence.
He wonders what that says about him, in the long run. About who he is as a person, that he's enthralled with a naked angel in the body of a man, sprawled out across the bed.
The phone is set aside and Dean crawls onto the bed beside him, a knee pressing down, dipping the mattress. He wants to kiss him, touch every inch like he's been doing, but if the photo session is over, Cas probably wants to leave, or something. Why the hell would he want to stick around with someone like Dean, an absolute and utter friggin' mess, beat up and hung up to dry. His baggage could fill a cargo plane.
Dean doesn't want him to leave, though. God, he doesn't want Cas to go. ]
I want, uh--
[ His head is a little fogged, being this close, feeling heat radiate against his thigh where he's got it pressed against Cas' hip. His throat dry, he blinks down at Cas, fingers dragging up his neck so he can brush them over those pretty lips, and words utterly fail him.
[ Castiel is so focused on Dean and that wonderful-but-not-enough touch of Dean's hand to his cheek that he doesn't even notice the camera being set down. When he feels Dean's weight pressing down on the bed, Castiel is quietly startled. His breathing quiets, and his eyes go just a bit larger as he looks up for Dean, curious but accepting of whatever it is Dean's doing, as long as it brings him closer and not further away. He looks up at Dean, devoid of words, because the only words he could manage would be hallelujahs or begging, or some Enochian melding of both.
"I want," Dean begins, and already Castiel wants to give it. He would give Dean anything. He doesn't belong to God anymore; he renounces him. He belongs to Dean, wholly, if Dean wants him.
And wonder that cannot be fathomed, miracle that cannot be counted: Dean wants him. Dean's thumb brushes against his lips, and Castiel shivers, opening his mouth and wetting his dry lips and the pad of Dean's thumb. His grace vibrates beneath its cage of skin like he might shake apart. It feels impossible to stay still and equally impossible not to move. With desperation and patience near shattering, Castiel asks. ]
Am I— Are we, ah... done? With the photographs?
[ The words sound rough and inelegant, and worse: they sound as if he wants them to be done, which is true. He does want the photographs to be done, but not because he doesn't want Dean, and realizing how the words might be misinterpreted, Castiel rushes to clarify. ]
[ At first, Dean interprets that statement in precisely the wrong way Castiel assumed he would, and the answer is quickly snapped. His face flushes, embarrassment and irritation rising until it's quelled by Cas' sensual purr, the way he asks permission to touch Dean.
As if Castiel, of all creatures, needs Dean's permission. He lifted Dean from hell, brought him back to that unmarked grave (though frankly, Dean still thinks it would have been considerate of Cas to have put him on top of the grave, instead of leaving him to face most of humanities biggest fear of being buried alive, clawing his way out of a pine box), branded in shoulder so deeply the mark remains. If there is anyone who is allowed to touch Dean Winchester without needing permission to do so, it's his angel.
Still. The consideration, the confession and question, it makes his heart thump in his chest, a steady drumbeat.
The smile reaches his eyes, lips curved up though his cheeks grow pinker and pinker, lashes brushing his cheeks as his gaze drops in what's almost shyness. ]
[ If only Castiel knew what humanity's greatest fears were, rather than assuming the worst possible thing that could happen to a soul was its banishment to Hell and perpetual shade from God's radiance. Where humanity is concerned in general, he's been so wrong about so many things.
That flash of irritation of Dean's is, in some way, a relief. Castiel is so strangely, surreally in tune with his vessel that, if Dean were to touch him again, he's not sure his restraint would last. The uncertainty and embarrassment calm him, which is a much needed thing right now.
Dean smiles, and Castiel's heart feels like it may pound of out his chest with its fullness. Dean's eyes lower, and Castiel's filled with an overwhelming desire to kiss every freckle that stretches across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks like a canopy of galaxies. Castiel's arms feel strangely stiff, almost numb as he lowers them and cups Dean's jaw immediately upon being granted permission. ]
Thank you.
[ He says with all the quiet wonder of an exultation as he pulls Dean in, and leans up, and kisses his mouth with warmth and unpracticed sweetness. His grace sings, "Behold, you are beautiful, my love; behold, you are beautiful." ]
[ The kiss isn't surprising. Not really. With all the teasing Dean's done to Cas, the soft touches, the way he let his fingers linger over sensitive areas, sensual in his touch - it's kind of shocking it hasn't already happened. Dean hasn't indulged like this in quite some time, for reasons neither here nor there - not anyone's business, in his opinion.
If anyone were to actually ask (but who would, no one really cares about Dean's sex life), he would simply say I've been busy, or who has time for that these days? or perhaps even a simple screw off, none of your business. Each of these is as likely as any of the others, but here, now, with Cas -- Dean takes his times, looks him over, then lets their lips meet, Cas' fingers guiding his face.
The lights don't explode, glass doesn't shatter, mirrors they do not burst or spray debris.
Not externally, anyway. Internally, Dean feels like his soul is being sucked into a collapsing star, gravity yanking him in, spine through his chest, right into Castiel's vortex. Closer and closer, dragged straight into Cas' space, he leans over, shifts on the bed to straddle the naked angel, bow legs pressing into the mattress on either side, mouths damp, tongues slick as they clash.
There's things he could say, break the kiss and stumble and stutter over; apologies maybe, confessions, but Dean is afraid he's going to say something wretchedly stupid that will likely be entirely misconstrued so instead he doesn't, he just laps at Cas' lips like the world is ending, like this is his one and only shot, this trembling bubble they're in, safe and tentative, a tiny pocket universe just for the two of them. ]
[ Like gravity. Yes, that's kissing Dean feels like. Like an inexorable pull towards collapse, or creation, or both. Impossible to resist, unwilling to try. Castiel opens his mouth to gasp in amazement, but there's Dean's mouth to kiss instead, his lips to suck, his tongue to lick. Dean crawls into his lap and Castiel moans into his mouth at the press of his thighs, hungry for more of his weight, more friction, more skin. His hands slide to Dean's hips automatically, seeking out more of him to claim, and he pushes his fingers up under Dean's shirt at the sides, desperate to touch him, hungry for more.
'I want,' Dean says again, and just as before, Castiel doesn't need to hear more than that before answering in a breathless whisper against his mouth. ]
Yes.
[ He wants to give Dean anything, everything he wants. ]
[ He gets permission and that's all he needs and he's touching Cas, touching him everywhere he can, hips and chest and face, fingers dragging over stubble as he licks his way into Cas' mouth, hungry and desperate.
It occurs to him he's wearing too many articles of clothing when Cas' hands go up under the tee he's wearing, and he leans back, breaks the kiss for a moment in order to tear it off over his head and fling it aside before he's right on Cas again, mouth on his neck this time, teeth dragging over skin, tongue tracing his collarbone, the little soft places he's only ever dared dream about. ]
Shit, you taste good, Cas, you're so good--
[ Good, perfect, warm and soft and hard in the right places, his hips stuttering unbidden, jeans dragging over Cas' hips, pressure against his cock. ]
[ Things progress like a fire hitting gasoline, from a warm slow spark to roaring flames as Dean is suddenly touching him everywhere: his face, his hips— and then Dean is gone entirely, leaned back and leaving Castiel to breathlessly watch as Dean arches, pulling off his shirt: a beautiful sculpture of God's magnificence in human form, and much too far away, suddenly. Castiel makes a needy little sound, but he isn't left to want for long. Dean is leaned over him again almost instantly, sucking on his neck, and Castiel's head tilts back in ecstasy. His hips lift, seeking out friction, only to be met by the grind of Dean's own hips down, and there's clothing there in the way still, but Castiel's hands dig mindlessly into Dean's hips and he ruts up shameless against Dean, anyway, as if there were nothing there between them. ]
Dean...
[ He begs shamelessly, and with a thought and a squeeze of his hands in Dean's belt, the belt and jeans are gone. But there's still a layer of fabric there that Castiel hadn't even thought about, and he whimpers with need, and the heat he can feel of Dean's cock straining through the thin cotton. ]
Dean, please...
[ Castiel doesn't even know what he's begging for. More of Dean's skin? More of his mouth on his neck? Or maybe just to come, after all the teasing he's already endured. He doesn't know, can't think to know anything beyond Dean, Dean, Dean. ]
[ He was juuuuuust about to fumble with the buckle of his belt when they're just...zapped away, angel mojo'd somewhere into the void and somewhere in the back of his mind that isn't consumed with dicking the hell out of Cas, he wonders if he'll ever get them back.
Not important.
What's important is getting his boxers off, because his name on Cas' lips like a prayer is getting him so fucking riled up he's a little afraid he's going to lose his shit and come in his boxers like a damn teenager.
His hands are shaking as he pulls back, fingers dragged down the length of the angels chest and belly, peeling himself off of Cas only long enough to finagle his way out of thin, worn cotton and flick them off the bed. He has to pause and take a few breaths, calm himself down, and frantically look around the room for -- lube? Condoms? Fuck, angels aren't self lubricating, right? That'd be too convenient.
And weird, probably. Convenient, but definitely weird.
Anyway. Lubricated angel assholes are what he wants, and this is Dean, so there's little packs of lube somewhere, probably in his jacket pocket.
But first -- ]
C-Cas. Angels don't have lube-y assholes, do they?
[ The little expenditure of grace isn't nearly enough. Castiel still feels like he's vibrating beneath his body's skin, the miniscule chemical structure of his atoms spinning and colliding wildly, crawling towards nuclear.
Dean is gone again, and Castiel's skin feels suddenly cool, which should be a blessing given the heat and the imminent explosive climax he feels, but instead he whines in neglect, opening his eyes and lifting his head to see where exactly Dean's gone when all Castiel wants is more touching, more of Dean's warm skin and soul being closer. He's taking of his shorts, Castiel realizes dumbly as he watches Dean do it, and yes. Yes, that's wonderful. He'll allow it, if only to have more of Dean touching him soon.
But that soon doesn't come. Dean is looking around, and Castiel frowns in confusion, at a loss for what Dean could possibly be doing. Is it about the photographs again? Then, instead, Dean is asking that, and Castiel feels his grace recoil in insult at the question. Dean, you incredible, beautiful idiot. Castiel leans up onto his elbows and deadpans. ]
Angels don't have assholes, Dean. Or mouths, or genitalia.
[ It's not something Castiel enjoys being reminded of while he's trying to imagine himself as human, and he can't imagine Dean would find his true form attractive, either. And yet, Castiel feels obligated to explain. ]
Angels are made of grace. It's creation energy. Like the human soul, but... lesser.
[ He tempers the words by kneeling up in the bed and reaching for Dean. He catches Dean by neck and pulls him back down, slowly, into the bed. His other hand finds Dean's wrist, and he tangles their fingers together. As his fingers slip through Dean's, they become slick until they're dripping with thick honey-colored oil. Castiel kisses Dean's mouth as he arches back down into the bed, spreading his thighs, encouraging Dean's dripping hand to press between them. ]
[ Dean wouldn't find his true form simply attractive, no. He'd find it devastatingly radiant in all its ethereal, eldritch horror glory. Terrifyingly beautiful, positively pulchritudinous in a cthulhu sort of way.
He harrumphs in Cas' general direction, because he is aware angels don't have all that stuff (though he may have had some monsterfucking dreams about this but you'll never hear him say that), but what he's working with right now does. He opens his mouth to say something, probably something snappy, but Cas is pulling him back down, taking his hand and it leaves him breathless, that simple act of intimacy, of threading fingers--
Until he realizes Cas has just slathered angel juice all over him, but you know what, he's gonna take it and roll with the punches, drop his hand between pretty thighs and knuckle up right behind his balls. ]
[ It's a ridiculous question, and yet it doesn't even feel ridiculous to Castiel, because he's too enraptured by the warm softeness of Dean's mouth, and the silken press of his skin, and the slick tease of his oiled hand and, oh. Castiel's breath catches. Lubrication does make a difference, doesn't it? ]
Because... you have a soul.
[ He catches an arm around Dean's shoulders, to pull and keep him close, but also for leverage as he cants his hips upwards towards the press of Dean's hand, begging for more. His own lubed hand leaves Dean's wrist, reluctantly, to track his hips towards center, and he takes Dean's cock in his hand at the base and strokes upwards to the tip, wetting it all, and yes, that feels incredible, too. Castiel's voice is already wrecked, his own cock throbbing for attention against Dean's hip as he presses up against him, gasping. ]
[ Angel juice makes a big difference, and slick fingers move easily over Cas' skin, slippery as he plays with Cas' balls. ]
My soul, o-or my dick?
[ It's hard to be cocky when Cas has his hand on Dean's cock, twitching and hard thing that it currently is. Cas did that, just by laying there and letting Dean pose him, touch him, kiss him senseless and steal the air from his lungs.
Wrinkly balls abandoned, he slips back further, teasing at Cas' hole with a jittery smile, eyes alight, cock straining in the angels warm hand, but Dean wills it to be patient, to calm down, give him a moment and it'll get all the sweet, sweet angel ass it can handle. ]
i can't believe you just called cas' balls wrinkly and i didn't even get an SAT word for it
[ Oh my god Dean Winchester, what does Castiel see in you. ]
Dean...
[ Castiel groans against Dean's lips, a deep, growly reprimand for making light of something as monumentally precious as his dick his soul, but also tinted with neediness and growing desperation as Dean's cock throbs under the squeeze of his hand, and Dean's still teasing him instead of fucking him with those fingers. It's unfair, and Castiel is about to shove Dean into the mattress and fuck himself on Dean's cock if he doesn't take the encouragement for what it is and get the light touch of those fingers deep into him fucking quickly. ]
lmfaoooo my bad should i have used FURROWED TESTES
[ Cas is probably the prettiest thing Dean has ever had on a dirty motel mattress. All squirming and desperate, breathing Dean's name like a sacred hymn.
It's delicious, utterly captivating.
He takes his time, still pressing lightly at his hole, teasing, circling, juuuust pressing the pad of his finger in before easing back out and playing for a little longer. ]
You look so good like this, Cas. Incredible.
[ To bring an angel to his metaphorical knees is a glorious thing indeed.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
And he does. Even through the barrier of humanity that limits his angelic senses in an imperfect way, like looking at the world through an oily, discolored lens, he can still see Dean looking at him through the camera of his phone, touching him in gentle, teasing ways that fire off electric signals of pleasure that burn hot enough to feel even through his grace, and calling his name, telling Castiel— this poor excuse for an angel and worse imitation of a human being— that he's perfect.
Castiel is left flushed and shivering by Dean's attention. Every exhale he makes is a shaken gasp or pleasured sound, and though he tries to keep still to maintain the pose Dean's put him in, more and more his hips lift in response to the pull of Dean's hand on his cock, chasing an orgasm that's quickly approaching. Dean cups his face instead, and Castiel whines at the loss of friction, but it's an instinctual, meaningless sound. He leans his face into Dean's palm in exactly the same way, desperate to touch Dean in any way he's allowed. ]
no subject
This being Castiel naked and flushed, so obviously aroused by Dean's touch. It's unlikely it's because of him, specifically; Dean imagines Cas would probably be just as aroused were it someone else, but he's taking great pleasure in the fact that it's him, that this angel is choosing to be here in Dean's presence.
He wonders what that says about him, in the long run. About who he is as a person, that he's enthralled with a naked angel in the body of a man, sprawled out across the bed.
The phone is set aside and Dean crawls onto the bed beside him, a knee pressing down, dipping the mattress. He wants to kiss him, touch every inch like he's been doing, but if the photo session is over, Cas probably wants to leave, or something. Why the hell would he want to stick around with someone like Dean, an absolute and utter friggin' mess, beat up and hung up to dry. His baggage could fill a cargo plane.
Dean doesn't want him to leave, though. God, he doesn't want Cas to go. ]
I want, uh--
[ His head is a little fogged, being this close, feeling heat radiate against his thigh where he's got it pressed against Cas' hip. His throat dry, he blinks down at Cas, fingers dragging up his neck so he can brush them over those pretty lips, and words utterly fail him.
So does common sense. ]
I want you.
no subject
"I want," Dean begins, and already Castiel wants to give it. He would give Dean anything. He doesn't belong to God anymore; he renounces him. He belongs to Dean, wholly, if Dean wants him.
And wonder that cannot be fathomed, miracle that cannot be counted: Dean wants him. Dean's thumb brushes against his lips, and Castiel shivers, opening his mouth and wetting his dry lips and the pad of Dean's thumb. His grace vibrates beneath its cage of skin like he might shake apart. It feels impossible to stay still and equally impossible not to move. With desperation and patience near shattering, Castiel asks. ]
Am I— Are we, ah... done? With the photographs?
[ The words sound rough and inelegant, and worse: they sound as if he wants them to be done, which is true. He does want the photographs to be done, but not because he doesn't want Dean, and realizing how the words might be misinterpreted, Castiel rushes to clarify. ]
I want you, Dean. I want to touch you. May I?
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[ At first, Dean interprets that statement in precisely the wrong way Castiel assumed he would, and the answer is quickly snapped. His face flushes, embarrassment and irritation rising until it's quelled by Cas' sensual purr, the way he asks permission to touch Dean.
As if Castiel, of all creatures, needs Dean's permission. He lifted Dean from hell, brought him back to that unmarked grave (though frankly, Dean still thinks it would have been considerate of Cas to have put him on top of the grave, instead of leaving him to face most of humanities biggest fear of being buried alive, clawing his way out of a pine box), branded in shoulder so deeply the mark remains. If there is anyone who is allowed to touch Dean Winchester without needing permission to do so, it's his angel.
Still. The consideration, the confession and question, it makes his heart thump in his chest, a steady drumbeat.
The smile reaches his eyes, lips curved up though his cheeks grow pinker and pinker, lashes brushing his cheeks as his gaze drops in what's almost shyness. ]
Yeah. Hell yeah, you can touch me.
no subject
That flash of irritation of Dean's is, in some way, a relief. Castiel is so strangely, surreally in tune with his vessel that, if Dean were to touch him again, he's not sure his restraint would last. The uncertainty and embarrassment calm him, which is a much needed thing right now.
Dean smiles, and Castiel's heart feels like it may pound of out his chest with its fullness. Dean's eyes lower, and Castiel's filled with an overwhelming desire to kiss every freckle that stretches across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks like a canopy of galaxies. Castiel's arms feel strangely stiff, almost numb as he lowers them and cups Dean's jaw immediately upon being granted permission. ]
Thank you.
[ He says with all the quiet wonder of an exultation as he pulls Dean in, and leans up, and kisses his mouth with warmth and unpracticed sweetness. His grace sings, "Behold, you are beautiful, my love; behold, you are beautiful." ]
no subject
If anyone were to actually ask (but who would, no one really cares about Dean's sex life), he would simply say I've been busy, or who has time for that these days? or perhaps even a simple screw off, none of your business. Each of these is as likely as any of the others, but here, now, with Cas -- Dean takes his times, looks him over, then lets their lips meet, Cas' fingers guiding his face.
The lights don't explode, glass doesn't shatter, mirrors they do not burst or spray debris.
Not externally, anyway. Internally, Dean feels like his soul is being sucked into a collapsing star, gravity yanking him in, spine through his chest, right into Castiel's vortex. Closer and closer, dragged straight into Cas' space, he leans over, shifts on the bed to straddle the naked angel, bow legs pressing into the mattress on either side, mouths damp, tongues slick as they clash.
There's things he could say, break the kiss and stumble and stutter over; apologies maybe, confessions, but Dean is afraid he's going to say something wretchedly stupid that will likely be entirely misconstrued so instead he doesn't, he just laps at Cas' lips like the world is ending, like this is his one and only shot, this trembling bubble they're in, safe and tentative, a tiny pocket universe just for the two of them. ]
I--want--
[ well, maybe he'll say something. ]
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'I want,' Dean says again, and just as before, Castiel doesn't need to hear more than that before answering in a breathless whisper against his mouth. ]
Yes.
[ He wants to give Dean anything, everything he wants. ]
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It occurs to him he's wearing too many articles of clothing when Cas' hands go up under the tee he's wearing, and he leans back, breaks the kiss for a moment in order to tear it off over his head and fling it aside before he's right on Cas again, mouth on his neck this time, teeth dragging over skin, tongue tracing his collarbone, the little soft places he's only ever dared dream about. ]
Shit, you taste good, Cas, you're so good--
[ Good, perfect, warm and soft and hard in the right places, his hips stuttering unbidden, jeans dragging over Cas' hips, pressure against his cock. ]
no subject
Dean...
[ He begs shamelessly, and with a thought and a squeeze of his hands in Dean's belt, the belt and jeans are gone. But there's still a layer of fabric there that Castiel hadn't even thought about, and he whimpers with need, and the heat he can feel of Dean's cock straining through the thin cotton. ]
Dean, please...
[ Castiel doesn't even know what he's begging for. More of Dean's skin? More of his mouth on his neck? Or maybe just to come, after all the teasing he's already endured. He doesn't know, can't think to know anything beyond Dean, Dean, Dean. ]
no subject
Not important.
What's important is getting his boxers off, because his name on Cas' lips like a prayer is getting him so fucking riled up he's a little afraid he's going to lose his shit and come in his boxers like a damn teenager.
His hands are shaking as he pulls back, fingers dragged down the length of the angels chest and belly, peeling himself off of Cas only long enough to finagle his way out of thin, worn cotton and flick them off the bed. He has to pause and take a few breaths, calm himself down, and frantically look around the room for -- lube? Condoms? Fuck, angels aren't self lubricating, right? That'd be too convenient.
And weird, probably. Convenient, but definitely weird.
Anyway. Lubricated angel assholes are what he wants, and this is Dean, so there's little packs of lube somewhere, probably in his jacket pocket.
But first -- ]
C-Cas. Angels don't have lube-y assholes, do they?
no subject
Dean is gone again, and Castiel's skin feels suddenly cool, which should be a blessing given the heat and the imminent explosive climax he feels, but instead he whines in neglect, opening his eyes and lifting his head to see where exactly Dean's gone when all Castiel wants is more touching, more of Dean's warm skin and soul being closer. He's taking of his shorts, Castiel realizes dumbly as he watches Dean do it, and yes. Yes, that's wonderful. He'll allow it, if only to have more of Dean touching him soon.
But that soon doesn't come. Dean is looking around, and Castiel frowns in confusion, at a loss for what Dean could possibly be doing. Is it about the photographs again? Then, instead, Dean is asking that, and Castiel feels his grace recoil in insult at the question. Dean, you incredible, beautiful idiot. Castiel leans up onto his elbows and deadpans. ]
Angels don't have assholes, Dean. Or mouths, or genitalia.
[ It's not something Castiel enjoys being reminded of while he's trying to imagine himself as human, and he can't imagine Dean would find his true form attractive, either. And yet, Castiel feels obligated to explain. ]
Angels are made of grace. It's creation energy. Like the human soul, but... lesser.
[ He tempers the words by kneeling up in the bed and reaching for Dean. He catches Dean by neck and pulls him back down, slowly, into the bed. His other hand finds Dean's wrist, and he tangles their fingers together. As his fingers slip through Dean's, they become slick until they're dripping with thick honey-colored oil. Castiel kisses Dean's mouth as he arches back down into the bed, spreading his thighs, encouraging Dean's dripping hand to press between them. ]
You have no idea how remarkable you are.
no subject
He harrumphs in Cas' general direction, because he is aware angels don't have all that stuff (though he may have had some monsterfucking dreams about this but you'll never hear him say that), but what he's working with right now does. He opens his mouth to say something, probably something snappy, but Cas is pulling him back down, taking his hand and it leaves him breathless, that simple act of intimacy, of threading fingers--
Until he realizes Cas has just slathered angel juice all over him, but you know what, he's gonna take it and roll with the punches, drop his hand between pretty thighs and knuckle up right behind his balls. ]
Because I ask about angels and lubed assholes?
[ Romantic. ]
pulchritudinous
Because... you have a soul.
[ He catches an arm around Dean's shoulders, to pull and keep him close, but also for leverage as he cants his hips upwards towards the press of Dean's hand, begging for more. His own lubed hand leaves Dean's wrist, reluctantly, to track his hips towards center, and he takes Dean's cock in his hand at the base and strokes upwards to the tip, wetting it all, and yes, that feels incredible, too. Castiel's voice is already wrecked, his own cock throbbing for attention against Dean's hip as he presses up against him, gasping. ]
It's magnificent.
i am *still* laughing over this send help
My soul, o-or my dick?
[ It's hard to be cocky when Cas has his hand on Dean's cock, twitching and hard thing that it currently is. Cas did that, just by laying there and letting Dean pose him, touch him, kiss him senseless and steal the air from his lungs.
Wrinkly balls abandoned, he slips back further, teasing at Cas' hole with a jittery smile, eyes alight, cock straining in the angels warm hand, but Dean wills it to be patient, to calm down, give him a moment and it'll get all the sweet, sweet angel ass it can handle. ]
i can't believe you just called cas' balls wrinkly and i didn't even get an SAT word for it
Dean...
[ Castiel groans against Dean's lips, a deep, growly reprimand for making light of something as monumentally precious as
his dickhis soul, but also tinted with neediness and growing desperation as Dean's cock throbs under the squeeze of his hand, and Dean's still teasing him instead of fucking him with those fingers. It's unfair, and Castiel is about to shove Dean into the mattress and fuck himself on Dean's cock if he doesn't take the encouragement for what it is and get the light touch of those fingers deep into him fucking quickly. ]lmfaoooo my bad should i have used FURROWED TESTES
Uh huh..
[ Cas is probably the prettiest thing Dean has ever had on a dirty motel mattress. All squirming and desperate, breathing Dean's name like a sacred hymn.
It's delicious, utterly captivating.
He takes his time, still pressing lightly at his hole, teasing, circling, juuuust pressing the pad of his finger in before easing back out and playing for a little longer. ]
You look so good like this, Cas. Incredible.
[ To bring an angel to his metaphorical knees is a glorious thing indeed.