pairing: Dean/Castiel
rating: hard R
word count: 1,260
warnings: voyeurism? descriptions of bad porn?
summary: Dean’s laugh is rusty. “We’re going to have to talk about private time.”
Set in S6, with vague spoilers up to 6.14, and specific callbacks to 6.10. Title from My Chemical Romance's "The Kids From Yesterday."
Cas appears with a nearly inaudible beat of wings just as Dean is shrugging on his coat to meet Sam at the library. He nearly pops the seam on one sleeve, he’s so startled.
“A little warning, huh?” he growls, and sighs when Cas just turns blank blue eyes at him.
He looks … tired. Worn down, maybe. Not the scowling, sort of terrifying angel of the lord he’s been lately when Dean’s called him in for soul-checking duty.
“Something up, Cas?” Dean says and sits down on the nearest unmade bed.
“No,” Cas says bluntly. He’s still standing in the middle of the room, awkward and trench-coated as usual, eyes trained on Dean. “It’s simply more of the same. I … wanted a brief respite.”
Huh. Maybe he’d been serious when he said he was getting tired of heaven. And with a war on up there, it’s understandable. “Make yourself at home, buddy,” he says as he stands up. He claps Cas on the shoulder. “I have to go meet Sam, but you can kick back here for a while if you want. Watch some tube, angel up a six-pack, go nuts. We shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
Cas tilts his head at the TV and nods slowly, his brow pinched in what looks like a cross between concentration and constipation. Which is Cas’s usual expression, come to think of it. “I’ll do that, Dean. Thank you.”
“No problem, man.” Dean grabs the keys and opens the door, stopping just long enough to add, “Cas. Sit down. And don’t … turn on the TV with your mind or anything. You’re going to fry something someday. The remote’s on the dresser.”
Angels. Compared to fairies, dragons, and haunted kidneys, it’s unbelievable that Cas is still one of the more mysterious aspects of his life, but Dean gave up on predictable a long time ago. And hell, as long as he doesn’t short out the electronics or spill beer on the sheets, how much harm can he do?
***
Plenty, as it turns out. Because when Dean opens the motel room door two hours later, Cas is sitting cross-legged on the ratty carpet in front of the television with his pants open and his cock in his hand.
Dean slams the door, and scrubs a hand over his face when Cas doesn’t even flinch. Figures. Christ.
And there it is, the culprit -- not the celebrated pizza man, as far as Dean can remember, but porn at any rate. Good old filthy American-made porn, all big tits and bigger dicks, fake tans and even faker O faces.
For a moment, Cas glances at him -- just as the guy on screen is pulling out of the girl’s wet red mouth to shove his cock into her wet pink cunt -- and blinks. He’s flushed, pupils dilated and mouth slightly open, but he doesn’t seem particularly embarrassed, and his hand never stops moving.
They’re so going to have a discussion about this.
But … not now, Dean thinks, and swallows hard as he sits down on the bed. Cas is watching himself now, eyes trained on his hand and his dick, and jesus fuck, if Dean didn’t have a voyeur kink before now, he does now. Cas, too, apparently, but he’s also watching so intently, so curiously, he clearly has no idea what’s going to happen.
It’s the first time he’s ever spanked it, Dean would bet folding money on it, and oh fuck, now he’s got a boner, too. A really insistent one.
It’s not like he’s never thought about this -- getting Cas naked, getting Cas interested, getting a lot closer than blood and fists and staring contests. Hell, if Cas hadn’t disappeared after they got out of the brothel, Dean had thought about introducing him to the joys of non-virginity himself. But nothing was easy with Cas. Nothing was straightforward with an angel who was by turns awkward, vengeful, terrifying, and straight-up comedy gold.
And Cas was, in all the ways that really mattered, Dean’s friend. He didn’t have many of those, and he really didn’t want to screw that up by bumping groins when there were plenty of other fish in the proverbial sea.
But now …
“Dean,” Cas says, voice like torn paper, surprise and confusion and arousal ripped out of him.
“First time?” Dean manages, and pushes off his coat before sliding to the floor to sit next to him. Their knees bump, and Cas shudders, nods.
“The film … you said … I’m not supposed to talk about it …”
“A little late for that, man.” Dean’s laugh is rusty. “We’re going to have to talk about private time.”
Cas looks vaguely stricken, but he musters his breath. “I can … leave.”
“Nah.” Want is thick and sharp in his throat, and he watches himself reach out to pull one of Cas’s thighs wider. “Go on. Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“It feels …” Cas is so stunned it would be funny if Dean didn’t want to push him backwards and climb on top of him, lick the shock and pleasure out of his mouth. “I didn’t realize …”
His hand is still working, fist curled tight around the fat length of his dick. The head is shiny wet, swollen, flushed with blood, and the gleaming slit winks at Dean as it appears and disappears in the circle of Cas’s hand. He’s close now, judging by his shallow pant, the strain in his jaw as he strokes faster. The room smells like spunk already, thick and humid and salty.
“Just let it go.” The words are so low, Dean is amazed Cas can even hear them, but he does. His eyes close and his head falls forward, and Dean can’t help himself, he reaches out and combs his fingers through the hair at Cas’s nape.
The feathery sigh he gets in return blazes through him, and he tightens his fingers, leans in closer. “Let go. Lemme see it, Cas. Gonna feel so good …”
“Dean.” It’s agonized, pained, and then he’s shooting, body shaking as thick ropes of spunk slide over his fingers, splatter on the leg of his pants.
“Aw, fuck,” Dean whispers, and presses the heel of his free hand against his crotch. Cas is still shuddering, staring at his hand in fascination, and Dean is going to fucking explode any minute.
Instead, he takes Cas’s hand and pulls it close, leaning down to lick at the wet mess. It’s warm and pungent, coating his tongue, and the noise Cas makes is nearly a squeak. But he watches as Dean’s tongue works over each finger, sliding in between them and down to the broad, hot expanse of his palm before pushing it up to Cas’s mouth.
“Taste it,” he manages, and mother of god, he’s so hard it hurts.
Cas’s tongue pokes out tentatively, but he licks up the last bit of semen clinging to his index finger with a soft grunt as Dean watches. His nose wrinkles briefly, but he closes his eyes and savors it for a second before swallowing.
“It’s … salty,” he says finally, and turns his head to look at Dean before letting it fall back a little, resting in the cup of Dean’s hand. “It’s good. I would very much like to experience that again.”
“You and me both, buddy,” Dean says with a rough laugh, and slides his hand over his crotch again. “You and me both.”
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