[ 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}
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. ]