Undress Rehearsal
Jul. 5th, 2016 09:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
were_lemurFor SupernaturalKinkBingo prompt: Handholding. Destiel, NC-17, no warnings, just happy consensual porn.
They're safe -- for the moment -- and Dean has sent Sam and Mary out for some get-acquainted time. Castiel is reading through the stolen spellbook in the living room of the house in Chiswick they've been squatting in for the past three days, when Dean calls, "Hey, Cas, you got a minute?"
"Quite a few of them, actually." He heads into the room that Dean's claimed as his own.
"We haven't had any us time since -- " Dean makes a vague gesture, encompassing the past year and a half. "Too long."
"Yes" is all he has to say, before Dean is pressed against him, mouth on Castiel's mouth, hands on the front of his trenchcoat and for a moment it's like no time at all has passed.
But then Dean pulls back. Takes a breath.
"Is something wrong?" Castiel asks.
"We're being hunted, I still haven't got my nerve up to tell my mom about us, and oh yeah, we're getting on a freaking plane tomorrow."
Castiel looks up at him; Dean has never spoken of them as an 'us' before, and he knows from the mass of media that Metatron dumped into his brain that telling parents is important, but before he can put the whirling thoughts into words Dean kisses him again. But this time, it's not fierce, demanding, hungry. It's tender.
Dean brings his hands up to cup Castiel's face. His thumbs ghost over Castiel's cheekbones, and he keeps kissing him, soft, the tip of his tongue barely grazing between Castiel's lips.
The last time they'd been together, Castiel realized, Dean had still been bearing the Mark of Cain.
But even before he'd taken the Mark, Dean had never kissed him like this. They'd generally fallen into bed with a minimum of fuss. This was usually where they started removing clothes and heading for the nearest horizontal surface; and sometimes they hadn't even bothered with the horizontal part. But Dean is still kissing, slowly, almost reverently.
One arm slides down to Castiel's waist; his hand presses into the small of his back. But the other stays splayed across Castiel's cheek, and Dean is still kissing, as if he'd be content to spend the rest of their lives doing this.
Castiel arches against Dean and slips his tongue into Dean's mouth. Dean moans, his arm tightens on Castiel's waist until he imagines there isn't room for so much as a single molecule of air between them.
It's Castiel who finally breaks off the kiss. He pulls back to study Dean, trying to understand what he's thinking. Dean returns the scrutiny. "If you don't want to -- "
"I want to, Dean. Very much."
Dean reaches up, undoes the knot of Castiel's tie, and then the top button of his shirt. He presses his mouth to the freshly bared skin, kisses his way down and then across his collarbone.
"I could remove everything," Castiel offers.
"What's your hurry?" Dean kisses him again, but keeps undoing buttons. He slides coat, jacket, and shirt backward off of Castiel's shoulders, but rather than letting them fall onto the grimy carpet, he throws them to the overstuffed chair in the corner.
Then he stops, and stares at Castiel, and there's something in his eyes. It looks like wonder, like awe. He puts his hand on Castiel's shoulder, but then lets it slide down until his fingers are tangled in Castiel's.
It's so unexpected, so un-Dean-like. "Is something wrong?"
"Besides the aforementioned? No." He brings his free hand up to Castiel's shoulder, traces his collarbone with his thumb. There's something oddly fumbling about it, as if tenderness is a language that Dean has long forgotten how to speak.
A year and a half bearing the Mark of Cain. Most of another year apart. He shouldn't be surprised.
"Tell me what you want," Dean says.
"First of all, I want to see you as you were made."
Dean frowns at him, puzzled, so Castiel clarifies. "Remove your clothes, Dean, or I will."
"You don't have to tell me twice." Dean reclaims his hand long enough to undress. This is no careful unwrapping of a gift; in less than thirty seconds he's naked and grinning. "What next?"
"It has been too long since I had you inside me." It had been before Dean had taken the Mark, he realized, and he wondered if afterward Dean had been afraid of hurting him, if frottage and hand jobs and sucking Castiel off had seemed somehow safer.
Knowing Dean, asking would only result in a humorous deflection of the issue, and it doesn't matter because Dean is kissing him again. He maneuvers Castiel to the edge of the bed, and Castiel sprawls backward on it. Dean pulls his shoes off, then undoes belt, button, fly and then they're both naked and Dean is pulling a bottle of lubricant from his dresser drawer.
He stops for a moment, kneeling between Castiel's thighs, and the awestruck look is back. He rolls forward for another kiss, and the feel of so much skin-to-skin contact is almost too much for Castiel. He would be content for Dean to just grind against him -- but Dean is already moving up and back; his fingertips brush lightly over Castiel's chest, stomach, and finally down to his groin, where his erection is already starting to manifest itself.
Castiel raises his knees, spreads himself wider. He wonders if Dean is going to make him beg. But then Dean is pressing a lube-slicked finger against his entrance. And then he does beg; a simple "Please, Dean," and the finger slips inside him, and another, and Dean is taking his time stroking and twisting and opening him.
But the time Dean's satisfied with the preparations, Castiel is achingly hard. Dean pulls his fingers out, then presses smoothly into him. He sits there for a moment, running his fingertips over the insides of Castiel's thighs.
"This is very frustrating, Dean."
Dean begins to rock in and out of Castiel, slow and smooth, and then he lowers himself down, stretches out as if he wants to touch as much as Castiel as he can. Castiel wraps his legs around Dean's waist, pulling him close. Dean's hand finds Castiel's again, and he presses their entwined fingers into the mattress next to Castiel's head.
He kisses Castiel again, matching the rhythm of his tongue to the rhythm of his thrusts, slowly at first but when Castiel starts kissing back, darting his tongue into Dean's mouth, Dean picks up the speed of his thrusts in response, until Castiel is breathing too hard to kiss and Dean pushes himself up and back enough to get his free hand between their bodies so he can stroke Castiel to orgasm.
Castiel turns his head, looks at their hands, clenched together, and the sight, more than anything, is what pushes him over the edge.
He feels, rather than hears, Dean moan against the crook of his neck.
The world sorts itself out, and normally this is when Dean would clear his throat and make an excuse and find somewhere else to be. But instead he settles in next to Castiel. The movement pulls their hands, still twined together, onto Castiel's chest. Dean rubs his thumb in slow circles against the heel of Castiel's palm.
"Dean, I like holding hands with you very much. But I will admit to a certain amount of curiosity."
Dean follows his gaze, and then slides his free arm around Castiel's shoulders. Pulls him close. "It's practice. You know, get used to doing it when it's just the two of us. Maybe eventually we can take the show on the road."
Ever since he understood what he felt for Dean was more than merely platonic, Castiel has known not to expect a sweeping declaration of love. But this small action is as good as a thousand flowery speeches. He squeezes Dean's hand. "I would like that very much."
They're safe -- for the moment -- and Dean has sent Sam and Mary out for some get-acquainted time. Castiel is reading through the stolen spellbook in the living room of the house in Chiswick they've been squatting in for the past three days, when Dean calls, "Hey, Cas, you got a minute?"
"Quite a few of them, actually." He heads into the room that Dean's claimed as his own.
"We haven't had any us time since -- " Dean makes a vague gesture, encompassing the past year and a half. "Too long."
"Yes" is all he has to say, before Dean is pressed against him, mouth on Castiel's mouth, hands on the front of his trenchcoat and for a moment it's like no time at all has passed.
But then Dean pulls back. Takes a breath.
"Is something wrong?" Castiel asks.
"We're being hunted, I still haven't got my nerve up to tell my mom about us, and oh yeah, we're getting on a freaking plane tomorrow."
Castiel looks up at him; Dean has never spoken of them as an 'us' before, and he knows from the mass of media that Metatron dumped into his brain that telling parents is important, but before he can put the whirling thoughts into words Dean kisses him again. But this time, it's not fierce, demanding, hungry. It's tender.
Dean brings his hands up to cup Castiel's face. His thumbs ghost over Castiel's cheekbones, and he keeps kissing him, soft, the tip of his tongue barely grazing between Castiel's lips.
The last time they'd been together, Castiel realized, Dean had still been bearing the Mark of Cain.
But even before he'd taken the Mark, Dean had never kissed him like this. They'd generally fallen into bed with a minimum of fuss. This was usually where they started removing clothes and heading for the nearest horizontal surface; and sometimes they hadn't even bothered with the horizontal part. But Dean is still kissing, slowly, almost reverently.
One arm slides down to Castiel's waist; his hand presses into the small of his back. But the other stays splayed across Castiel's cheek, and Dean is still kissing, as if he'd be content to spend the rest of their lives doing this.
Castiel arches against Dean and slips his tongue into Dean's mouth. Dean moans, his arm tightens on Castiel's waist until he imagines there isn't room for so much as a single molecule of air between them.
It's Castiel who finally breaks off the kiss. He pulls back to study Dean, trying to understand what he's thinking. Dean returns the scrutiny. "If you don't want to -- "
"I want to, Dean. Very much."
Dean reaches up, undoes the knot of Castiel's tie, and then the top button of his shirt. He presses his mouth to the freshly bared skin, kisses his way down and then across his collarbone.
"I could remove everything," Castiel offers.
"What's your hurry?" Dean kisses him again, but keeps undoing buttons. He slides coat, jacket, and shirt backward off of Castiel's shoulders, but rather than letting them fall onto the grimy carpet, he throws them to the overstuffed chair in the corner.
Then he stops, and stares at Castiel, and there's something in his eyes. It looks like wonder, like awe. He puts his hand on Castiel's shoulder, but then lets it slide down until his fingers are tangled in Castiel's.
It's so unexpected, so un-Dean-like. "Is something wrong?"
"Besides the aforementioned? No." He brings his free hand up to Castiel's shoulder, traces his collarbone with his thumb. There's something oddly fumbling about it, as if tenderness is a language that Dean has long forgotten how to speak.
A year and a half bearing the Mark of Cain. Most of another year apart. He shouldn't be surprised.
"Tell me what you want," Dean says.
"First of all, I want to see you as you were made."
Dean frowns at him, puzzled, so Castiel clarifies. "Remove your clothes, Dean, or I will."
"You don't have to tell me twice." Dean reclaims his hand long enough to undress. This is no careful unwrapping of a gift; in less than thirty seconds he's naked and grinning. "What next?"
"It has been too long since I had you inside me." It had been before Dean had taken the Mark, he realized, and he wondered if afterward Dean had been afraid of hurting him, if frottage and hand jobs and sucking Castiel off had seemed somehow safer.
Knowing Dean, asking would only result in a humorous deflection of the issue, and it doesn't matter because Dean is kissing him again. He maneuvers Castiel to the edge of the bed, and Castiel sprawls backward on it. Dean pulls his shoes off, then undoes belt, button, fly and then they're both naked and Dean is pulling a bottle of lubricant from his dresser drawer.
He stops for a moment, kneeling between Castiel's thighs, and the awestruck look is back. He rolls forward for another kiss, and the feel of so much skin-to-skin contact is almost too much for Castiel. He would be content for Dean to just grind against him -- but Dean is already moving up and back; his fingertips brush lightly over Castiel's chest, stomach, and finally down to his groin, where his erection is already starting to manifest itself.
Castiel raises his knees, spreads himself wider. He wonders if Dean is going to make him beg. But then Dean is pressing a lube-slicked finger against his entrance. And then he does beg; a simple "Please, Dean," and the finger slips inside him, and another, and Dean is taking his time stroking and twisting and opening him.
But the time Dean's satisfied with the preparations, Castiel is achingly hard. Dean pulls his fingers out, then presses smoothly into him. He sits there for a moment, running his fingertips over the insides of Castiel's thighs.
"This is very frustrating, Dean."
Dean begins to rock in and out of Castiel, slow and smooth, and then he lowers himself down, stretches out as if he wants to touch as much as Castiel as he can. Castiel wraps his legs around Dean's waist, pulling him close. Dean's hand finds Castiel's again, and he presses their entwined fingers into the mattress next to Castiel's head.
He kisses Castiel again, matching the rhythm of his tongue to the rhythm of his thrusts, slowly at first but when Castiel starts kissing back, darting his tongue into Dean's mouth, Dean picks up the speed of his thrusts in response, until Castiel is breathing too hard to kiss and Dean pushes himself up and back enough to get his free hand between their bodies so he can stroke Castiel to orgasm.
Castiel turns his head, looks at their hands, clenched together, and the sight, more than anything, is what pushes him over the edge.
He feels, rather than hears, Dean moan against the crook of his neck.
The world sorts itself out, and normally this is when Dean would clear his throat and make an excuse and find somewhere else to be. But instead he settles in next to Castiel. The movement pulls their hands, still twined together, onto Castiel's chest. Dean rubs his thumb in slow circles against the heel of Castiel's palm.
"Dean, I like holding hands with you very much. But I will admit to a certain amount of curiosity."
Dean follows his gaze, and then slides his free arm around Castiel's shoulders. Pulls him close. "It's practice. You know, get used to doing it when it's just the two of us. Maybe eventually we can take the show on the road."
Ever since he understood what he felt for Dean was more than merely platonic, Castiel has known not to expect a sweeping declaration of love. But this small action is as good as a thousand flowery speeches. He squeezes Dean's hand. "I would like that very much."
