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Cas takes his time with it, and Dean knows that he’s safe, knows that at the very least, he can trust Cas with this; the machete just an arm’s reach over is more of a habit at this point.
There are things he doesn’t get. Plain and simple as that. He knows there are people out there who like certain things—he’s seen his fair share of whackos over the years. He doesn’t get all of it necessarily, but he knows these people exist.
You can find the fetish mags at gas stations still, and there was this old antique shop out in Jersey one time selling this erotic paperback from the sixties. The Flesh Festival—that’s what it was. Something about pretty girls getting whipped and bitten and knocked around. Sam had called him gross for picking it up and flipping through it, and Dean threatened to buy it and read it out loud all the way back if he didn’t shut up.
Vintage erotic pulp like that really isn’t his style—never was. The dickwads writing it couldn’t tell the difference between a real woman and a can of spam they slapped some lipstick on and called a homemade fleshlight. He doesn’t need some homophobic sleaze who’s been dead since the eighties to describe to him the strange and unnatural pleasures getting his dick wet has to offer.
But, thing is—he’s never really gotten into what sort of strange fucking pleasures those assholes wrote about. He didn’t buy the bondage mags at the store because he didn’t want to tie up any girls, and he didn’t care much for the other weird crap with gas masks and latex on the covers because he didn’t want any girls fucking him in a full-body rubber suit. Dean’s never been big on hitting anyone— he’s not the one to do the hurting.
But he remembers the cover of Flesh Festival still, after all this time, because it’s a big, bright garish red and it’s got a man’s hand cracking a slithering whip, and there’s this white chick curled up at the end of the whip with these marks on her. Like he’s been biting at her, or something. Dean can’t remember exactly—he might be projecting. They might’ve been handprints, slaps on her skin the artist drew to illustrate the point that this pulp is about getting knocked around in the sixties and making it look sexy.
Well. Dean likes to think they were bite marks, anyhow. That’s how he’s always remembered it. Teeth gently nibbled into her skin, red and raised. But he’s not much of a biter, like that. He doesn’t want to make girls bleed. He really doesn't want to make Cas bleed, just for the simple fact that if he ingests the guy’s blood and happens to die while he’s at it, his life would get a whole lot more complicated than it already is.
So, the only option left here is really—Dean’s gotta be the one to bleed. He’s gotta be the one that gets bit. Simple. That, he gets. Dean’s the one that gets hurt, that ends up liking it, and— it comes natural, he thinks. He really, really gets that.
So—again. He’s laying here, and Cas is on top of him and he’s taking his sweet time with it, and he’s careful. There is no actual biting. There will be no full blown Horror of Dracula neck-chomping. But Dean can give him something small, and he finds that he really wants to give it.
Cas has fangs sharp like a razor; they prick Dean’s skin lightly where he grazes them. He drags them in short, faint bursts over his torso where Dean lets him. Right now, he’s wetting the skin stretched over his ribs on the left side, leaving open-mouthed kisses and sucking the skin into his mouth to bruise it, and his other hand holds his dick down at the base, and even though he’s hard and raring to go, Cas only holds him.
He hisses a breath when his teeth cut the skin. Cas laps at it, giving an apologetic tug on his poor fucking dick and then goes back to mostly ignoring it; the wound will be small, thin, will patch itself up in no time. Cas only bites enough to let the blood bead out and then he sucks it down—not very efficient if he were trying to live off Dean alone, and it’s a good thing he’s not.
The harder Cas sucks, the more tender the spot gets, the more Dean starts to whine and arch up from the bedspread, twisting away from his mouth. Cas pops off then and brings his head up to face him. The blue of his eyes is dark, blown-out; the flesh of his lips is stained red. He licks them and his gaze travels over Dean.
He looks—God. God, he’s gotta fuck him. He’s gotta. There’s no way he can’t.
“You’re still alright?” he asks. He strokes lazily up and down on his dick again, and the answers right there in his palm— yeah, he’s fucking alright. God, he’s great. Dean thinks he’s hard enough at this point to fuck a new hole into the wall, except he wouldn’t do that because he’s got Cas, and Cas is soft and handsome and built and smells good all the time, and he definitely feels better than plaster and drywall would.
Dean can’t help it— his legs jerk, hips bucking up into his fist and dick twitching. He’s thinking about it. He’s thinking about getting inside him and it almost feels just as real as actually being in him, and if he’s not careful he’ll come from just this— just getting bit, and thinking about fucking his boyfriend instead of actualy doing it.
Cas squeezes round the base of his cock, and his free hand comes to hold him down at the jut of his hip, and he gives him this warm half-smile that has Dean grinning back all dopey because he doesn’t remember what Cas asked him, only that they’re looking at each other and Dean’s skin feels fucking hot, burning all over, and he can’t fucking wait to fuck this guy. If— if they ever get there.
They might not. If Cas is feeling cruel, and if Dean goes along with it, he might draw this out. Which is— fine. He could do that. Dean could handle that. But. But.
“Dean,” he says, not unkind, just firm enough to be heard. “Are you okay?”
He swallows thick. He doesn’t move this time. “Yeah, sunshine. I’m peachy.”
Cas crawls over him, taking the hand on his cock away. He swallows the noise Dean makes with his mouth; he fits their lips together and Dean licks into him immediately, and he draws out the taste of water and salt and metal. He doesn’t much care for the tasting-his-own-blood part; not that it’s intentional, just that Cas likes to kiss him, and Dean likes kissing him back, and sometimes, he’s got Dean’s blood in his mouth when he does it. Go figure.
When Cas moves, their dicks slide together, dry, rough heat. It has him gasping against his lips, has Cas making this hitching noise in the back of his throat and his mouth drops to slide over Dean’s bottom lip, pulls it in, sucks at it and worries it til it feels swollen enough. The cuts on his torso sting; there aren’t many, but the ones that are there pull as his body twists, as he goes to grab Cas by the hips and hold him down so he can rock into him.
They always keep a blade around when they do it like this. It’s how they’ve always done it, since the beginning— he doesn’t think Cas would ever snap and take him to chow-town, but he didn’t know about that in the beginning. He wasn’t sure. So Cas lets him lay the machete down within arm’s reach, just for peace of mind, and then Dean lets him nibble for a bit, and everyone wins.
Dean feels it when Cas shudders above him, hips stuttering beneath the grip of his fingers. His hipbones are sharp and his flesh is soft, and Cas lets him drag their dicks together, straddling Dean’s thighs.
“Cas,” he breathes out. Cas sits upright then and, with Dean’s fingers still white-knuckling, he takes them both in his wide grip and moves them together with a tight groan. Dean moans, chest heaving as he looks down; he sees the two of them pushing in and out of Cas’ fist, and the pleasure-pain of it bolts down his spine.
“Cas. Castiel,” he mumbles, “please, please, c’mon.”
“Dean?” Cas asks, tilted head and calm voice like a goddamn fucking saint. Fucking horndog— he swipes a thumb over Dean’s slit, watches him closely when his legs tense and he jerks his groin upwards. “What is it?”
“Oh— come on.” He pushes his head back into the pillow and closes his eyes for a second, breathes through his nose, moans out of his throat. The shudder-rush of his blood follows the quick rhythm of his heart. He could cry, he thinks, going on like this. “Please. Castiel. I wanna fuck you.”
“Yeah?” Dean opens his eyes and sees Cas crane his neck down, spitting over their erections caught in his hand. He drags the slick down, spreads it over the two of them with a wet noise; Dean’s eyes squeeze shut again. “Are you ready, then?”
Dean thinks of Flesh Festival then, again, again— SHADOW-WORLD SEX- …hungry women and degraded men, openly flaunting their lusts…each eager for the embrace of other men and women. He thinks Flesh Festival is pretentious, ridiculous— but he thinks he gets it, even if only a little. He is eager. He is— he’s— God.
He nods feverishly, chewing at his own lip, pulling Cas down at his hips like handlebars. He bends his knees up, shoving him forward in his lap, balancing him precariously with the tops of his thighs. Cas catches himself with a flat palm on Dean’s chest and narrows his eyes at him, and the effect is no lessened by the red gleam of his mouth.
His fist squeezes tighter around the two of them, and maybe it hurts him himself, maybe he doesn’t care, can’t be bothered to feel it— Dean feels it though, and a whimper falls from the back of his throat and his legs twitch, fingers flexing at the constricting pain. Only for a second, and then Cas loosens his grip, and Dean is babbling, ready, ready, ready.
“Not yet,” Cas mutters.
He pulls one of Dean’s arms up— the force brings his upper body with it, with his other hand still clinging to Cas— uncurling his welded fingers from his side, and settles his open mouth over the plane of his wrist. Dean’s narrowing pulse is a line cut through all extremities, and his heart beats at the center of his palm and his blood thins out from it, and Cas has zeroed in on it beating through his wrist, up his arm. He drags his lips across his forearm, slowly, and then bites down gentle, nicking the skin just before the crook of his elbow, pulling between his teeth.
Dean’s breath puffs shallow out his nose. Cas draws his blood into his mouth, tongue flicking across the split and eyes fluttering shut. Dean watches, rapt, rent with some feverish burn coursing through him, the soft inner parts of his body, the cage of his ribs, the base of his spine is lit, he feels himself drawn taut and coiled.
“Cas,” he whines. Cas moves on then, leaves the abused skin to cool in the open air. He clasps a hand round the back of Dean’s skull, digging the pads of his fingers into his hair and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Cas plants a kiss at the crown of his head; Dean’s arm falls back down, body loose and buzzing and yet tight all the same, and runs his open hand over Cas’ right flank, skittering over his ribs. There’s still one of Cas’ hands wedged between them; his fingers toy lightly over the tip of Dean’s cock, running through the precum beading up, and Dean shivers beneath him.
“Cas, Cas, please, I’m ready, please, please—”
“Not yet, Dean. Hold on.”
His voice is a nervous animal leaving him; the sound that digs its way out of his chest buries itself into Cas’ shoulder, pathetic and desperate and he thinks he’d kill himself if anyone else ever heard it. Not that anyone ever would— he thinks Cas might be the only person in the world who could ever make him sob like this.
…you remembered Sodom and Gomorrah…
His breath stutters. Cas presses his thumb down against his slit, then he’s petting the underside of the head, that spot he knows never fails to make Dean twitch and writhe and hold his breath inside him. Cas brings them both together again, thank God, and pumps them together once, twice, three times— rule of threes. Father, Son, Holy Ghost. Cas is going to make him beg for it a third time.
…And realized that there was nothing new under the sun at all.
He’s being lowered back down again, his back finding the soft memory foam of their mattress once more. The sheets are cold and smooth against the bolts of his spine. His body aches, burns; his skin is raw where it’s been split, turning wet again where the teeth marks have reopened themselves.
Cas is laying his arms down softly at his side, and then he’s sliding himself down until he grasps the undersides of his knees, hitches Dean’s legs over his shoulders while he presses himself belly-down into the bed. An open mouth travels across one thigh, Cas’ tongue a flame against his skin that burrows into his flesh, taking muscle and skin between his jagged teeth and biting down. He draws blood from him there, between the valley of his thigh and his groin, his cock laid hard and bare and wet against his stomach; Dean groans and his body bows into him, his hands grip for purchase at the sheets as Cas’ attacks his skin, he knocks one hand into the weapon beside him and nicks his knuckles along the blade, and he drips onto the sheets.
Cas continues his crusade, leaving gently torn flesh behind, the impressions of his loving bite, kissing to soothe the skin over and over and over again. He hears Dean hiss when his knuckles split, and he raises his head, peering at him with the dark glaze of his eyes.
Dean holds his hand limply in the air, outstretched towards Cas between his legs, and says, “Ow.”
Cas half-smiles, blowing air out his nose in the way Dean knows to be a laugh, coming from him. “I’ve told you to be careful with that thing.” He’s watching the red bead in a line along his fingers like he could devour them. He pushes himself up, Dean’s legs slung over his shoulders folding backwards with him, body lean and hovering above his, and licks across the bolts of Dean’s fingers.
“Yeah,” is all he can muster. The shudder-rush of his pulse bores down into him from head to toe, watching the way Cas’ lips encase each knuckle, the downward curve of his eyelashes, feeling his tongue on his skin, soft and wet and warm. His dick twitches against his stomach, and Cas ignores it still.
Cas sits back then, after he’s laved over his fingers, but he moves then so his palms grip the undersides of Dean’s thighs, and pushes them backwards, towards his chest. Dean’s breath hitches; his stomach is fluttering, something warm and sweet running through him, and he yields to Cas, lets him fold him back and then Dean holds himself in place, hooking his hands underneath his knees.
Cas ducks his head to press his lips against his sac, to tongue at him there, and it leaves Dean breathless; his eyes shut and he keens at the ceiling, and Cas flattens his tongue again and drags up his sac, up his shaft, runs a line up to the tip and flicks at the head, and he does it again and again and again, never fully sinking down, never taking him into the perfect heat of his mouth no matter how much Dean cries for it, how much noise he makes, how much he writhes beneath him.
When Cas moves on then, he teeths gently at the skin of his inner thighs, never breaking the surface. Dean’s breath hitches when he feels Cas’ nose bump his sac, when he feels his lips ghost over his hole just beneath, when his long fingers press him down into the mattress at his hips. He’s seized by the act of Cas’ tongue pressing into him, wetting the ring of muscle; it twists an aching sort of noise out of Dean’s throat, begging for a mercy killing. He doesn’t ask for it out loud yet, not in so many words, because he believes he may be denied— Cas hears him cry though, and it spurs him on, the brutal pace of his tongue-fucking, the bearing of his fingerpads, strong and firm enough he could rip through the layers of his body if he so wanted to.
Dean takes a chance, rocking gently down against his face, and even that, it seems, is not allowed; not yet. Cas’ tongue stills and he forces Dean back down, and he doesn’t resume his pace until Dean’s sunk back into the memory foam. …eager for the embrace of other men…
His cock leaks where it lays lamely against him, pooling precum into his navel. The trail left on his stomach glistens with the lamplight glowing at the nightstand, gleaming the same as the blade of his machete. The same weapon he’d aimed at Cas when they’d first met, when he’d found him freshly turned and blood-drunk in a half-collapsed factory out in Delaware. They’d kept him there, and kept him fed, and Dean had thought he’d been too late then, seeing as how the victim he’d sought out had already passed over.
But Castiel had sought absolution, and Dean grew tired of killing for the sake of it. He revels in the consequence of his choice now, years after the fact, reveling and reveling and continuing to wrap himself in it, an exceedance of rewards he feels, often, he does not wholly deserve— involuntarily, the flame had begun to spread to Eve’s own flesh— Castiel stays, and he loves him, and Dean thinks, sometimes, startlingly, he would kill himself if he ever lost Cas. Maybe not in so easy of a way, maybe not in so little words, but a part of him would be long dead.
“Cas,” he cries out. His tongue spears into him, parting his body little by little and casting a livewire pulse down his backside, his legs, down to his toes. “I’m gonna come, gonna come, I—”
Cas pulls back, quick as a whip, clamping a tight hand around the clammy base of Dean’s dick, pulling it upright. Dean sobs into the open air, jackrabbiting heart beating against his sternum, dick twitching in the constricting circle of his fist, one of his ankles kicking out, leg slumping into the mattress. The air cools over the slickness on his hole, in it, around it. He wants him— needs Cas on him, in and around, taking him, getting fucked by, letting Dean fuck him, he would give it so good and Cas would love it, he thinks, thinks he’d make it so worth it for him, show him that he should hurry up next time, that next time he should just let Dean fuck him, God, God, please let him fuck him, God he needs this, please God— God—
“Not yet, Dean.”
His breath heaves. He digs the heels of his sweaty palms into his own eyes, scrubs them down his face. He can feel Cas’ head resting on his thigh, sharp scratch of his stubble needling at the bites and bruises there. His body throbs like an exposed nerve, an open wound. Cas keeps prodding at it. He won’t let up.
“Cas, please,” Dean whimpers. His voice is half-buried by his hands; behind his eyelids, he can feel his eyes burning. He licks his lips before he speaks again, voice ready to crack, and he takes in a cooling breath. “Please. Let me fuck you, I’m ready, I swear. Let me fuck you— God, please, please— Cas— Castiel.”
Rule of threes please dear God rule of threes, Father Son and Holy fucking Spirit, adulterer, adulterer— the odd pretentious fucking unreality of it, of his brain melting out of his ears and Cas being the final religion after all of it, God worming his way into the foam of their shared mattress, seeing Jesus in a fucking flour tortilla— his own fucking pretentious original nightstand book— his own stupid Flesh Festival.
“Dean.” Cas leaves him and his skin turns cold from the waist down, and maybe he will cry actually this time, maybe he will. But Cas pries his hands from his face then instead of going, instead of leaving, and Dean doesn't remember why he ever thought he’d go in the first place, because he’s still here. …hush, now…hush, now…it’s going to be all right.
Cas’ face is perfectly soft and fond, and he still has blood stained in the cracks on his lips, and his eyes are still dark though a bit of himself permeates through, and Dean sees the flash of his sharpened teeth through his mouth as he speaks, “You’re doing so good. You’re doing perfectly for me. Thank you.”
Dean’s face is blotchy, he’s sure of it, and heat crowds over his jaw and his ears, and his throat wobbles, and Cas holds both of his wrists in one hand each, perfectly tight. He tries to mirror Cas’ faint smile, but it grows wider of its own accord; he feels relieved, so relieved, and he’s not done yet, but he’s done well.
Cas lets one wrist go so he can pet the side of his face down. He caresses Dean’s sticky skin, scratching at the short cropped hairs by his temple with blunt fingernails, thumbing carefully at the soft skin of his eyelid as he goes down.
“Are you ready then, Dean? You look ready. You look beautiful.”
Dean nods and turns his face in towards his hand. He rubs his nose against the meat of his palm, his stubble scratching along the heel of it, eyes fluttering. He nods again.
Cas turns his face then, gripping by the bone of his jaw so that they’re eye-level again. He looms over and then presses their lips together, and Dean unclamps himself, yields to the pressure of it, lights up from within when Cas bears into him with his tongue. Dean doesn’t push back; he opens up, lame and limp, and he sucks Cas into him, eager, content to have the work done for him. He dick throbs, heavy between his legs, and his body is still twitching, but the fever in his head has soothed.
When Cas releases him, he’s fine. He’s fine. He’s coming back. Cas knows what he wants— he’ll give it to him.
Cas repositions the two of them until he’s got Dean’s knees bent upright behind him again, and his own knees are bracketing Dean’s hips on either side, holding himself up as he hovers above his waiting dick, one hand twisted in Dean’s, the other slipping his plug out from behind, his eyes constantly trailing across Dean’s body, his face. Dean licks his lips and waits, and waits and waits; his own mouth tastes like salt, the stale lingering taste of blood and flesh, breath hot and panting. His dick twitches against his stomach, watching the way Cas’ bobs out in front of his body as he drops the plug off somewhere behind on the bed. Cas’ breath is taut and shallow as it slips out from him, and when he’s finally emptied, he gasps something quiet, lecherous, the kind of noise Dean thinks belongs in gospel, in church, in the highest tiers of pornography possible.
He squeezes again at Dean’s fingers laced with his, and with his free hand now, Cas gives his own cock a slow tug, languid and watching the plane of Dean’s chest fall up and down. Dean would beg again, but he knows this is part of it, part of Cas’ process, that he likes to watch and wait, to go slow until he can’t anymore. He’ll set the pace until he no longer wants to anymore, and even then, when he does finally give it up, he’ll still be the one in control, the one telling Dean how to set Dean’s pace instead.
Cas drops his cock. He moves onto Dean’s, naked and afraid. He lines Dean up with his hole; Dean grits his teeth, groaning at the simplest touch of Cas' fingers on him, because his body is running on the fumes of an electrical fire, and he can feel Cas glowing and warm from his fingertips. Cas rubs the tip against his hole one, two, three times, catching the slick opening, left stretched already. And then— and then, then— thank God, he hits home, Cas fixes him between his legs and the head of Dean’s cock pops through finally, and Cas sinks down slow, gripping all the way to the base.
They groan together at the end of it, the same air cycling through them in the shared space, connected at the hilt. Cas’ cock stands hot and dark, thick, weeping at the slit. He’s beautiful, his shoulders stuck out like wings on either side, soft inky hair curling into his eyes, flush of red across his parted lips. He’s defined by the hook of his nose, his sharp eyes, the flexing muscles of his stomach as he gets seated. He plants his ass against the flats of Dean’s thighs and holds himself down there, and toys lightly with his own cock; Dean feels him clench around him, and he doesn’t have words for it, but he grins to himself anyway, brow furrowed, relieved, almost.
“Oh,” Dean moans, feeling him grind his hips down, following the line of a half-circle, “I love you, love you, love you…”
Cas’ breath punches out of him, and he lifts himself up and down now, spearing himself in two over Dean’s erection, bearing the weight of his body down. He frees himself from their two tangled hands together and instead leans forward, clamps it down on the bolt of Dean’s shoulder. The other hand jerking himself off does the same; he lets go of his own cock and grasps for purchase at Dean’s body instead, and it feels like a victory in and of itself, that he’s made Cas let himself go, that he chooses to touch him instead. And now, Dean gets to watch his dick bobbing freely, flushed a gleaming red at the tip, dripping and smacking at the wet pool of precum in and around Dean’s navel.
He tries, quietly, to move with Cas; he tries to buck his own hips up into him, to meet the dirty grind of his hips in slow motion, wants to bury himself inside over and over again. But Cas catches him; he sinks down hard and fast and digs his backside down, holds him there, clenches once around his dick inside him, the hands on Dean’s shoulders push back like they mean to burn him through the mattress. Dean whimpers, swallows thick, stretches his neck back until the crown of his head hits the pillow.
“Don’t move yet.”
His breath shudders out of him. Sweat slicks the back of his neck. “Sorry, sorry.”
Cas’ thumb drags a line down the center of his throat suddenly, thumbing at the dip of his clavicle, before he moves his hips again. He pushes up on his haunches, up and down and up and down, over and over, gliding up from the base to the tip, sucking him back in as he sinks down. He goes hard, rising slowly and falling back down quick, punching these little noises out of Dean. It steals his breath, rattles words out of his chest.
“Oh, Dean, Dean,” Cas mutters. “I love you.” His hand drags down Dean’s chest, absently wandering over the bites. Cas’ head hangs down, mouth open and red and teeth cut, eyes heavy-lidded. He bounces up and down on his dick, and he moves quicker now, and he takes his own pleasure for himself; he buries himself to the base and rolls back and forth, curls his back with every motion, the muscles of his stomach flexing along sinuously with it.
“Please—” Dean gasps “— can I, please, please—”
“Dean. I—” Cas grips the shaft of his erection then, sliding down and holding himself viciously taut at the base, face scrunching up. He wants to kiss him so bad, and he can’t reach— can’t move, can only watch— “Say my name, say my name please, say it—”
It bursts out of him, winding its way out of his throat, Cas, Cas, Castiel, Castiel, Castiel— his body burns and Cas’ skin is glowing, a flame around him, long lines and curves of muscle and sinew and sharp bones, Dean’s fingers digging into the bedsheets when he just wants to touch, wishes he could touch— God forbid he touches out of turn— please, Cas, let him touch something soon, please, before— before—
Cas’ moan is breathy and sweet, falling out of him past the cut of his full lips, his hips stuttering and rising up and down in sharp, quick movements. “Dean, Dean. Yes— yes—”
“Let me fuck you,” he begs for it again, one last time, and Cas should give it him by now, kind and cruel and sweet, he gives it to him, this is when he gives it— “Let me fuck you, please, please, I want to, I need it, please…”
Cas sucks in a breath, hand quickening along his length, eyes rolling and scrunching shut. “Yes— you can— yes—”
Dean is light, littered with electrical impulses and misfiring nerves, beaming from the inside, out. He hauls upwards then and grabs fistfuls of Cas’ flesh at the sides of his hips and drives up into him, pushing his feet flat into the memory foam. Cas sways in his lap, stripping his dick with a quick blur of his fist, mouth hanging open and crying out.
Dean clenches his body and drills hard inside of him, taking delight in fucking the air out of Cas’ lungs, of beating the noises out, of knowing he’s the one doing it. That Cas allows him this, allows him to wrench this state out of him, to render him wordless, motionless. Cas takes the pounding because he wants it, knows he can take it; Cas could rip off of him and throw him clear across the room if he wanted to. He could snap Dean’s neck and drain the blood clean and clear, and he lets Dean fuck into him rabid and animal because he wants it like this, wants him to.
When his legs feel teetering on the edge of cramping, he plows on anyway, and Cas writhes in his lap and bites out a wordless noise, rough and raw, dug from the pit of his throat, he chokes up around the head of his cock and Dean watches in wonder as he twists around it with his fingers, and then he’s coming, striping Dean’s chest and his stomach.
Cas clenches around Dean’s cock in him, bordering on too-tight, and Dean lets go, has to, can’t hold himself in any longer. He throbs inside of him, twitches and shudders, framed happily in the heat of it, and he drags Cas down on top of him so their bodies become one line together. Dean’s heart beats wildly against Cas’ chest, and it thrums in his ears as if there were two hands cupped over them, roaring with his blood. His arms are wrapped around Cas’ back, and he can feel the knobs of his spine. He feels his cum dripping down, out of Cas.
Cas slips his arms past Dean’s head, sliding under the pillow beneath him. He digs his face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, leaves his mouth open against the muscle there; Dean can feel it when he presses a lame kiss against the skin.
Strange and unnatural pleasures…each eager for the embrace of other men and women… Not with anyone else, but— but with Cas— God— he fucking gets it.