[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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. ]