Chapter Text
July 2014
One of the worst things about…making out with Cas like this was knowing the inevitable and unavoidable conclusion—that he was gonna have to get the little bastard off.
Dean did not—fucking jerk him off every time he came up here. In fact, he did his best to avoid it because it was horrible and it was disgusting and it was fucking gay. And he sure as hell didn’t ever come up here planning on yanking on Cas’s meat through his shorts. But sometimes—way too often—Cas would just—would get all excited and shit, and it was mostly out of pity that Dean would…give him a hand, because he was the one who’d gotten Cas into it, so he may as well…get him out of it. Even though he so didn’t want to.
If Dean found out that that was all some kind of sick and perverted plot to get Dean to fondle him, he’d break his face. Just see if he wouldn’t.
And, despite the fact that he wasn’t getting poked yet, he just knew that he’d be…doing that tonight. He could just tell—Cas’s fingers were flexing restlessly wherever they touched, he leaned too much into it everything, and he was letting out those soft little sighs against Dean’s mouth. Dean knew what that meant.
The fact that he had enough experience doing this to recognize all the warnings signs of Handjob Night made Dean want to up and leave. And go stick his head in the microwave.
But he did neither, instead just pressing a little closer against Cas, making him sink further into the pillows. He wanted to stop thinking about everything that was bad about that (which was hard, because there was so much bad about it—like, everything). He really just wanted to focus on what he always focused on: Cas’s happy little noises, the way his skin was always so warm under his hands when he got up under his shirt, and the shivery breath against his lips as Cas panted, and then the rush of air turned into a kiss, Cas tentatively trying to lick his way into Dean’s mouth. Dean let him—it was…okay, he supposed. Hell, why the fuck shouldn’t it be—was there any logical reason whatsoever Dean should not let Cas lick at his tongue when he knew in just a little while he’d have his fingers around Cas’s dick?
He really, really wished there was.
There were hot fingers creeping up under the hem of Dean’s shirt. He sucked a little on Cas’s lower lip out of kissing-habit before pulling away, pausing to catch his own breath and get a handle on his situation. He had a feeling Cas wanted Dean to take his shirt off. Cas’s own shirt was already riding up, his pale belly exposed, and Cas really, really liked it when they were both shirtless. Dean supposed it was because he liked having all that warm skin on him, seeing as he was pretty much in a constant state of frozen. Dean, on the other hand, was not particularly comfortable with it—the more skin he had exposed meant the more skin Cas could try and get his grabby little hands on, and that really wasn’t acceptable.
Fuck it, he grunted internally, reaching for Cas’s hem. He pulled hesitantly at first, but then forced himself to be more assertive about it. Cas was glad to help with that part, but Dean refused to let him help him with his; sitting up, he just sucked in a breath and pulled off his own shirt, refusing to move like some shy loser and settling back in over Cas. He’d gotten himself into this mess, so he was—gonna see it through.
Yep, there he went. Already Cas’s hands were on him, his arms circling around him so he could get his hands on his shoulder blades and start groping his way down. Dean ignored the pleasant strokes of Cas’s fingers and instead stretched up, tilting Cas’s head back with one hand and brushing his lips across his throat. Cas trembled, his arms tightening and pulling Dean up against him, trying to smush them together. Dean locked his arms, refusing to let him do that—because Cas did not call the shots when they did this, goddammit. Dean was in charge around here, and Cas could just deal with it. Cas got the message quick enough, his grip relaxing as he instead just angled his face so he could kiss him again. Dean grudgingly allowed it, instead sliding his hands across Cas’s torso, feeling his ribs, his stomach, and that flat, boring chest that had absolutely nothing worth grabbing. He circled Cas’s nipples with his thumbs anyway, though, out of habit as much as anything, and Cas twitched as he always did. Cas’s open mouth met his own, his tongue out, and really, it was ridiculous—the smallest things got Cas excited.
Well, excited or no, he’d better not get how he got the last time Dean came up here, reaching down and squeezing his buttcheek, or else Dean would have words with him—or leave, also just like last time. If Cas grabbed at his ass one more time, he was gonna sock him—Dean was tired of telling the pervert to quit molesting him like that. It was getting to the point that Dean would tense every time Cas’s hands groped down his back so that his fingers bumped the top of his jeans. But tonight he seemed content with just touching everything else, staying firmly in the Allowed Zone. His fingers were playing up Dean’s spine, and as Dean licked and sucked softly at a spot on Cas’s neck that he knew he liked, Cas moaned softly and rolled a little closer…
Fuck. There it was. Dean couldn’t help it—he stopped, squeezing his eyes shut and instinctively jerking his lower body away from what he’d just felt. Dammit, he never got any warning when Cas had gotten it up. And every time he found out about it, it was an unpleasant surprise, that fleshy prod on his thigh or his stomach (or the worst, right against his groin). And it was stupid, how he reacted like this every time it happened. Actually, no, it was not stupid. He had every right to react this way—Cas was sticking his fucking boner all over him. He just—it was just that Dean was gonna jerk him off shortly. So why the fuck should he be squicked by just that?
Well, easy—‘cause the jerking-off part also squicked him. It was all perfectly reasonable when he thought of it that way.
Keeping his eyes shut, he breathed slowly and evenly for a few seconds against Cas’s neck, trying to stop thinking about those things he didn’t want to think about. He knew that if he opened his eyes he’d see goosebumps on Cas’s skin, which helped to distract him. But he kept his eyes closed and just kissed him again, trying to pick up where he left off. He had a routine here, however sick and wrong it was, and he was just…gonna fucking do it. Step one, make out with the angel, step two, get poked with his chubby, step three, have a minor spaz-attack from it, step four, man up and get him off, step five, get the hell out of Dodge. Easy. Now, he’d done step three, so now he just needed to get back on track so he could actually make himself do step four.
Why do I even have this routine, anyway? he thought grumpily as he pressed his lips briefly on Cas’s pulse.
And, of course, the stupid Sam Voice answered. Don’t you know? Before he could quash that—he hated the Sam Voice piping up when he was doing stuff with Cas—Cas’s breathy little sigh made that bit of heat deep in his chest spark warmer. Goddammit.
Delaying the inevitable, he rubbed his cheek against Cas’s a little before Cas’s palm pressed against his jaw and turned his head, bringing Dean’s mouth back to his own. He allowed it, just as he allowed Cas’s tongue to slip past his lips. He didn’t…mind the kissing as much. The fact that he didn’t mind it still bugged him, but—well, fuck all he could do about that now.
Cas shifted, getting his chest up against Dean’s. It didn’t get any better when he slid his arms back around him, his fingers splayed against his shoulder blades, holding Dean against him. Dean did not like that at all—not with the way he was all on top of Cas right now, because it made it harder to—to friggin’ keep away from his hard-on. So, mostly to get away from that, he rolled a bit, pushing off and getting onto his side. Cas was a bitch, of course, and just followed him, trying his best to stay all mashed up against Dean—probably because he was just gravitating towards the only warm thing in the bed. Didn’t matter it was in the middle of summer, he just had to get up next to something that had heat—and just too bad for Dean that he was the only thing in the immediate area that fit the bill.
As always, Cas was not at all put off by his new position. He just nuzzled up closer, bringing his hands around to the front so he could stroke Dean there, instead of his back, one hand pressing where it always did—right there on his ribs, the left side. Dean still had no clue why the fuck he did that. But fine, Cas could do his weirdness, so long as it involved following the damn rules.
Dean couldn’t help but let his eyes close when Cas leaned forward again and kissed the corner of his mouth, and then he slowly started making his way down, his thumb brushing against Dean’s jaw as he pressed soft and gentle little kisses all the way down to Dean’s throat, and dammit, he despised how that always got him going, but it wasn’t his fucking fault he had a sensitive neck! He’d be having the exact same shivery inhale if it was a chick doing this, thank you very much—and he knew that from experience. Cas had absolutely nothing to do with it.
He twitched when he felt Cas’s tongue lick softly at the place where his pulse was beating, and his own grip on Cas tightened slightly when he sucked gently at the same spot. Okay, nice as that felt, he had better cut that shit out ASAP, because he knew the rule on hickeys. Good—Cas had remembered his stern lecture—he’d stopped, and was now just rubbing his face against Dean’s throat. Reaching up, Dean got his fingers in Cas’s hair and made him tilt his head back, leaning down and kissing him again. Cas’s hand pressed a little harder against his ribs, and Cas’s kisses were getting deeper now, his breathing getting harder. Dean got a hand on Cas’s shoulder and pushed, not getting him on his back but making him lean back—Cas was not allowed to attack him. He could just calm his butt down.
The usual tactic worked, of course—just one long kiss where Cas couldn’t get any air and he would behave himself again. Granted, his fingers were digging a bit painfully into Dean’s shoulder, but he could deal with that. Pulling away from Cas’s mouth, he kissed downwards, grudgingly admitting to himself that he…kinda wanted to hear Cas make those tiny, tiny noises he always did when Dean kissed and licked his neck. Cas was damn-near silent when they did their thing—which Dean was not complaining about, mind. Cas was just following orders, and he could keep on doing it. Two rounds of shrieky delight where the whole damn house could hear him were way more than enough.
But still—he couldn’t help it. He liked…being able to make Cas make those little noises of his despite his orders.
Goddammit.
After bumping Cas’s chin with his forehead to make him tilt it up, he just went to town with slow, lazy licks and nibbles, one right there at his jaw, another on where his pulse point was going crazy, one on his Adam’s apple (shit), and when he got to the hollow of Cas’s throat, right there, dipping his tongue in, Cas shuddered and sucked in a breath, his hands blundering up into Dean’s hair, and right before he tugged on it to make Dean kiss his mouth again, Dean heard it—
“Dean.”
Fucking hell.
Didn’t matter if he wasn’t completely comfortable with this. Didn’t matter that he’d been hearing that for two years now. Every fucking time—
He returned Cas’s frantic kiss with almost equal enthusiasm, because Dean doubted he’d ever understand just what it was about the way Cas said his name, but as always, it made him just…not really care much about anything. Well, not entirely, but he certainly cared less about all this “making out with a guy” stuff than he did before, skimming his hands down Cas’s sides to feel his soft stomach again. When Cas pulled away again, Dean barely managed to catch himself from letting out a whiny protest—no, he was not gonna do that again—but Cas’s mouth soon returned, going back to his neck, but it wasn’t soft this time. Dean knew he’d hit the switch with all the stuff he’d done before, but after—after two years, Cas was—
Fuck. Cas was getting very, very good. And Dean knew it. And he didn’t bother trying not to shake as Cas’s teeth grazed that spot right behind his ear, and instead just leaned back a little so Cas could have more room.
Dean twitched when Cas nibbled and sucked his way down to where his neck met his shoulder, and unconsciously he got his fingers in Cas’s hair and held him there, tilting his head so Cas could get at all the available skin with his mouth. Cas obliged him, even going so far as to bite down very gently right there, though he didn’t genuinely just bite him, and it was a good thing he didn’t because Dean would have thumped his skull if he had. Cas’s hands were on his chest again, only he wasn’t satisfied with just feeling around for his heartbeat this time. No, now Cas was petting him, and his hands were always so hot—just like everything else was on Cas. While Dean didn’t freak out like Cas tended to when his nipples got touched, he wasn’t immune to it, and he was annoyed when his breath hitched when Cas brushed his fingers across both of them in time with licking and sucking pleasantly at the thin skin of his clavicle. He rolled onto his back again, just a little, and took Cas with him as he did. Now, it was true that whenever Cas got even a little…on top, as it were, he took that as an invitation to kiss wherever he wanted. But Dean had reached the point where he didn’t care too much, and if he was going to be honest, he was putting off the unpleasantness and so really didn’t mind if things were drawn out a little. So Cas could have at it, so long as he followed protocol.
And he did—while he pressed up against Dean, his toasty little torso sliding against Dean’s, he didn’t try to crawl all on top of him like he had once or twice before Dean had unceremoniously kicked him off. Dean just kept his eyes shut, concentrating on the way Cas tasted the skin of his throat once more before he moved a bit lower, and there was a pause, right there at that same spot where he’d lingered on Cas, at the base of his neck. Unable to stop himself, Dean glanced down, and there was Cas, looking back, his eyes bright and inquisitive, and Dean watched when he pressed a kiss below his usual stopping point, right at the top of his sternum.
Cas never talked during this stuff—as he shouldn’t. But he always found a way to ask shit anyway. And here he was, asking if he could kiss lower than the shoulder mark.
Dean didn’t tug him back up, and Cas took that as a yes, and Dean felt a small noise escape his throat when Cas just went on his merry way, kissing all the way down to his ribs in his quest to lick the new parts of Dean that he hadn’t been allowed to before.
Dean supposed this was…okay (except how it wasn’t, but whatever). Despite it having been two years, the only time Cas had ever gotten his mouth on anything below the usual had been that first (and horrible) night they’d…done stuff. But now, Cas had experience (shit) and Dean was…more comfortable with things (SHIT). So it was different.
Dean couldn’t decide if it was a good different or a bad different. He decided to go with the default—bad.
A shaky exhale against his left side made him shiver, and he scowled a little when he felt goosebumps rising on his arms, and Cas had stopped moving, just sitting with his mouth right against his ribs. Dean knew what he was doing, and he ignored it, just stroking and petting Cas’s hair with one hand and playing up and down his back with the other. Cas pressed his mouth over his heartbeat again, and then just listened, nuzzling him at the same time. Dean shifted a little, vaguely uncomfortable, trying to figure out a way that he could get closer to Cas without actually involving getting closer to him.
He looked down again just in time for Cas to look up, his fingers reaching up to press against his ribs, and there was that stunned look again like he just couldn’t believe Dean was alive. Dammit, the shit Dean did for him up here should do well enough to convince him that he wasn’t fucking dead. But his amazed little gaze didn’t last long, because he was right back up in Dean’s business and all Dean could see were shiny, piercing blue eyes and then he felt it right against his mouth—
“Dean…” he breathed, and his fingers curled against Dean’s chest as he moaned softly when Dean gripped him tightly, holding him against him and kissing him hard. He moaned again when one of Dean’s hands suddenly developed a mind of its own and went lower and squeezed Cas’s butt—dammit, Dean knew better than to grab him there, but he couldn’t help it. So he left his hand there for a few seconds more, enjoying Cas’s little pants against his mouth and the firm cheek under his palm, but dammit, he was uncomfortable—he needed to fix that—so he unwillingly (goddammit) relinquished his hold on Cas’s ass.
Just a little wriggling and a quick reach down between them with his now-free hand, and then things felt so much better. Now it was back to business and business involved reaching up and pushing on Cas’s shoulder, making him tilt himself up, his palms sinking into the mattress as Dean kissed his jaw, his neck, and then went lower, licking his sternum and then, in a burst of insanity, he guessed, managed to brush the tip of his tongue right across Cas’s pathetic excuse for a nipple. But Cas liked it—well, that was an understatement—so he did it again, a firmer swipe this time, but he didn’t get to do it more because the next thing he knew it was his turn to get all the air kissed out of him, Cas’s tongue in his mouth and wildly twisting against his own, and Cas’s palm was once more on his ribs, feeling his heart pounding there, pressing him down into the mattress, and then stroking down further, petting his stomach, and lower—
Fuck no he wasn’t touching anything lower!
Dean’s eyes shot open with the realization that Cas had just decided to try and grab his dick, and he quickly let go of his hair. His hand snapped around Cas’s wrist like a handcuff, his jaw clenched. Not fucking happening! he snarled internally. He didn’t know where the fuck Cas had suddenly gotten the idea that he could do that, but Cas was not touching his—his—
Oh fuck.
And suddenly Dean realized what Cas had been reaching for. Realized why he’d been uncomfortable before. Why he’d reached down and unzipped his jeans. That he’d reached down and unzipped his jeans in the first place.
Because he’d apparently been sending Cas an unconscious message—because he was rock-hard and ready for anything.
FUCK!
He shoved Cas off of him, and Cas went with a little huff, bouncing onto his back on the mattress and looking confused and ashamed like he always did when he thought he’d done something wrong. And fuck yes, he’d done something wrong—not only had he been reaching down to get his hands on Dean’s prick, but he’d—he’d fucking—
You fucking bastard, you turned me on!
Dean never thought he’d take such great comfort in just how fast his boner could wilt.
He wasn’t gonna stay here a minute longer, was not gonna stick around just so he could get Cas off—oh no, Dean was done. He stood up quickly, zipping up his jeans and snatching his shirt off the foot of the bed, marching stiffly across the room and, after yanking his shirt back on, jerked the door open and resisted the urge to slam it shut. However, he couldn’t storm down the hallway and into his room yet—not until he got his knees to stop shaking. So he stood there, one hand braced on the closed door as he fumed impotently, his nails digging into his palms, and the deep, calming breaths he was taking did fuck all for him.
That stupid—he’d—goddammit, he’d gotten it up! With Cas! What the hell was he even supposed to do with that?! That did not—did not mean that he wanted—
Son of a bitch!
Squeezing his eyes shut, he finally forced his legs to move, taking the few necessary steps to get into his room so he could at least get out of the hallway where anybody could see him. He really didn’t want to be seen standing there right outside of Cas’s room, all mussed and breathing heavy like he was, because God knows what people named Sam and Bobby would think if they spotted him like that.
Once he was in his room, he shut the door—resisting the urge to slam that one, too—and then leaned back against the door, rubbing his hand over his face.
He shouldn’t have let Cas…do all that. He had deviated from his routine, and look where it got him. It was Dean’s own fault for letting him…
Goddammit, Cas.
He’d just…have to be more careful. He just could not take that kind of shit again. ‘Cause—for fuck’s sake, Cas took his hard-on as a goddamn invitation! That was just—that was completely unacceptable. Hell, his hard-on was unacceptable. But that had just…happened. And much as he wanted to, he couldn’t pin it all on Cas.
Just most of it.
Heaving away from the door, he slowly shuffled to the ratty couch, just wanting to go to sleep and pretend none of this ever happened—and thank the powers that be that Sam had chosen to sleep downstairs tonight.
October 2014
Mmm…thank God Sammy thought library exhibits were interesting and so was out of the motel this afternoon.
Dean and Sam had been about ready to hit the road again after a dud hunt in Indiana when Sam had seen the flyer in the café window—the local university library was trotting out their historical collection to show to the public. A bunch of old dusty crap, as far as Dean was concerned, but Sam had been all pissy when Dean had not been impressed and had just wanted to blow town without seeing it. He’d been going on about Illuminated manuscripts and an original Isaac Newton or some shit when Dean had told him to just go—by himself, thank you. Dean had every intention of staying at the hotel and taking a nap. So Sam had taken the car to the campus and Dean had holed up in their room, flopping down on his bed and reaching up to grab his phone and his earbuds, ready to let the sweet sound of Led Zep and Styx to lull him to sleep.
But his fingers had bumped the little metal box, the one sitting there just begging to be fed quarters…
Sam had almost demanded they find a new place to stay when he’d found out this motel had Magic Fingers, but Dean had put his foot down—this place was perfect now, as far as he was concerned, so he could suck it up and like it. And in an act of defiance, he hadn’t used them once. Granted, they’d only been here a day—hadn’t taken them long to figure out that the local superstition was just that and the recent disappearance had nothing to do with it—but still, he hadn’t done it.
But man…it was right there. And he was by himself—Sam would be gone for an hour at least. And that shop owner they’d questioned yesterday, she didn’t look a day over twenty-two, long, glossy black hair twisted up and held in place with chopsticks, and she’d fluttered and smiled at him and answered all of his questions with that low, sultry tone, and she’d had a body that belonged on the cover of his favorite mag—
He’d not felt a bit guilty feeding that thing four quarters to start with. He’d spared a thought for the possibility that Sam would come back early as he’d shifted on the bed, getting himself centered and more comfortable, but hell—Sammy didn’t like what he saw, he could leave. Sam was a turd and deserved no less, in Dean’s opinion. Wasn’t his fault Sam was so insecure he ran screaming at the sight of Dean’s package—if he didn’t know Dean was the big brother in every sense of the word by now, he was an idiot. So there.
Oh yeah, that is so good, he internally purred, the bed thrumming to life and sending those delicious vibrations all over and through him. Slipping his earbuds in, he set his playlist on shuffle perfectly content with Foreigner popping up first—oh, “Hot Blooded” indeed. He rested his phone on his chest and reached down, unbuttoning his fly and sliding the zipper down, pushing his jeans and shorts down so they were just off his hips—no point in going completely naked.
Closing his eyes, he immediately saw her—who cared if she didn’t have blue hair? Miko she was. Shame he hadn’t caught her real name, but this would do fine. He reached down and just loosely stroked and squeezed his limp prick a few times while he introduced himself—she just couldn’t resist him. Of course not—but really, who could? He gave her his most winning smile and invited her back to his room—he was about to show her that there was more to life than getting attacked by tentacles that always went for sensitive areas (hot that may be).
C-cup was the best cup, as far as he was concerned—they just fit so goddamn well right into his palm, and they had give and softness and were just awesome. He liked how she stepped right into his arms, kissing him, and she tasted like cherries. He couldn’t wait to taste the rest of her. And he would, but not right now—this wasn’t a quickie. He had time, man.
By the time he was slowly—and teasingly, and he smirked at her frustration—unhooking her bra one latch at a time, he was hard, but not painfully so. He focused on his loose fist and the way he could almost feel his fingertips trailing across her smooth skin as he undid the last hook, bringing the lacy pink fabric with him, and—oh yeah. There they were. And they were perfect, just like he knew they would be. They were soft and warm and so perky—he loved that. And she loved what he was doing to ‘em, first teasing her rosy-pink nipples with his fingers and then curling one arm around her back, getting her to curve her spine so those luscious tits tipped upward towards his mouth, so he could flick his tongue across them both, listening to her quiet little gasps.
It was his fantasy, so if he wanted to materialize them both on a big, soft bed without stopping what he was doing, he could do that. She writhed gently under him, shivering when his teeth grazed her nipple, and then he reached down to unbutton her—no, he changed his mind. He reached down to hike up the hem of her short little pleated skirt, stroking the insides of her bare thighs right above those fucking hot tall stockings she was wearing and feeling her tremble under his touch.
Dean tightened his grip on his cock in reality, finally starting to jerk faster. He could feel the vibes all the way in his bones now (Yeah, all of them, he smirked to himself), and the slow burn was starting to unfurl in his midsection.
He was on his back now, Miko astride his hips and he could feel that he didn’t have panties on, the tease, grinding her bare ass and shaved pussy against him, rocking and rubbing against his hard-on. Her hands were on his chest, pressing against his ribs, and she leaned down, brushing her lips once across his and just whispering his name, all soft and sweet—fuck yes, that sounded nice—but then she was on the move again. She started with his pulse, kissing it gently and then giving him a little lick, and then she was going downward—oh yeah, he knew where this was going and it was gonna rule. She took her time getting to his stomach, brushing her lips across all of his favorite spots—of course she knew them. Why shouldn’t she? Then she sat there and stared up at him as she undid his belt and his jeans. He watched, entranced, as her fingers curled inside both his shorts and jeans, and then she was slowly sliding them off his legs—he was amused with how eager she was to get her hand around his dick. But he wasn’t gonna stop her—if she wanted to suck him off, she could go right ahead and do that.
After he spat in his palm, she started in, just lapping at the head of his cock, and he watched as her tongue slid past her lips and the tip pressed against the slit at the end—that looked awesome and he was vaguely proud of himself for almost recreating what it would feel like as he moved his thumb in time with her tongue. He had one hand on her head in his mind, just getting his fingers tangled up in that messy dark hair he loved, and she just batted her big dark eyes up at him as she slid his cock in and out of her mouth, smiling around his prick, her long-fingered hands tight on his thighs.
Briefly, Dean opened his eyes, keeping them half-lidded, continuing to pump his fist as he reached down with his other hand to give his balls a bit of a squeeze. Shit, every time he did this with the Magic Fingers, it was amazing. He wriggled a little, getting more comfortable and jerking himself a bit faster.
He closed his eyes again, because the plain white ceiling with its textured paint was not nearly as hot as what he could see in his head, that mouth around his prick, sucking him off, his eyes all big and blue—
—blue—
—that—
—HIS—
JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, CAS WAS SUCKING HIS COCK!
He barely heard the horrified, strangled shout he gave as he yanked his hand away from his own prick as if burned, thrashing as he struggled to sit up and not—and get that—oh fuck, he—get it out of my head out of my head—
Dean couldn’t help but let out the most pathetic grunt ever because he lost his boner and his everything so fast that it hurt. But it was worth it, because the pain distracted him from the—from the mental sight that—from knowing that he’d just fantasized—his fucking fantasy chick had turned into—
Son of a bitch! Goddammit—fuck you, Cas! Just FUCK YOU!
February 2015
Goddammit, Cas was a fucking bastard—he needed to get off, and he kept interrupting him! Was it too much to ask that he tug it in peace with something normal in mind?!
Just a quick one, dammit. That’s all he wanted. Just the last thing to do before heading back to the motel. He’d left to try and calm down and ease up on the tension in the first place! He and Sam had been at each others’ throats all trip, and he wanted to just—just take his mind of the fact that his brother was a snot-nosed know-it-all and a total bitch because oh, he always knew when cases were gonna be duds, because he had some kind of goddamn divining rod or some shit, yes, wasn’t he just so clever and had to rub it in Dean’s face every time Dean got something wrong. But at this point, Dean didn’t even care about their fighting or Sammy, because all his rage was directed at someone who wasn’t even here.
He knew a quick jerk would help—God knew he was on edge a lot these days anyway because he wasn’t fucking getting anything—but no, Cas was ruining it. The son of a bitch wasn’t just content with popping in and ruining his extended fantasies now. No, now he was screwing up his quickies, too. He was screwing up everything! For the drawn out fantasies, it was easy to kick him out of his head, settle down, and start over so he could do it right. But now? Now he just didn’t have the patience for it, and he’d just be thinking about tits and a curvy waist, then he’d suddenly realize that his chick had gone flat and the lips against his neck were suspiciously rough, right there on his pulse—
Oh, goddammit, he’d done it again!
Growling, he shifted lower in his seat, his legs spreading a bit more, and he squeezed his eyes shut and jerked his fist almost angrily, pausing only to spit in his palm again to avoid chafing—seeing as this was being dragged out way beyond the couple of minutes he’d originally wanted. He was sitting here off on the side the road in the middle of the day, for fuck’s sake—hence a quick one. Didn’t matter than it was a backwoods dirt track; he was gonna get arrested if sat out here jackin’ it and drew it out for half an hour. Which was what was fucking happening, thanks to Cas.
Dean was gonna kill that fucking angel when he got back to Bobby’s. Just see if he wouldn’t.
Gritting his teeth, he plunged his mind into warm, soft skin that tasted like apples and cherries and went for broke. He was close to the point that, if he could just stay on target and move it hard and fast, it’d be done. So if Cas would just stop taking over his college cheerleaders for a minute—
Thin and dainty fingers on his chest—long, strawberry-blonde hair, and he had his hands in it—yes, there went the heat, starting to get hotter, and he thrust his hips a little against his hand, yes, go tight, it was getting tight, just focus on the slim hand on his chest, sliding lower, fuck, fuck, just a bit more—
Dean, murmured low and husky, reverent and with all that breathy ecstasy he loved but so did not want to hear right now—!
For one agonizing second, he almost stopped, was gonna start over, but goddammit, he was right there, and so close it almost hurt, but in his head it was Cas, it was still Cas, Cas’s hand on his cock, stroking, squeezing, ‘cause Cas wouldn’t go away, and in his mind he saw those blue eyes, staring into him—
His aching and horribly tight balls won out and he let it go, oh, fuck, Cas gripped and squeezed his prick while his tongue licked up and down Dean’s throat, sucking at his neck where his pulse was thundering, and his thumb stroked hard at the head of his cock and he felt Cas groan against his throat yes, Dean—
“Fuck,” he moaned, jerking fast and hard, shuddering and shaking against the onslaught of his orgasm and the images still in his head, still there, shit, he couldn’t—goddammit, it was Cas—
Panting lightly, he felt none of the familiar looseness he usually enjoyed after a jerk. In fact, that was probably the worst time he’d ever had—and here he’d prided himself on how much fun he could have with just one hand. Grabbing the napkins nearby, he scrubbed off his other hand where he’d caught his load, growling in his throat.
Son of a bitch, he’d just—
What the hell was he supposed to do with that? He’d—he’d just imagined Cas—Cas doing something to him! Touching him—and in ways that were most assuredly not allowed, thank you very much! Oh, Cas had tried once or twice, but Dean had made it clear—that was out of the question. But here he’d—he’d fucking—
He suddenly realized that, in his anger and mortification, his dick was still hanging out. Snarling, he zipped up again, and decided that it probably wouldn’t be wise to give in to the temptation to keep his used napkin so he could stick it in Sam’s bag or something when he got back, though it would’ve been really satisfying. But no—not worth the bitching out he’d get from Sam when he found it. God—he couldn’t take another Sam Winchester “I know everything because the stick up my ass is so far up there that it pokes the sensitive parts of my brain and keeps it more active than stupid people like you” lecture. Not after—after this.
Thumping his head once against the back of the seat, he righted himself and turned the keys a little harder than normal, the engine roaring to life, and he put her into gear so he could head back to the motel.
God-fucking-dammit, was it too much to ask for—for something normal?!
May 2015
Dean really didn’t think that wanting Cas to get off and finish up quickly was too much to ask. That was the point he always seemed to want to get to anyway, his little Seven Seconds of Heaven, so why wasn’t he there yet?
He definitely regretted the impulsive and stupid decision he’d made a some odd months back—any time he’d gotten Cas off before, he’d just rubbed him through his shorts, and that had done the trick. But now, no—now he was actively reaching in there. He still didn’t know what had possessed him to do it. Who cared—fact of the matter was he had, and now he just did it every time, and he was doing it now.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true—although being possessed was certainly an easier-to-take explanation than the fact that he’d done it all on his own, and he knew exactly why. It was because in the beginning, Cas had shot off with barely any effort on Dean’s part at all, just a quick rub through his pants and then he could scram. But then Cas started getting used to it or something, building up his endurance, and before long Dean realized that he was having to play with Cas’s cock for way, way longer than he had ever wanted to to make him get off. He’d come to the awful conclusion that if he wanted to speed things back up, maybe he should stop being such a pussy about it and just skip the comforting cloth between them. Talk about a sucktastic choice—but in the end, it hadn’t been a hard one. Because it was either tug on Cas for five to ten minutes through his shorts, or man up and get a handful of warm cock for just one. He knew which one he’d take (that, and some tiny, tiny part of him was starting to become concerned that he was going to rub Cas raw, doing it the other way).
He didn’t have to do much, granted. The first time he’d gritted his teeth and just reached in there and grabbed his dick with his bare hand, Cas had gone off in less than thirty seconds, just like old times—but that was hardly a concession. That Dean did it at all was horrible. But he’d gotten—gotten so used to Cas being a One Minute Wonder that he’d—that he’d even do that just to keep it thataway.
Dammit, why did he have to pick now to start holding out a little longer again?!
Shifting a little, he squeezed tighter and started—started jerking him more, putting more effort into it than he usually did instead of just relying on Cas to fuck his hand for him (oh, Jesus). Cas moaned, his hands squeezing his shoulders, and Dean really hated how that sound sent another tiny lance of fire to his pelvis—fucking hell, this was so damn wrong and yet his fucking dick fucking loved it.
He jumped a little when he was suddenly being very messily kissed, one of Cas’s hands knotting in his hair as he shoved his tongue past Dean’s lips. Goddammit, Cas. But before he could even try and make him stop that, Cas tore his mouth away on his own, instead burying his face against Dean’s neck, his quiet little pants against his skin making him shiver. That was another part that really sucked about this—he was so not turned on by fucking jacking Cas off, but everything else Cas did, those noises, his wild, messy kisses, and the way he…rubbed his body against Dean’s, and that sometimes Dean…rubbed back…
Shit—he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t his fault, though!
Cas was still making those tiny whimpers, but Dean could tell from the little increase in volume that he’d be going off soon, so Dean did his best to get his hand away from the business end because having that on his hand still grossed him out, so he always did his best to make sure Cas’s shorts caught most of the nasty load. Son of a bitch, would you just come already? he snarled to himself, and with his free hand groped up until he got his fingers in Cas’s hair, making him tilt his head to the side so he could kiss his neck, looking for all the spots he liked best just so he’d do it already.
“D—Dean—” And Cas’s mouth was back on his own as he finally, finally arched up against Dean, throwing his entire body into it like he always did, and all his noise was muffled by Dean’s mouth as he finally came, jerking helplessly against Dean’s fingers, his grip painful on his upper arms, but Dean just kissed him quiet through the whole thing, squeezing his eyes shut when he felt—felt that getting on him—
Cas relaxed after a moment, though he kept himself all pressed up against Dean, breaking off the kiss (or rather, just kind of falling off of it) with a pathetic wheeze. Once Cas had his face back up against Dean’s neck and couldn’t see his expression, Dean could grimace like he wanted to, prying his fingers off of Cas’s prick so he could get that shit off. God, that was nasty.
After wiping his hand down probably more than was necessary on a dry spot in Cas’s shorts, he pulled his hand out, knowing he’d be Brillo-ing it before he went to sleep just like he did every time he jerked Cas off. Now it was just a waiting game—once his own prick stopped being so cheerfully hard, he’d get the hell out of Dodge. Wasn’t about to go wandering through Bobby’s house with a boner and give those asshats even more ideas than they undoubtedly had.
Cas still had his arms all wrapped around Dean, his bare chest pressed against his own. He was all hot, of course, and that made Dean all hot, which was annoying. But then Cas moved a little, and now his stomach was pressed against Dean’s, too—Goddammit, get your hips away from mine.
Dean shifted backwards a little, unable to stop the twitch of his stomach muscles as he got rubbed a bit through his pants. Shit—that did not help his boner. He wanted it to go down, dammit. But no, Cas wasn’t helping, either—following Dean as he moved and getting pressed right back up against him, nuzzling him like he was, right there against his neck, his warm hands stroking along his back—
He always did this. Cas was a cuddler, Dean had been dismayed to discover several months into his…routine of giving Cas a handjob. When he first started jerking him, the minute Cas went off, Dean would bug out—he wanted no part of that. But now that he was getting fucking turned on too, he couldn’t leave until he’d calmed down. And the feathery little bastard took advantage of it too, as if just ‘cause Dean couldn’t leave yet, he obviously didn’t want to, and that just ‘cause he hadn’t thrown Cas out of the bed meant that he could just keep on cuddling with him and shit. Well, he could just cuddle his pillow—Dean was not interested. But, despite making it clear that post-handjob cuddling was not an option, Cas still managed to work it so he got at least a little bit when Dean was lying there all still and trying to make himself go soft. The little prick didn’t need any fucking cuddling after, because he got plenty of it when they were making out—he always took advantage of when Dean had to stop after being forcibly reminded that Cas was a dude.
Fucking hell, why wouldn’t it go down? How long had it been, anyway? Cas, you bastard, stop that! No wonder he couldn’t get his hard-on to hard-off—Cas was breathing on him, and one hand had circled around to press on his chest and he’d brushed his nipple to get there—You did that on purpose, didn’t you?
Oh, great. Cas had moved up from breathing and nuzzling and was now kissing his neck. How fucking peachy. Nothing frantic, of course, just little ones that were borderline annoying but just enough so that he still liked them. He twitched a bit, shrugging his shoulder trying to send him a message to tell him to quit it, but of course he didn’t pick it up. In fact, Dean felt stupid for trying—Cas couldn’t read signals.
Or rather, he misread them and did the opposite of what he wanted every goddamn time. And this time was no exception, because now Cas was petting him, stroking his chest, going a little lower each time and the little shivers of heat going down his spine from where his fingers touched his skin were driving him crazy. Fuck you, Cas, he growled.
Okay. Time to stop. He had to get Cas away from him, because he—he was turned on, and he needed to just—Cas, stop touching me, dammit!
And don’t fucking touch there, you little prick!
Jerking away from Cas’s hand where it had been pressed low against his stomach, the tips of his fingers brushing the top of Dean’s shorts—because he’d had to unzip his jeans again because he’d been in fucking pain—he pried himself out of Cas’s grip and sat up. Cas let him go, sighing in a way that Dean knew was both contentment and disappointment because he’d heard it so many times already. Fuck.
Moving awkwardly, he managed to get to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs down to the floor. He was, for once, a little grateful for the added space he had now—Cas’s new bed provided him that. On the other hand, he still was mad about Cas’s double bed—Dean had come home after a hunt and slunk upstairs one night to see Cas reading not in his single, but this. Cas had said Bobby had just wanted to get him a new bed to replace his old one, but Dean wasn’t dumb—if that was true, Bobby wouldn’t have gotten a double. That old bastard—if he was implying anything—
He doesn’t have to imply, that smug little voice that always showed up at the worst times simpered. Dean twitched and glowered at his hard-on for a moment before snatching his shirt up and yanking it on. Then he settled in and squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the sheets tightly, trying to will it to go down, doing his best to not think of all that warm skin he’d just been touching. Or of how Cas’s tongue had licked gently at his pulse. And across his chest. And how Dean had reached into his shorts and gotten a double handful of Cas’s firm little butt tonight.
Oh Jesus Christ, this wasn’t working. It wasn’t fucking working!
He couldn’t quit. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. And the bed was shifting because Cas was right there behind him—Cas—who was—
He had to take the risk. He didn’t want to—so didn’t want to—but he had to do something—had to get out of here, to get away from that stupid angel—
Rising quickly, he held up his jeans with one hand and yanked his shirt down over his stiff prick, feeling so idiotic, but he had to get anywhere but here. He made it across the room despite his awkward walk, and then slowly opened the door to check and see if the coast was clear. No creaking on the stairs, no one in the hall. Slipping out, he shut the door behind him and dashed down the hall with the quickest walk he could manage, his clothes rubbing against his prick the whole time and making it worse—
He skipped his room and went straight for the bathroom because he couldn’t take this—could not take this any more. Not turning on the light, he shut the door and locked it before making a beeline for the toilet, tugging his shirt back up and pushing his jeans and shorts just a little off his hips, getting his dick out, and a little spit in his palm later and he just furiously started in on himself, because he wasn’t gonna draw this out, hell no, he just needed it to go away—
Things were already hot and they got hotter as he didn’t bother wrestling with himself like he usually did, didn’t bother trying to force the usual fantasies in because he wasn’t stupid, what had turned him on tonight was what he’d gotten, and he was just gonna have to deal with it. So he imagined what he’d already imagined before, those hot hands on his stomach going lower, but he didn’t flinch away in his head like he did in reality, oh no, every single time he’d done it in his head Cas had him, had his cock, fuck, it was so wrong but his balls didn’t care as they started tightening up because Cas jerked him just right, his teeth clamped right there where Dean’s shoulder met his neck, his body burning and pressed up against his, and always, right there, right before Dean came, he’d moan it, moan his name and Jesus fucking Christ why was it like that every goddamn time—?!
He bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep from groaning loudly, his fingers flexing against the wall, and he dimly hoped to God he was making it in the bowl because his eyes were shut and he didn’t know if he wasn’t aiming right anymore, but who the fuck cared, because yes, all that pressure was gone, and it felt so much better.
Well, about ten seconds after he was done panting, he cared. He cared a lot. He cracked his eyes open, afraid he might see a disaster, but no, he’d aimed right. Good. He didn’t want to have to worry about cleaning up that mess when he had more pressing concerns on his mind. Like that one.
It hadn’t gone away. It hadn’t gone away. That was totally unacceptable. It was one thing to get turned on when it was happening—because who could fucking blame him?! He hadn’t gotten any in three years, and Cas was all ruby and warm—but for it to not go away? For him to not be able to get it out of his head, for it to follow him? No, no, no, what he did with Cas in that room was not supposed to leave it, not even in his own fucking head.
…except it already had. Every time Dean’s fantasies accidentally turned into Cas.
Shit.
Furiously, he flushed the toilet, getting rid of all evidence of his little fap before he stormed back to his room to throw himself on the couch and stew.
This had better not become a regular thing. It wouldn’t become a regular thing. Because he said so. He was just—he was just desperate was all, goddammit! He wasn’t getting any anywhere else, he had fucking blue balls, and he’d done something about it. That’s all this was. So as ridiculous and wrong as this one-time thing was, it was still a one-time thing, and wouldn’t happen again.
Oh yeah. Since you’re obviously gonna get some in the near future and stop being so desperate.
Shut the fuck up, Sam!