Anonymous asked: SPN. Pairing: Destiel. Prompt: I want Dean sucking on the gun. I want him getting fucked with it. I want Castiel to call him a “good boy”.
A/N: Under a cut for season finale spoilers, gunkink.
A/N: Under a cut for season finale spoilers, gunkink.
There’s a certain way Castiel looks at him that makes him almost look feminine; not that Dean wants him to be a girl, but the effect is intense, especially when he’s wearing the panties with his hard-on a thick and obvious bulge in the fabric. Dean runs his hands down the stockings, delicate fabric with Castiel’s legs hard and strong beneath them, and murmurs, “God, Cas, you’re so pretty like this, such a pretty little boy.”
"Daddy," Castiel moans, angling his lips up for a kiss, and Dean can’t deny him, never could.
Castiel mounts him, sliding the panties down so his ass is exposed and letting Dean lube him up as he moans and whimpers for his Daddy’s cock. And when he’s ready, he rides Dean with abandon, the soft fabric of the panties still stretched over his cock in front and providing a slick smoothness to every arch against Dean’s stomach; lost like this, he’s even prettier, and Dean just murmurs “Good boy” over and over, stroking Castiel’s hair and groaning with the feel of Castiel’s pretty ass stretched around his cock.
Their eyes catch on the tail end of a hunt, and the roll of heat that goes through Dean is answered — he can feel it, heat wafting off Castiel in intense waves. It’s interminable minutes before they have a chance to be alone together, and as soon as the motel door closes behind them, Dean’s catching Castiel by the waist and hauling him in for hot kisses like a blizzard of fire. They pant, breathe into each other’s mouths, and kiss more, walking in tandem across the rug toward the bed; Castiel falls, pulls Dean onto him, and begs in a rough voice, “Now, Dean, I need it now.”
Dean needs it now too, and he’s never undressed Castiel so fast in his life; the two of them naked, they press together, cocks sliding together, and Castiel cranes his neck, jaw tipping toward the ceiling as he keens needily and spreads his legs, begging the whole time — “now, Dean, need it now, don’t tease me, please.”
That’s all the teasing Dean can stand anyway: he’s slicking Castiel up and sliding into him before a few minutes are up, and and their scents mingle in the air around them as they rock together in glorious completion, the heat of Castiel’s body enveloping him and pulling him into a frenzy he won’t escape until the night is over and they’re panting, exhausted and thoroughly sated, into each other’s skin.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t Gabriel’s idea… it was Cas’ and Dean practically fell over himself to get onto Gabriel’s dick. Chuck’s eyes widened to pie plate-sized as Castiel loomed over him in his flasher’s trench coat and stroked what Heaven gave him; Chuck whimpered as he shoved a third finger inside himself and tried to figure out how the heck he was gonna take that thing.
“You’ll be fine,” Gabe said, looking over at his human. “Hop on and Castiel will treat you right. Trust me,” he purred, the last word coming out slightly strangled as Dean plowed back onto him with a growl.
“Fuck him, Cas,” Dean breathed.
By the time Dean slides into him for the first time, Castiel is already lost — he’s never imagined simple physical touch could be like this, never dreamed in his thousands of years of wonderings that Dean’s mouth on his skin would affect him the way it has. It’s not a touch to the skin so much as to the soul, and Dean’s so endlessly patient, waiting for Castiel to reach the moment of breathlessness and then pulling him back, letting him breathe just long enough to be overwhelmed by what comes next.
"Dean," he hears himself say a million times, as though Dean would somehow relent, but not wanting him to — not wanting the patient mouth teasing up his nipple or the hands skimming over his ass for teasing touches to his hole to let up, even for a moment. But they do, just long enough for Dean himself to say "I know, Cas… I’m goin’ crazy too,"
And now Dean’s inside him, and they’re both crazy — Castiel wrapping his legs around Dean’s waist to pull him in, Dean sealing his mouth over Castiel’s in one of a thousand hungry, sucking kisses — but Dean knows what he’s doing, and Castiel is still so in over his head that he forgets himself too soon, coming with a broken shout and clutching Dean so close that he thinks he may never be able to let go.
He watched the tail lights of Dean’s car disappear down the long road outside the motel and thought about chasing him, flying to his car and forcing him to pull over; but there was no way he could take from Dean what he wanted, because that was a thing that had to be given willingly.
Gabriel fluttered into the space next to Castiel, looking across the empty expanse of dark and wet pavement before bumping his shoulder into his friend’s and inclining his head back toward their room.
“C’mon,” Gabriel said simply, not saying out loud that he and Sam could help him forget for a few moments, that maybe he should keep on forgetting after his skin had cooled.
But it didn’t work that way. Castiel couldn’t forget the soft and then laughing and then ferocious look in Dean’s hazel eyes when the same look was gazing up at Gabriel from Sam, and he couldn’t let the thought of Dean arching beneath him be, not when he gripped Sam’s shoulder and felt as though he’d been burned with the first, painfully beautiful sight of Dean in the pit. They helped him come to a release, but they could never be Dean Winchester.
Dean’s knees, rough and covered with callused skin from too many falls and scrapes untreated — Dean’s arms, cut too many times to prove he bleeds red — Dean’s mouth, too easy to allow slow poison in, too hard to let the words out — Castiel touches each in turn with his own too-used fingertips, watches Dean watch him, nods and keeps going.
And Dean’s lost, not understanding the significance of the nod or the touching, feeling as though he’s under a microscope, all of his flaws explored in painful detail, and any minute Castiel will turn his head in disgust and look away.
But Castiel’s gaze is steady, even as he lowers his mouth to Dean’s palm and presses a kiss into it, and Dean can feel the bobbing of Castiel’s cock against his leg, hard (why?) and wanting (whom, when it couldn’t be him?), and he pushes the words out — “Cas, what are—”
"Because you’re beautiful," Castiel says, and the question was a what, not a why, but it’s answered just the same.
"I am?" and Castiel kisses the spot between thigh and cock, nods, and Dean finds he wants to believe it.
He’s alive, Cas is alive, and so is Dean and all he can do is touch Cas, make sure he’s still there and not about to be pulled away from him again like he was earlier, when Dean was shouting after him and watching as Castiel came this close to being crunched between the jaws of a creature neither of them had ever seen before.
But no, thank God, Cas is here now with him, and Dean kisses him with everything he’s got, all the love and frustration and fear and violence in his soul, pushing him down onto the dirt floor of the tiny cabin they’ve been sheltered in as the’ve hunted the thing. Its body is ashes now, and Castiel’s body beneath him is so real and solid that Dean can push it down, bite it everywhere and still Castiel goes on living, goes on pushing back and breathing shallowly and begging Dean for more.
"More, yes, God, I’ll give you more," Dean says, "you’re so goddamn sexy, so fucking perfect," and Castiel just says "darling" back and it sounds like the greatest word Dean’s ever heard. Their bodies grind together, slick with sweat, and their desperate kisses fill the air with smacking sounds that are only outdone by the slap of their bodies and the rising sound of their groans in the small room.
This feels like freedom, even though to an outsider it might look like anything but — Dean’s hands bound, his face pressed against the cold floor, this legs wide open and bouncing in the air as Castiel grunts and thrusts between them. Castiel’s hand, like a star, radiates warmth through the center of Dean’s chest, and the feeling drives words out of Dean in a stream — “yeah, yeah, fuck me,” he mutters, “come on and fuck me real good, Cas, love to feel you slamming into my ass.”
He can curl his bound hands around his cock and jerk, bring himself off he wants to, but Dean just holds his cock loosely in his fingers and lets the contact stay incidental. He doesn’t need it to get off — Cas is hitting his prostate at that wow-magic angle, and Dean’s groaning and holding back just from the feather-light touches of his own fingers and the occasional cold metal of the cuffs. But more than that, he doesn’t even need to get off, period: this is what he wants, Castiel using him, his body a receptacle of pleasure, a vessel for something besides angelic intent and human pain.
Contours of the ruffles at the back of Dean’s panties showed through his jeans as he leaned into the trunk, putting away his shotgun and an impressive machete; someone as beautiful as Dean should be more fragile than this, and his strength made Cas proud to call him his. Cas’ hand settled possessively onto the curve of Dean’s ass, caressing him and imagining taking him just like this, over the spread of weapons, fingers slipping beneath the elastic of those panties so he could pull Dean onto his dick.
Dean’s eyes were round and startlingly blue when he leaned back into Cas with a purr. His long eyelashes fluttered as Cas pressed his erection against the denim seam, his hand reaching around to cup Dean’s chest, thumb rubbing across his nipple as Dean’s back arched.
“Did good,” Dean whispered, giving Cas access to his neck as he wound his fingers together with Cas’ over his breast; his words were a question, a search for approval, and Cas gave him what he needed.