[ One of the benefits of being an angel is that technically, they don't have to breathe, so Castiel doesn't have to worry about holding his breath, even though he's terrified that he's about to be rejected, while Dean deliberates. One of the other benefits of being an angel is that no, they don't contract sexually transmitted diseases, Dean Winchester, you absolute asshole.
Cas doesn't immediately answer. He rolls his eyes, and sighs very purposefully, and then answers. ]
No, Dean. As long as an angel has their grace, their human vessel can't succumb to injury or illness.
[ So that graceless angel you banged in your car? Definitely could've been carrying. Hope you wrapped it up, you complete dick. ]
[ THIS IS A VALID CONCERN. Cas went to an orgy, he has a human vessel, it's something he has to think about.
And yes he wraps it up, but God can you imagine the number of kids he actually has running around? Jesus Christ. ]
Oh. Okay. Good. I just -- thought I'd check.
[ She was hot. Shut up.
And he knows he's asked an awkward question (he made it awkward, he knows he did) so maybe he should just shut them both up and step forward, groping for the back of Cas' neck and yanking him forward into a kiss. ]
[ Is it valid tho, like Castiel is fully aware of how many sexual partners Dean Winchester has had in his life, but you don't hear Castiel asking if Dean has any diseases because Castiel is an angel and he's healed Dean's ass, literally, on more than one occasion.
He's a little miffed about it, honestly. Or maybe it's the residual stress of having confessed to the one person in his life whose friendship he can't afford to lose that he would like to have sex with him. A little inherently defensive fear seems justified, considering. And so Castiel considers to feel justified in his defensive anger, right up until Dean is grabbing him by the neck and—
Oh. Kissing him. All defensiveness, and anger, and every possible negative emotion is instantly washed away from Castiel like a baptism. His eyes fall closed in ecstasy at the softness of Dean's lips, the firmness of his hand on Castiel's neck, the radiating warmth of skin and soul in such very close proximity to his grace. For one long moment that feels incredibly brief, everything else in the universe is dissolved, and there's nothing but this, but Dean, kissing him.
And then Cas's eyes flutter open, and looks at Dean with a mix of wonder and longing, and then terrified guilt. ]
Marsha.
[ Cas says, remembering the poor fish he'd abandoned, and he doesn't pull away from Dean, but looks to his right, to the aquarium, filled but fish-less, next to them. At least, it's fish-less when he looks, and then filled with the fish between one blink and the next. They're swimming around, perfectly fine, and Castiel sighs as he begins to explain. ]
They were... Never mind.
[ No, as soon as Castiel looks at Dean again, explanations are lost from his mind, dismissed as categorically unimportant. He raises his hands and pulls Dean back in again by his stubble-rough cheeks on a much more important line of reasoning and kisses him again instead. ]
[ It's sort of obvious Cas is gearing up for something; an argument, petty sass, generic bitchy angel animosity™, etc. Seems prudent to shut him up before it starts, and the whole time they've been having this ridiculous conversation, talking about orgies and STDs and being touched healed by an angel and all of the above Dean's kinda been staring at Cas' pouty lips, the way he forms syllables with lip and tongue, how he speaks, the gravel in his voice that sounds like pure sex.
So. Kissing him is the obvious answer to all of his current woes; it quiets Cas down and lets Dean explore, hands pushing up into air, mouth opening against pillowy lips, and then Cas has to open his damn mouth and say Marsha instead of giving Dean the solid frenching he deserves. ]
You gotta be kidding--
[ What is this, the Brady Bunch? Dean looks put out, but he realizes pretty quickly Cas is talking about the friggin' fish, something he'd forgotten entirely about at this point. A grumble slips out, but when Cas pulls him back in, that's all that's important, the softness of his lips, the way his hands feel on Dean's face, the soft hair twisted around Dean's fingers.
[ Now that complaint of Dean's, on the other hand, is valid, unlike the one before. It's completely understandable of Dean to be upset by the interruption of what Castiel has dubbed a Very Religious Experience of Kissing. The departure was necessary, though. How could Castiel give Dean his full, and very deserving, attention if he were worried about the fish in the sink slowly suffocating from a lack of air in their small, porcelain prisons as the water slowly evaporates? He couldn't. It was a very necessary interruption.
And, now it's past. Now, Castiel is kissing Dean again and can give his full attention to pressure, and texture, and uniquely beautiful chemical lattices of his lips. Now, he can be as devotedly attentive to the warmth of Dean's skin under his vessel's surprisingly sensitive fingertips. Now, Castiel can give himself to Dean entirely, as perhaps he should have prior to last night if only he weren't so sure he would be rejected.
Why isn't he being rejected? It's a mystery, but one that's too fragile to question and risk breaking whatever delicate mood Dean's found himself in. There's no uncertainty in how Castiel kisses Dean; he's learned how, a quick student, and wields that knowledge like a blade that's a familiar heft and grip in his hand: opening his mouth to Dean's, licking his tongue, neglecting to breathe. His hands slide from Dean's cheeks to his jaw, and then his chest, and he pushes him back in steps, rather forcefully, until Dean's back hits the nearest wall. Then Castiel pauses for a breath, for a moment of eye-contact to confirm permission, and then he kisses Dean again, thoroughly in, yes, the solid frenching that Dean deserves.
This is nothing like kissing nymphs and gods had been, though. Kissing Dean is much, much better in ways Castiel can't find the words for, and so, he doesn't try. He kisses Dean, and kisses him again, endlessly, worshipfully, and with devotion... and also with the repressed longing of someone who has dreamed of kissing someone else, a specific someone, for a very, very long time. ]
[ Damn the fish, Cas. Kissing is so much more important than a friggin' fish in the sink which, of course, Dean had been sure to fill with water. He's not a heathen, unlike the angel in front of him who'd stopped to babble about Marsha Marsha Marsha.
He's back, though, and it's okay -- even if for a moment Dean floundered, cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment and guilt. He doesn't kiss dudes, let alone his best friends. Then again, Cas isn't really a dude, is he? He's an angel, and even though he goes by a specific gender because of the vessel he's in, Cas is no less an angel than Dean is hunter.
So maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it shouldn't matter, angel or not.
The kiss isn't amateur, Cas knows how (orgies, what the hell), and Dean knows how. There's no fumbling, no weird and awkward clashing of teeth, just tongues and the sweetness of Cas' mouth. It's easy to get lost in, this delicate dance, the two of them encased in a quivering bubble waiting to be popped by the smallest thing.
His back hits the wall, and the force behind it has his stupid dick hard as a rock, straining against his stupid jeans while Cas kisses his stupid face. It pulls a whine out of him, desperate and needy, hands reaching to push into dark hair, wind it tightly in his fingers, panting as he nods frantically, giving permission for Cas to do whatever the hell he wants to Dean. ]
It would take something much stronger than a pin to pop this bubble they're in, Castiel thinks. To him, kissing Dean feels like flying. There's the tug on his insides, the sense of falling, the extending of oneself into a new dimension and travelling ephemerally through time itself. But this is a pleasant, private little house belonging to some friend of Dean's (or John's) or another, and the wall behind Dean's back holds their combined weight, and so Castiel has no desire to be anywhere else.
Dean is a wonderful kisser. Castiel has the experience to know that now, and in that respect at least, he's grateful to have spent the previous night in the way he had. Kissing is surprisingly complicated, for all Castiel had assumed it was one of the more simple practices humans engaged in. There's a certain art to it. The give and take of the warmth and slickness of Dean's kisses has a sinuous sort of rhythm to it. It reminds Castiel or dancing. No, more intimate than that. It reminds him of fucking.
He groans into Dean's mouth at the thought and presses harder up against him, shivering at the resulting tug from Dean's fingers in his hair. He doesn't want to stop kissing him, but at the same time, he wants more. He's always wanted to be close to Dean, but now that he is, he feels more than wanting: he feels ravenous. Castiel nips at Dean's lower lip, pausing the rhythm for just a moment so that he can divert his focus elsewhere. His hands slide from Dean's chest down to his waist, and he works open the buckle of Dean's pants, and only after it's open thinks belatedly to ask in a rough whisper against Dean's lips. ]
...Is this all right?
[ Dean had agreed to have sex and to allow Castiel to spend the night with him (right?), but nuance isn't Castiel's strong point, and he wants to be sure. ]
[ Not in Dean's wildest dreams (okay, maybe his wildest, and no so wildest) would he have ever imagined Cas would be so damn good with his tongue. He's reminded, briefly, that Cas was at an orgy last night (that, definitely goes in the wildest dreams stack), and the irritation and green, slithering jealousy threatens to bubble up until Dean forces it back down, tightens his grip on Cas' hair.
Leave it. Let it go.
He breathes out through his nose, tension that had surreptitiously moved up his back easing in inches, leaving him relaxed against the wall, hands still in Cas' hair. He smells good, Dean absently notes. Petrichor, ozone, wet grass. Comfort smells, and Dean wonders idly if it's like the love potion in Harry Potter, where it's different for everyone, a scent personalized based on what attracts the silly little human most.
It's a train of thought he isn't going to bother dwelling on. Cas smells good and Dean breathes him in, into his lungs, holding him there forever, right under his ribs, a boneyard prison.
The brief pause in his proper snogfest pulls Dean back to the present, blinking at Cas, dropping his eyes down between them, where it's impossible to miss precisely how Dean feels about all this. He licks his lips and doesn't bother suppressing the shiver that Cas' sex voice sends rolling through his body. ]
Y-yeah, Cas. It's all right.
[ It's more than all right. Dean might have to ward the damn place against angels getting out, cause he's never gonna let Cas out of his sight again. ]
[ There was a surprising lack of hair tugging happening for an orgy hosted by a renowned sex-god, and Castiel didn't know to mourn the lack of it, but now that Dean's hands are tight in his hair and tugging through the kiss, he realizes that yes, he likes that very much, and conveys that to Dean with another audible groan. Is it the sensation itself? Or is it that the action reminds him of Dean's capable hands, and he'd enjoy the tug of them just as much in other places? If Castiel weren't so distracted by how good Dean feels, he might be able to figure it out.
Dean feels very good, though. He feels familiar and foreign all at once: a soul Castiel scoured Hell for, found the torn pieces of, and formed back together whole in his many hands, wrapped up in whorls and loops and arches of human skin that's entirely unique to Dean, scarred by experience, never to be replicated. He's beautiful. Usually, Castiel reserves that thought for the man's soul itself, inarguably the most beautiful part of any human, but Castiel happens to be meeting Dean's eyes when Dean gives him permission to continue, and in just that moment, Dean licks his lips. In a flush of arousal, Castiel realizes that, not only is Dean beautiful, but he's also incredibly attractive physically, which is something Castiel doesn't generally bother to notice about people. ]
Good.
[ He barely makes space to breathe the acknowledgment before he's leaning in to kiss Dean again, wildly desirous for that tongue he's just teased across his lips, and his lips, and all the rest of the warm, wet of his mouth. There's a very poignant ache beginning much lower, though. And that part of him, equally desirous, has him leaning in close to Dean as his hands open the buttons and fly of Dean's pants, and boldly presses his palm against the hardness there trapped beneath skintight boxer-briefs. ]
[ His name leaks from Dean's lips, breathed against the angel, twitchy in his own skin, hard and needy and were he remotely within his faculties, he'd feel a little stupid. He's not usually the one so worked up, the one who's on a hair trigger, gasping under the attention, heart pounding and rattling against its calcium cell. Especially not from just kissing; it's a teenager problem, to lose all control because of a simple kiss, but for a brief, terrifying second, he's a little afraid he's going to come all over himself like a fourteen year old.
But he isn't fourteen, he's much older now, wiser, and he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of England, of airlines and tiny metal tubs flying through the air, and it drags him back to the present, to Cas' mouth, the low rasp of angelic euphony vibrating him to his soul. The idea that a man - no, not a man, an angel - can cause that sort of knee jerk in Dean, well.
Maybe it makes him a little harder, hands giving up on Cas' hair in favor of shoving at that damn coat and the jacket underneath, pushing it over his shoulders, though every single inch of him freezes when Cas palms him, his head spinning like Linda Blair, a wrecked noise slipping unbidden from his lungs. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Cas doesn't immediately answer. He rolls his eyes, and sighs very purposefully, and then answers. ]
No, Dean. As long as an angel has their grace, their human vessel can't succumb to injury or illness.
[ So that graceless angel you banged in your car? Definitely could've been carrying. Hope you wrapped it up, you complete dick. ]
no subject
And yes he wraps it up, but God can you imagine the number of kids he actually has running around? Jesus Christ. ]
Oh. Okay. Good. I just -- thought I'd check.
[ She was hot. Shut up.
And he knows he's asked an awkward question (he made it awkward, he knows he did) so maybe he should just shut them both up and step forward, groping for the back of Cas' neck and yanking him forward into a kiss. ]
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U7CZcd-UYmU
He's a little miffed about it, honestly. Or maybe it's the residual stress of having confessed to the one person in his life whose friendship he can't afford to lose that he would like to have sex with him. A little inherently defensive fear seems justified, considering. And so Castiel considers to feel justified in his defensive anger, right up until Dean is grabbing him by the neck and—
Oh. Kissing him. All defensiveness, and anger, and every possible negative emotion is instantly washed away from Castiel like a baptism. His eyes fall closed in ecstasy at the softness of Dean's lips, the firmness of his hand on Castiel's neck, the radiating warmth of skin and soul in such very close proximity to his grace. For one long moment that feels incredibly brief, everything else in the universe is dissolved, and there's nothing but this, but Dean, kissing him.
And then Cas's eyes flutter open, and looks at Dean with a mix of wonder and longing, and then terrified guilt. ]
Marsha.
[ Cas says, remembering the poor fish he'd abandoned, and he doesn't pull away from Dean, but looks to his right, to the aquarium, filled but fish-less, next to them. At least, it's fish-less when he looks, and then filled with the fish between one blink and the next. They're swimming around, perfectly fine, and Castiel sighs as he begins to explain. ]
They were... Never mind.
[ No, as soon as Castiel looks at Dean again, explanations are lost from his mind, dismissed as categorically unimportant. He raises his hands and pulls Dean back in again by his stubble-rough cheeks on a much more important line of reasoning and kisses him again instead. ]
https://youtu.be/rGKfrgqWcv0?t=86
touchedhealed by an angel and all of the above Dean's kinda been staring at Cas' pouty lips, the way he forms syllables with lip and tongue, how he speaks, the gravel in his voice that sounds like pure sex.So. Kissing him is the obvious answer to all of his current woes; it quiets Cas down and lets Dean explore, hands pushing up into air, mouth opening against pillowy lips, and then Cas has to open his damn mouth and say Marsha instead of giving Dean the solid frenching he deserves. ]
You gotta be kidding--
[ What is this, the Brady Bunch? Dean looks put out, but he realizes pretty quickly Cas is talking about the friggin' fish, something he'd forgotten entirely about at this point. A grumble slips out, but when Cas pulls him back in, that's all that's important, the softness of his lips, the way his hands feel on Dean's face, the soft hair twisted around Dean's fingers.
Yeah, this is good. ]
🥺
And, now it's past. Now, Castiel is kissing Dean again and can give his full attention to pressure, and texture, and uniquely beautiful chemical lattices of his lips. Now, he can be as devotedly attentive to the warmth of Dean's skin under his vessel's surprisingly sensitive fingertips. Now, Castiel can give himself to Dean entirely, as perhaps he should have prior to last night if only he weren't so sure he would be rejected.
Why isn't he being rejected? It's a mystery, but one that's too fragile to question and risk breaking whatever delicate mood Dean's found himself in. There's no uncertainty in how Castiel kisses Dean; he's learned how, a quick student, and wields that knowledge like a blade that's a familiar heft and grip in his hand: opening his mouth to Dean's, licking his tongue, neglecting to breathe. His hands slide from Dean's cheeks to his jaw, and then his chest, and he pushes him back in steps, rather forcefully, until Dean's back hits the nearest wall. Then Castiel pauses for a breath, for a moment of eye-contact to confirm permission, and then he kisses Dean again, thoroughly in, yes, the solid frenching that Dean deserves.
This is nothing like kissing nymphs and gods had been, though. Kissing Dean is much, much better in ways Castiel can't find the words for, and so, he doesn't try. He kisses Dean, and kisses him again, endlessly, worshipfully, and with devotion... and also with the repressed longing of someone who has dreamed of kissing someone else, a specific someone, for a very, very long time. ]
iT iS a MyStErY
He's back, though, and it's okay -- even if for a moment Dean floundered, cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment and guilt. He doesn't kiss dudes, let alone his best friends. Then again, Cas isn't really a dude, is he? He's an angel, and even though he goes by a specific gender because of the vessel he's in, Cas is no less an angel than Dean is hunter.
So maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it shouldn't matter, angel or not.
The kiss isn't amateur, Cas knows how (orgies, what the hell), and Dean knows how. There's no fumbling, no weird and awkward clashing of teeth, just tongues and the sweetness of Cas' mouth. It's easy to get lost in, this delicate dance, the two of them encased in a quivering bubble waiting to be popped by the smallest thing.
His back hits the wall, and the force behind it has his stupid dick hard as a rock, straining against his stupid jeans while Cas kisses his stupid face. It pulls a whine out of him, desperate and needy, hands reaching to push into dark hair, wind it tightly in his fingers, panting as he nods frantically, giving permission for Cas to do whatever the hell he wants to Dean. ]
dean winchester's sexuality is unknowable
It would take something much stronger than a pin to pop this bubble they're in, Castiel thinks. To him, kissing Dean feels like flying. There's the tug on his insides, the sense of falling, the extending of oneself into a new dimension and travelling ephemerally through time itself. But this is a pleasant, private little house belonging to some friend of Dean's (or John's) or another, and the wall behind Dean's back holds their combined weight, and so Castiel has no desire to be anywhere else.
Dean is a wonderful kisser. Castiel has the experience to know that now, and in that respect at least, he's grateful to have spent the previous night in the way he had. Kissing is surprisingly complicated, for all Castiel had assumed it was one of the more simple practices humans engaged in. There's a certain art to it. The give and take of the warmth and slickness of Dean's kisses has a sinuous sort of rhythm to it. It reminds Castiel or dancing. No, more intimate than that. It reminds him of fucking.
He groans into Dean's mouth at the thought and presses harder up against him, shivering at the resulting tug from Dean's fingers in his hair. He doesn't want to stop kissing him, but at the same time, he wants more. He's always wanted to be close to Dean, but now that he is, he feels more than wanting: he feels ravenous. Castiel nips at Dean's lower lip, pausing the rhythm for just a moment so that he can divert his focus elsewhere. His hands slide from Dean's chest down to his waist, and he works open the buckle of Dean's pants, and only after it's open thinks belatedly to ask in a rough whisper against Dean's lips. ]
...Is this all right?
[ Dean had agreed to have sex and to allow Castiel to spend the night with him (right?), but nuance isn't Castiel's strong point, and he wants to be sure. ]
no subject
Leave it. Let it go.
He breathes out through his nose, tension that had surreptitiously moved up his back easing in inches, leaving him relaxed against the wall, hands still in Cas' hair. He smells good, Dean absently notes. Petrichor, ozone, wet grass. Comfort smells, and Dean wonders idly if it's like the love potion in Harry Potter, where it's different for everyone, a scent personalized based on what attracts the silly little human most.
It's a train of thought he isn't going to bother dwelling on. Cas smells good and Dean breathes him in, into his lungs, holding him there forever, right under his ribs, a boneyard prison.
The brief pause in his proper snogfest pulls Dean back to the present, blinking at Cas, dropping his eyes down between them, where it's impossible to miss precisely how Dean feels about all this. He licks his lips and doesn't bother suppressing the shiver that Cas' sex voice sends rolling through his body. ]
Y-yeah, Cas. It's all right.
[ It's more than all right. Dean might have to ward the damn place against angels getting out, cause he's never gonna let Cas out of his sight again. ]
Please.
no subject
Dean feels very good, though. He feels familiar and foreign all at once: a soul Castiel scoured Hell for, found the torn pieces of, and formed back together whole in his many hands, wrapped up in whorls and loops and arches of human skin that's entirely unique to Dean, scarred by experience, never to be replicated. He's beautiful. Usually, Castiel reserves that thought for the man's soul itself, inarguably the most beautiful part of any human, but Castiel happens to be meeting Dean's eyes when Dean gives him permission to continue, and in just that moment, Dean licks his lips. In a flush of arousal, Castiel realizes that, not only is Dean beautiful, but he's also incredibly attractive physically, which is something Castiel doesn't generally bother to notice about people. ]
Good.
[ He barely makes space to breathe the acknowledgment before he's leaning in to kiss Dean again, wildly desirous for that tongue he's just teased across his lips, and his lips, and all the rest of the warm, wet of his mouth. There's a very poignant ache beginning much lower, though. And that part of him, equally desirous, has him leaning in close to Dean as his hands open the buttons and fly of Dean's pants, and boldly presses his palm against the hardness there trapped beneath skintight boxer-briefs. ]
no subject
[ His name leaks from Dean's lips, breathed against the angel, twitchy in his own skin, hard and needy and were he remotely within his faculties, he'd feel a little stupid. He's not usually the one so worked up, the one who's on a hair trigger, gasping under the attention, heart pounding and rattling against its calcium cell. Especially not from just kissing; it's a teenager problem, to lose all control because of a simple kiss, but for a brief, terrifying second, he's a little afraid he's going to come all over himself like a fourteen year old.
But he isn't fourteen, he's much older now, wiser, and he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of England, of airlines and tiny metal tubs flying through the air, and it drags him back to the present, to Cas' mouth, the low rasp of angelic euphony vibrating him to his soul. The idea that a man - no, not a man, an angel - can cause that sort of knee jerk in Dean, well.
Maybe it makes him a little harder, hands giving up on Cas' hair in favor of shoving at that damn coat and the jacket underneath, pushing it over his shoulders, though every single inch of him freezes when Cas palms him, his head spinning like Linda Blair, a wrecked noise slipping unbidden from his lungs. ]
Cas, please-- I need--
[ something. anything, god please help him. ]