"Tell me again," Castiel murmurs soft and sleepily against the curve of Dean’s jaw. While he waits, he threads their fingers together, pushes their palms flush, curls closer against Dean’s side. Dean’s chest expands with a slow, deep breath; it’s followed almost immediately by the rumbling sound of him clearing his throat.
"I knew when you came walking into that barn," Dean says, stopping to press a kiss to the top of Castiel’s head. His lips curve into a smile before he says anything else. Then: "The second I saw you and how everything was going haywire around you, I knew."
Castiel squeezes their fingers more tightly together, a matching smile settling on his own lips as he snuffles into the warmth of Dean’s neck. Cocooned in the dark and quiet of their shared bunker bedroom, he takes his time mulling over Dean’s words for at least the millionth time, presses closer still, and whispers, “How?”
Dean lifts his hand slowly, pulling Castiel’s along, until their intertwined fingers rest over the steady thump of his heart. He’s quiet for a long moment - a pause that sends butterflies flitting wildly through Castiel’s stomach - and smiles against Castiel’s hair again before he gives the same answer he always gives.
"I just knew, Cas.”
Dean takes his time pushing into the tight heat of Castiel’s body, admiring the way the muscles across his shoulders tense and release as he clutches at the sheets beneath him. A moment later, with one hand pressed hard between Cas’ shoulder blades and the other gripping his hip, Dean has to pause and force a slow breath to stop his head from spinning. His fingertips slip on already sweaty skin and the breathless growls that punctuate every subtle move of his hips send shivers through him.
He can’t get over how beautiful Castiel is like this, his back curving gracefully between broad shoulders and narrow hips, his muscles pulled taut. When Dean pauses for too long to admire the view, Cas whines and pushes backward impatiently. Caught by surprise, Dean finds himself buried in Castiel and struggling to breathe. His hand slips instinctively to the back of Castiel’s neck, fingers closing to get a good grip.
"Fuck me," Cas demands, the words he reserves for Dean’s ears just as much a system shock as the sudden, tight clench of his body.
Dean waits for a long moment, grinding forward as he drags Cas backward until their bodies are pressed impossibly tight. He waits until he hears the hitch in Castiel’s breathing; a soft, thick sound of surrender that’s always followed closely by every muscle in his lithe body slackening briefly. With one last indulgence in the magnificent view, Dean lets his fingertips drag up the curve of Castiel’s spine.
There’s no telling, really. My brain isn’t always my friend and sometimes it’s like, “Hey, how about some stress over something really dumb? No? That’s not something you need? Okay, here you go. Enjoy!”
I hope your stress eases soon, Anon. <3
For some reason I’m finding it more stressful than pleasurable to try to write jensen x misha right now, so for now I’m not going to.
With hectic schedules being a fact of life, Misha and Jensen don’t often have the luxury of spending long stretches of time together. More usually, their encounters are rushed and quick. Short, hard kisses and bordering-on-desperate touches that only whet their appetites for more.
When they do have more time to spend, they use it fully: tangled together, fingertips tracing familiar skin, kisses coming slow and deep as they tease themselves as much as each other. In the end, they’ll get where they’re going; in the meantime they’ll store up enough of one another’s touch to get them through until the next time.
Castiel has a hard time understanding why anyone would rather receive a blow job than give one. Sure, it feels great; and, yes, Dean can do things with his lips and tongue that probably shouldn’t be legal. No matter how good it feels, though, Cas would argue that it doesn’t even remotely compare to the feeling of taking Dean apart a molecule at a time with his own tongue.
From the first soft hums of pleasure that start the second Castiel’s lips touch Dean’s cock to the throaty moans that follow, Cas can’t get enough of giving pleasure. He loves the way Dean’s hips buck, instinct sending him in search of the warmth of Castiel’s mouth; he loves the way Dean’s fingers tremble when they stroke through his hair and then tangle and twist so he can push deeper.
With his hands on Dean’s hips, he can feel every little movement. He can feel Dean’s body tighten and release in time with his ragged panting, feel Dean’s cock starting to thicken even as the sourness of precome tightens his jaw and makes him suck that much harder. With his thumbs splayed across Dean’s stomach, he can feel the muscles ripple and clench, his hips twisting to chase the heat of Castiel’s mouth like a man on a mission.
When Castiel opens his eyes, he sees Dean’s are half-closed, eyelashes fluttering as he struggles to watch Cas, too. Dean’s lips are plump and red from the way he bites them, slick with spit where his tongue darts out between hissed breaths, pausing, dragging slowly back in again. He watches as Dean’s eyes fall shut for good and his head pushes back against the pillow, arching his body upward.
Cas can close his eyes then; he squeezes them tight and focuses on the softness of Dean’s skin as it slips between his own slick lips. He listens as Dean’s moans turn to little growled whimpers and half-finished words. His eyes water when Dean’s fingers twist a little too excitedly in his hair and pull him down, down, down. He knows when Dean is close, his cock leaks and leaks until spit and precome are spilling down Castiel’s chin and all sound except Dean’s harsh, erratic breaths stop.
Dean’s body twists and tightens as he pushes into Castiel’s mouth again and again with quick, short thrusts before his whole body clenches and shivers and it’s all Cas can do to swallow fast enough as Dean starts to gasp praise and curses mixed in together, his body falling back to the bed and so that Castiel kiss and lick him clean. His touch is soft again after that, stroking Castiel’s hair and his face and his shoulders; his body boneless under Cas’ roaming fingers.
When Castiel finally catches his breath and looks up, Dean is watching, lust-addled and looking sexier than any human being has a right to. He’s putty in Castiel’s hands then, squirming and “mmm”ing and taking little shivery breaths as Cas takes ample time to explore his body. On a good day, Dean will let him go on forever, mumbling nonsense while Castiel gives his body a good kissing.
Getting a blow job is pleasant, of course, but it’s nothing next to the goofy, lopsided grin still on Dean’s face half an hour after Castiel is through with him.
Castiel has never had hot chocolate before he gets his first summer cold. When Dean tries to give it to him, he protests that he’s too hot already and it’s at least a thousand degrees outside and he doesn’t want anything, anyway. Dean insists he try just one sip, though, and finally tired of arguing, Castiel acquiesces to the demand.
That first sip soothes his aching throat and calms the tickle that’s had him doubled over in coughing fits for at least an hour (but it does burn his tongue, just like he warned Dean it would). As Cas lies slouched down in his freshly fluffed pillows, Dean strokes the hair back from his sweaty forehead and asks, “Good?”
"Mm," Castiel answers noncommittally, but he takes another sip anyway. Though he can taste little, the richness of the chocolate and the melted marshmallows manage to break through the ten pounds of sludge filling his head for a pleasant, mellow sweetness on his tongue.
"Mom used to make me hot chocolate when I was sick," Dean says quietly as he carefully urges the steaming mug back toward Castiel’s lips and studiously doesn’t meet his eye. His voice is a little more gruff when he adds, “Better than any medicine if you ask me.”
Castiel, uncertain what to say in light of this new information, takes another sip. Dean’s fingers comb through his hair and he closes his eyes, letting the warmth of the chocolate work its magic on his throat and chest. By the time he’s halfway through the mug, he definitely feels more relaxed if nothing else. Dean watches with a soft smile, stroking Castiel’s scalp gently with his fingertips until the mug has been emptied.
"It was good,” Castiel says after a moment, nodding thoughtfully and licking his lips to get the last of the chocolate off them.
"See?" Dean says, his smile widening as he takes the mug from Castiel’s warmed hands and sets it on the nightstand before leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Mom’s hot chocolate never fails. You’ll be good as new in no time.”
Dean and Castiel hiding from the world under the covers, sharing sleepy morning kisses, and talking about nothing of great importance like..
"Dean, how did you get freckles on your.. you know.."
"I did not!"
"Yes, you did."
"They were already there when I kissed you.”
"Are you accusing me of - "
"Was it Gabriel?"
"Ew, Cas, don’t be gross!"
"It better not have been Gabriel.”
"I swear it wasn’t."
…..thirty minutes later…..
"WAS IT ANNA?!"
They’ve been staked out and waiting for the sheriff’s office to return their call for hours. Somewhere around the two-hour mark, Castiel started getting fidgety in the passenger seat of the Impala. Somewhere around the four-hour mark (and, incidentally, the last of the day’s light) he slid across the seat to get closer to Dean. That was at least half an hour ago and Dean’s self-control is running on empty.
"Come on, Dean," Castiel breathes against the curve of his ear. Dean bites his tongue on a whimper when Castiel’s teeth drag down his earlobe and begin to nibble oh-so-delicately at the tender flesh beneath. "This might not even be the right building," Cas continues, his voice whiskey rough as the warmth of his palm molds to Dean’s cock. A wet kiss to the underside of Dean’s jaw, another drag of teeth and then, "Let’s go back to the motel."
Dean’s breath is little more than a ragged gasp when Castiel unbuckles his belt, his head clouded with need and his cock leaking wet and sticky in anticipation when Castiel’s practiced fingers unbutton his jeans and slide the zipper down little by little. His resolve breaks when Castiel’s fingers wriggle their way under the waistband of his boxers. It’s five minutes back to the motel; he’s pretty sure he can make it there alive.
"All right,” Dean moans, sucking a deep breath and tilting his head back to enjoy the sharp pinch of Castiel’s nips at the hollow of his throat. Cas lifts his head, dragging the bridge of his nose against Dean’s stubbled jaw as Dean gasps out, “You win, Cas.” He takes another breath, shivery with anticipation of what awaits him when they get back to the motel and tangles his fingers in Castiel’s hair to pull him in for a filthy-deep kiss. When they break apart, he offers a breathless, “Let’s go.”
The ring of Dean’s phone is jarring, sending his heart hammering even harder in his chest. It doesn’t help that Castiel’s fingers are still in his boxers, soft fingertips stroking the ridge of his cockhead as he fumbles for the phone in his pocket and by some miracle manages to answer it and get it to his ear despite Castiel’s disgruntled whine against the other.
“What?” Dean says. He swallows reflexively and clears his throat then adds a hasty, rough, “This is Dean Winchester.”
After a second of silence, the woman on the other end of the line says something. He’s sure of it. Those are definitely words that are happening in a soft, pleasing female voice. But Cas is sucking at his earlobe and his fingers are teasing against the underside of the head of Dean’s cock and it’s all Dean can do not to burst into literal flame, so the very, very tiny piece of his brain that’s still capable of rational thought decides that it’s perfectly reasonable to conclude that maybe she’s speaking Martian.
There’s a pause, the kind that even in Martian signifies that it’s Dean’s turn to say something. He twists his fingers tighter in Castiel’s hair, pulling those plush, spit-slick lips harder against the side of his neck and struggles to keep his voice something that resembles even when he asks, “Could you repeat that?”
Maybe it’s because he grew up without any privacy (Dean’s theory) or maybe it’s because he’s a jerk (Sam’s occasionally voiced opinion), but even since they’ve made the bunker their home - complete with bedrooms all their own - Dean never stops to knock on a closed door before going in. Anyway, if Sam and Cas don’t want him interrupting, they can damned well lock their doors.
In Dean’s defense, he has searched the bunker high and low for Castiel before deciding to check his bedroom. Also in his defense, if Cas would stop wandering off with the translation scroll, Dean wouldn’t even be looking for him. So maybe - maybe - for once, Dean feels justified in the pleasure he gets from barging into Castiel’s room to ask, “Hey, have you seen the…”
The rest of the sentence dies on his lips at the sight of Castiel’s long, tanned body sprawled obscenely in the middle of his bed; his fist moving furiously up and down his cock. It’s like a gut punch, sending Dean’s breath whooshing out all at once so fast he feels lightheaded.
His name leaves Castiel’s lips somewhere between a fervent prayer and an alarmed wheeze, and Dean’s temperature shoots up at least fifteen degrees. Sweat prickles down his spine to match the sheen on Castiel’s body. Cas doesn’t stop immediately. His grip tightens, if anything; his darkened cockhead stark against the white of his fingers. As much as Dean knows he should look away; as much as he wants to look away, his gaze is stuck on the thickness of Castiel’s shaft in his fist.
“Oh,” Dean breathes, finally tearing his eyes away from Castiel’s fist.
Of all the places he could look in that moment, he makes the worst possible choice. His stomach drops to somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles when he sees Castiel’s face: flushed deep pink, eyes half closed, lips red and slick with spit. Cas’ sweaty hair is half plastered to his skull and half standing at odd angles and the only thing Dean knows for sure is that he didn’t mean to whimper “oh, God, Cas”, but that certainly didn’t stop it from happening.
When Dean finally has the presence of mind to close the door, the last thing he sees is Castiel’s body shudder and his teeth close around his lower lip as though to stifle sound. He feels a drop of sweat roll down the back of his neck as he leans back against the door frame and reaches down to try to make his own erection a little less obvious in case Sam happens to wander by.
It’s a good five minutes before Dean’s knees feel solid enough to walk away from Castiel’s door without falling over, though his dick doesn’t seem get the memo that the show is over at all. It only takes him five seconds to get back to his own room once he finally moves and he definitely locks the door behind him.