Fic: "In the Weeds: Part 2" [Dean/Cas, AU - NC-17]

Oct. 30th, 2011 | 06:52 pm
From:: nanoochka


TITLE: In the Weeds - Part 2
AUTHOR: [livejournal.com profile] nanoochka
ARTIST: [livejournal.com profile] daggomus_prime
PAIRING(S): Dean/Cas, references to Sam/Ruby
RATING: NC-17




"In the Weeds - Part 2" by [livejournal.com profile] nanoochka



        Sure enough, Castiel whisked them through the streets of Dublin so fast that even Dean got nervous on some of the turns. He missed his vintage Chevy back home, her wide turning radius and the fact that she couldn’t have squeezed into half the streets in Europe. In the darkness he oriented himself with difficulty, a quick corner enough to confuse his sense of direction beneath the tinted visor of his helmet. Castiel was a good driver, though, navigating the bike with confidence and practiced smoothness. Before Dean knew it, they were pulling up to a terraced house about fifteen minutes away from Chapter, on the other side of the Grand Canal. Castiel guided the bike through a narrow alley to the laneway of garages at the back, where he killed the engine and flipped the kickstand down.

        “Home sweet home,” he told Dean, dismounting and holding out a hand for the helmet. He carried it inside with them, Dean following a few steps behind, looking around himself to get a better sense of where Satan slept at night.

        Like many of the residences in the area, the place was modest from the outside, identical to its neighbours—but deceptively so, since Dean could tell by the cars on the street that they were in one of the richer neighbourhoods in South City Centre. Sure enough, on the inside it was impeccably renovated and modern. Dean had visited more than a few Irish dwellings that looked either like the interior of a wood cabin or a Laura Ashley explosion, and it was something of a relief Castiel’s home was neither.

        All that could be said was it looked rather ascetic and clean, more like a realtor’s property photo than somebody’s home. Still, he could see how a fire going in the grate would cosy things up, or that the presence of friends would add warm shadows to even the most brightly lit corners. The decoration adorning the whitewashed walls was minimal, a few abstract paintings here and there for colour, but the deep cherry-wood floors, tin ceilings and large windows gave the house understated character. That and the absolutely magnificent kitchen, to which Castiel led Dean from up two flights of stairs. Along with the grand dining room, it took up the whole floor and was centred before a massive picture window that overlooked the darkened garden out back, and beyond it the Grand Canal.

        “Nice place,” Dean admitted. Obviously Castiel didn’t give much thought to the rest of the house, but the kitchen bore every sign of his craft. “You live here alone?” Dean couldn’t even begin to guess what a house of this size had to cost in Dublin 2.

        “The house belonged to my parents,” Castiel explained shortly.

        He shrugged out of his jacket and offered to take Dean’s as well, disappearing a moment to shut them away in a nearby cupboard. Dean heard him clomping up the stairs and then back down. When he returned, he still looked ruffled and a bit flushed from the bike ride, but Dean could see him beginning to relax in his own space.

        “I recently moved back here after they passed, and it’ll soon be up for sale. So it doesn’t really look like it belongs to anyone.” He wrinkled his nose when Dean opened his mouth to apologize, holding up a hand like he knew what was coming. “Please don’t offer your condolences,” he said. “My parents weren’t terribly nice people and I hope to be rid of this place as soon as possible.”

        Unsurprised by the curtness of Castiel’s tone, Dean shrugged, but nevertheless wondered how badly you had to fuck up your kids for them to want not even the common courtesy of an ‘I’m sorry’ when you died. “You look pretty at home in that kitchen,” he replied instead.

        The chef smirked in acknowledgement. “It’s the one thing about this place I don’t completely hate,” he admitted. “My father was a politician, but knew his way around a kitchen. Despite everything else, I have fond memories of learning to cook here.”

        To hear that Castiel had actually grown up in this place was a bit more of a shock, albeit one Dean kept to himself. He did say, however, “You could always just, I don’t know… Create more fond memories.”

        “I think that ship has sailed.”

        At a bit of a loss, Dean wiped his hands on his jeans. It felt weird to be talking to Castiel almost like a friend, hearing him confess to regular human emotions like hatred or hope or, if Dean wanted to go that far, regret. “I don’t think you give the house enough credit,” he said wistfully, knowing he had next to no hope of ever living someplace like this.

        “I tend not to give a lot of things enough credit,” Castiel answered with a tiny smile. For a second neither of them said anything further, until Dean shifted a little with awkwardness and cleared his throat. “Right then,” announced Castiel. “I promised you recompense for the hospital incident. Are you still interested?”

        Without meaning to, Dean’s eyes dropped to the plumpness of the chef’s lips and thought, Yeah, I’m pretty interested. He barely had enough time to evade Castiel’s slow smirk as he remembered this was a question he was meant to answer. “Sure, okay, that Glenfiddich sounded good. Or whatever you’re having.”

        That perfect bottom lip was pulled between Castiel’s teeth for a brief second as he hid his smile. “Glenfiddich it is.”

        “Don’t feel the need to act like less of a wanker just ‘cause I’m in your house,” Dean told him casually, eyes on the line of Castiel’s back beneath his T-shirt as he turned and stretched to grab the bottle of thirty-year-old Scotch from the shelf. Like his slim black jeans, the fabric did a great job of hugging the lean planes of his body as a second skin, and Dean cursed himself out for his dick’s misguided interest. The reactions inspired by Castiel’s meanness were no less embarrassing, but at least that was less confusing than this unfamiliar chumminess.

        “I don’t,” Castiel said, as he set down the bottle alongside a couple tumblers atop the granite countertop. The glitter of Scotch pouring into the glass lured Dean closer to the kitchen island. “In fact, I’m constitutionally incapable of being nice to anyone, not even people I find attractive.”

        This made Dean laugh in spite of himself. He didn’t try too hard to interpret what that was supposed to mean. “You must not get laid too often, then,” he quipped.

        Castiel returned the smile. “Not for lack of opportunity.”

        “I bet,” said Dean, believing it. He had to admire Castiel’s self-assuredness. “So is that why you moved back here from Vegas?” he asked. “Your parents?”

        In response, Castiel just hummed to himself and threw back a healthy portion of his Scotch, after lifting the glass a little in Dean’s direction. “Sláinte.” A muscle jumped in his cheek as he swallowed. “Chef Lewis and I picked up the most magnificent scallops this morning,” he said abruptly. Dean blinked at the non sequitur, but got the hint. “I managed to smuggle some home with me before my shift at the restaurant. Does that appeal? Nice with a light saffron sauce.”

        “You’re the culinary genius,” answered Dean. “As long as there’s no wasabi anywhere in the recipe, that sounds great.”

        Castiel chuckled. Dean watched as he turned and began removing various items from the fridge—white wine and cream and butter—before gathering the rest of the dry ingredients together on the counter. Dean recognized shallots and the saffron and a large lemon, plus one or two other things he couldn’t identify. After selecting a sauté pan to heat upon the gas stove, Castiel washed his hands at the large sink embedded in the kitchen island, and started chopping.

        “Can I do anything?” Dean asked.

        Shaking his head, Castiel answered, “I may be a bastard, but even I know it’d be wrong to put you to work on your own conciliatory meal.” Besides, with his hands flying in a blur over the vegetables, chopping with true precision and lighting speed, Dean couldn’t really see how he’d be anything but a hindrance. “Tell me about yourself,” he suggested as an alternative.

        “What, and ruin the perfectly good animosity we have going?” retorted Dean. He watched Castiel throw the shallots into the pan and add a generous splash of wine. The smell, half-oniony and half-alcoholic, drifted past his nostrils as the shallots started to sweat. “I gotta warn you, I’m impossible to hate once you get to know me.”

        In spite of himself, he grinned when Castiel threw back his head and laughed, eyes and nose crinkling with pleasure. Even after weeks in the kitchen, he’d never seen the chef laugh like that, had never even seen his smile so wide. It was a rare, unguarded moment that Dean filed away, though for what he didn’t know. Still chuckling, Castiel said, “I’m sure that’s not true.”

        “Oh, make no mistake,” Dean answered. “There’s a reason my tips are always awesome.”

        “Your tips are ‘awesome’, no doubt, because you’re beautiful and an incorrigible flirt; anything female leaves your section with a smile on her face. I imagine some of the staff feel the same way.” Castiel flashed him a smirk that was gone so fast, Dean hardly knew what to make of the comment.

        Was that sheer observation, or a come-on? The way Castiel threw out lines like that, only to steamroll on, made him wonder, made him that much more determined to either figure the chef out or steal back the upper hand. Dean wasn’t sure he could bring himself to start hitting on what pretty much amounted to his boss, though. Sure, he could justify pissing Castiel off at work and calling him any number of unpleasant names, but the idea of laying it on thick without provocation made his stomach clench. There were more than enough servers willing to blow the boss for a better section or prime shifts or a spot behind the bar, but that had never been Dean’s style. He preferred to let his work speak for itself, as much as his talents in the bedroom. He didn’t need one to validate the other.

        Neither, apparently, did Castiel, because after a few short minutes of watching him at the stove, Dean could see why he’d made such a name for himself from an early age. Working without a recipe, Castiel whipped up a seductive yellow sauce that tickled Dean’s nose as it bubbled over the heat.

        “I grew up in Kansas,” he said suddenly. “I’ve got a little brother named Sam who’s a million feet tall and smarter than God.” Even watching Castiel cook, he began to feel a bit awkward in the silence. He knew next to nothing about Castiel, but felt inclined to share something after learning the chef’s parents had recently passed away. “The reason I moved here is ‘cause Sam’s on exchange at Oxford. But I think I might stick around, you know, for the long haul. I like it here a lot.” Provided he didn’t get deported first, or fired for doing something stupid, like sleeping with the boss. “Crowley and I have been planning to open a restaurant in Ranelagh, not too far from here actually.”

        “Crowley is a bastard, but extremely good at his job,” said Castiel with a hint of approval in his voice. Hell, that alone was practically as good as if he’d fallen to his knees in awe. “He’s like a good sous chef, in a way—knows how to run the show from behind the scenes while the man up front gets the credit.”

        “Yeah, except you’re a bastard, too,” said Dean wryly, only half-serious. Castiel acknowledged the dig with a hot look that assured Dean he took no offense, that he was slowly learning Dean’s sense of humour. “But Crowley wouldn’t mind a bit more credit,” Dean continued, seeing Castiel’s logic, “and my guess is, neither would you.”

        There was a quick lift of eyebrows. “As I said—he’s like a good sous chef. But whereas it’s entirely feasible for Crowley to start his own business now, with your help, I know another kitchen of my own is still a ways off yet. My first restaurant did well, but in retrospect it was a lot to handle at a young age; I couldn’t maintain such a pace and keep my sanity.”

        The sudden modesty seemed too apropos to be false. Dean wondered at that, because he’d never seen Castiel’s cockiness slip, not even for a second. That’s sort of how it had to be, though, in such a fierce industry. “You could always poison the competition with wasabi,” he suggested. Glaring playfully, Castiel flicked the wet end of the wooden spoon in Dean’s direction so he had to dodge to avoid being splattered with sauce.

        He didn’t quite manage, though, since a warm splatter of the yellow concoction nailed him in the cheek. The Scotch was kicking in just enough that he almost giggled at Castiel’s undignified snort, swiping at the sauce with a finger. This he popped into his mouth with a quiet groan of pleasure as he registered the explosion of flavour. His mouth watered at the thought of how the scallops would taste drenched in the stuff, and then promptly went dry when he saw Castiel’s eyes darken at the sight of his finger between his lips. Dean allowed their gazes to meet and linger for a second, experimentally, before an irreverent chirp from his mobile broke the moment.

        “Excuse me,” he mumbled, and dug around in the pocket of his jeans until he extracted the phone. The message was from Ruby, demanding to know where he’d gotten to, and he quickly punched out a reply. At hot Gordon Ramsay’s house. Testing your theory, maybe, he wrote, and flipped the phone shut.

        “Who was that?” Castiel asked casually. While Dean was busy with the phone, he’d pulled out the scallops and some fresh herbs, and was currently chopping a handful of parsley and oregano with another of his seemingly endless supplies of sharp, gleaming knives.

        Dean shrugged and watched him for a moment, more to gauge his investment in the information than to pick up cooking tips. “Ruby,” he answered with deliberate slowness. “She wanted to know where I was.”

        Castiel nodded, then said, “So you two are…”

        The forced nonchalance made Dean want to crow with laughter. Gotcha, he thought. Ruby’s prediction had been right after all: the chef did have more than just passing interest or disdain for Dean. Certainly the thought made him a bit power-drunk—a bit turned-on, too—but Dean couldn’t quite decide what to do with that information. Best to play it cool, at any rate.

        “Not really,” he answered, allowing himself that one white lie. Dean wouldn’t go near Ruby if his life depended on it, but Castiel didn’t need to know that. “You jealous, Cas?” he drawled lazily. The nickname slipped out, but seemed to have the desired effect. “Maybe you want to see for yourself why my tips are so generous.”

        Eyes flashing, Castiel glanced up at him and lingered for a second on Dean’s lips, which he helpfully moistened for the chef’s benefit. “In your dreams,” he told Dean. He looked away in favour of focusing on the food, mixing together a bit of flour, salt and pepper in a shallow dish with the chopped herbs, as well as some zest from the lemon. “And it’s Castiel, not Cas.” God, he’s such a pompous dick, marvelled Dean. But it was starting to come together and make sense: the excessive attention, the competition, the hiding.

        “Sure thing, Cas.” Dean knew he was pushing it a little, but the flush of indignation that coloured Castiel’s cheeks made up his mind. Saying no more, he poured them both another couple fingers of Scotch, draining his own glass as he pushed himself away from the counter.

        He strolled around to the other side of the island as though intending to observe Castiel‘s work from a different vantage point. Admittedly, he was a pleasure to watch. Still moving quickly, the chef grabbed a larger sauté pan and heated up a drizzle of olive oil, brandishing both pan and oil with such flair that Dean wondered if Castiel wasn’t putting on a bit of a show. Ignorant to—or ignoring—Dean’s intense scrutiny, Castiel turned his attention back to the shellfish and flour on the counter, dipping the scallops into the mixture, coating each one evenly before setting them aside. There were quite a few to get through, perhaps a dozen or so, and the sight of them so perfect and delicate white made Dean’s mouth tingle with the desire to touch something.

        Castiel was right there, less than a foot away. It seemed entirely logical to sidle closer and dip his head until his lips connected with the side of the chef’s neck, just below his ear, while his hands settled upon Castiel’s hips. Dean murmured in satisfaction even as Castiel went stock-still. As he let them both register the length of his body pressed against Castiel’s back, beneath his lips Dean could feel the other man’s pulse throbbing through the soft skin of his throat, hammering fast. That was all it took to make the blood rush to Dean’s cock, the matter decided so quickly it practically left him light-headed. Well, that and the eminently tempting physique he could feel moulded against him, the wings of Castiel’s shoulder blades prominent through both their T-shirts. Beneath Dean’s hands, his hipbones were sharp as arrowheads.

        “Dean,” Castiel said in a low voice.

        He’d stopped with one hand poised above the bowl of flour, scallop still cradled in his fingers with such gentleness it might have been a live, precious thing. Dean knew already, from watching Cas around the kitchen, those hands were capable of surprising violence as well as precision, grace and painstaking care; despite the slender lines of his wrists, he could cleave a rack of beef ribs in two with a single strike, and in the next breath slice an apple so thinly it looked almost transparent. It made Dean weak in the knees to think what it’d be like to have those hands on him, if Castiel would know just how to handle the tenderest cuts on his body, too.

        “What are you doing?”

        The soft rumble of his voice, that delicious accent, made Dean emit something dangerously close to a whimper. “What does it look like?” he returned. Indulging himself, he swiped his tongue out to taste Castiel’s skin, finding the salt of sweat and, perhaps, traces of all he’d cooked that day.

        At the touch, Castiel gave a jerk that could have been surrender or resistance; he shifted anxiously in Dean’s grasp but his head tilted back like he wanted to grant Dean unfettered access to his neck, the firm line of his jaw. “It looks like you’re treading onto thin ice,” he gasped.

        “You’re the one who invited me out here with you,” reminded Dean, meaning both the house and the proverbial ice. “I didn’t think so at first—figured you really were just a prick who had it in for me.”

        He continued to glide his lips back and forth over Castiel’s pulse point, surprising himself with the lack of urgency he felt—maybe surprising them both, based on the shivers running through Castiel’s body. With the intent to soothe, he stroked his palms slowly up the beckoning angles of those hips, fingertips dragging at clothing and warm skin growing clammy.

        Still against Castiel’s throat, Dean caught the quiet mewl that emerged, almost swallowed up by the heightened sound of his breathing. He murmured, “It all makes sense now, Cas. You’ve just wanted me to make a move this whole time, huh?”

        Castiel made another sound that was neither disagreement nor assent, trailing off into a moan when Dean slid his hand beneath the chef’s T-shirt and flattened it against his stomach, tracing the silky skin and soft hair of Castiel’s belly as he moved the other hand up to his chest. The heartbeat he felt there was strong, racing, making Dean wonder if it was from excitement or nervousness. Since Castiel didn’t seem the type to demonstrate much by way of either emotion, it was difficult to tell.

        Still, it was unusual for Dean to be so unsure of a potential partner’s assent, and he wasn’t about to start making assumptions that Castiel welcomed these advances if, really, he didn’t. Not that he’d want to push too far with anyone, but it was doubly cringe-worthy to think of doing so with a superior from work. So he pulled back his mouth just enough to brush his lips against the rim of Castiel’s ear, murmuring, “Do you want me to stop?”

        “We shouldn’t be doing this,” said Castiel, but he pushed back into Dean’s body, letting the generous swell of his ass rub unspoken need into Dean’s hips and the erection insistently straining the fly of his jeans.

        Caught between a chuckle and a groan, Dean tightened his hands, bringing their bodies even closer together so he could feel every ridge of Castiel’s back pressing into his front. “Not what I asked. Do you want me to stop?”

        The prolonged silence that returned sent a flare of annoyance through Dean, and he pulled back to a small, anxious whine from Castiel. It was encouraging, but not enough. Dean grabbed Castiel by the arm and turned him around. The blue eyes that stared up at him were heavy-lidded, the slack mouth opening on a protest. Leave it to Castiel to start giving him lip now.

        “Listen,” he said, before the rebuke could come. “I’m not a ‘no means yes’ kinda guy, okay? So if this—” and here Dean gestured between them, “—is something you want, then you need to tell me. If it’s a no, I might take the piss outta you for being an unbelievable cocktease, but I’m not going any further until you say the words or give me some kind of sign.”

        For a moment Cas didn’t do anything but continue to look at him, but then he gently pushed against Dean’s chest until he was forced to take a couple steps back. Dean supposed that was his answer. However, rather than make Dean leave, Castiel silently went to the stove and, pausing barely a second, turned off the gas flame and removed the saucepan from the heat. Next he replaced the scallops upon their plate and covered them with plastic film before returning them to the fridge, and repeated the process with the sauce. Although Dean watched the whole procedure without really knowing what the outcome might be, he couldn’t shake the feeling it would culminate in him getting kicked the hell out of his boss’s house and asked not to come back—not to his job, either.

        So it was to his great surprise that Castiel, once everything had been put away and the cooking halted, drained the last of his Scotch and pressed himself against Dean with the most enigmatic of expressions on his face, serious except for the promising heat in his eyes. Unable to help himself, Dean shivered at the long line of contact between their bodies and the lips that brushed against his ear. “Yes, I’m interested,” murmured Cas. “But if that’s how you want to play it—” his hand stroked deliberately down Dean’s side, fingers pressing just shy of too hard into his ribs, “—then perhaps you should take off your clothes and prove how serious you really are.”

        When had he ever disobeyed a direct order like that, ever? Dean stepped back with a grin, fingers playing along the hem of his T-shirt with every intention of making Castiel eat his words. He was sweating, nervous as hell, but the one thing Dean was good at was faking it. In this case, he could pretend like Cas didn’t scare the shit out of him, with his strong personality and needle-sharp gaze. People could surprise him every so often, hidden depths beneath an outwardly misleading appearance and all that, and yet Dean got the feeling that Cas, in bed, would conduct himself with the same intensity as he did everything else.

        “Like to watch, do you?” he taunted. “Had a feeling you were a kinky son of a bitch.”

        Castiel’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “And I had a feeling you’d be trouble—” he started to fire back, but then Dean whipped the T-shirt over his head and bit his lip at the stunned silence that answered. The look on Cas’s face was priceless, eyes widening with surprise and a blush staining his cheeks; seeming, for a moment, like Dean might not be the only one feeling utterly out of his depth.

        But Cas recovered quickly, Dean had to hand him that, and before he could blink that haughty mask was back in place, gaze raking down the tanned lines of Dean’s torso like a judge assessing a horse at fair. Dean was beginning to get the idea, however, that Cas wasn’t nearly so confident as he liked to project, and that thrilled him right down to the toes. All the same, Dean knew he was probably going to get the shit topped out of him tonight. What was more, Dean was going to let it happen.

        Holding eye contact, he unthreaded the tongue of his belt and pulled it free with a slap and snick of leather through the loops. The metallic clatter of the buckle upon the kitchen tiles seemed almost to dare Castiel to flinch, which he didn’t, and so Dean proceeded to unbutton and unzip his jeans with remarkable steadiness, considering how badly his fingers wanted to tremble. Shit, this needed crappy dance music. This needed a stripper pole and strobe lights and a dark corner that would make Dean feel less exposed than he currently did, taking off his clothes in front of a near-stranger—who happened to be his boss, goddamn—with nerves of steel and some crazy kind of X-ray vision. Dean had stripped in front of lovers before, had no problem showing off, but this was… different. This was goddamned terrifying and not about getting the upper hand at all. He suspected Castiel knew it, too, and that made it even worse.

        Jeans and underwear were pushed to mid-thigh and, before he slid them the rest of the way down, Dean kicked off his shoes. He paused to suck in a pained breath as his cock smacked against his stomach the moment it was released, giving away the last bit of composure he might have faked. He dallied about removing the rest of his clothes before he straightened back up. Cas was staring at him intently, not at Dean’s body or even his erection, but at his eyes. Bashful and hating himself for it, Dean glanced away. Tried to hide his discomfort by fluttering his eyes shut and giving his cock a few slow strokes that provided almost no relief except to make him want more.

        When he opened them again, Cas had advanced by a few steps. Dean jumped at the sudden proximity and how the other man had managed to move without making a sound. He was very, very close, each exhalation puffing alluringly against Dean’s mouth, his skin exuding subtle but palpable warmth. A finger lifted to slowly trace the outline of Dean’s lips. Dean shuddered and said, voice cracking, “Go on and kiss me, man,” more of a plea than an order. Castiel inclined his head ever so slightly. Then, he did just that.

        It wasn’t hard at first, not like Dean expected; Cas parted his lips and hovered there a few excruciating moments, mingling their breath before he leaned the last little bit in and let the voluptuous curve of his bottom lip catch against Dean’s, surprisingly dry but perfectly soft. Their skin caught against each other and then a tongue followed, tentative, and Dean had a picture of how Cas might sample a delicacy upon his plate, taking small bites so as to better appreciate the flavour. That he seemed to taste Dean that way made his knees go a little wobbly, and he blindly reached behind himself for the edge of the counter for balance. Instead Cas slipped an arm around Dean’s waist to support him. In the ensuing jostle their mouths connected for real. Cas sighed a little and drew Dean tighter to him as he pressed forward.

        The shock of cold, marble countertop against the small of his back made Dean gasp as he nudged against it; even the cupboard doors below were cool against his ass. It was an interesting sensation to have Castiel warm all down his front and various chilly materials against his back, but Dean found it amplified the contradictory softness of Castiel’s kiss and the occasional nip of sharp teeth, the scrape of his stubble rough like sandpaper. Releasing the countertop, Dean snaked an arm around Cas’s neck and gripped his hair with his free hand. He hooked a leg around the back of the chef’s thigh so he could better arch against him.

        This time he did moan, out loud, at the rub of denim against his erection, almost abrasive enough to be painful. “Fuck,” he hissed, and Cas gave a quiet chuckle in response, lips still pressed to Dean’s.

        “Something the matter?” he asked.

        “If you don’t mind the serious case of blue balls you’re giving me, dude, everything’s peachy.”

        “You started it,” answered Cas with a small roll of his hips.

        “Oh, come on.” Dean pulled away with a grunt. Somehow he both wanted to make Castiel moan and push him out an open window. “Are we gonna argue about fucking, or are you actually gonna fuck me?” he demanded.

        A smile twitched on Cas’s mouth. “Is that what you want?” Not waiting to see the reaction, he leaned in so he could begin nuzzling the underside of Dean’s throat, kissing and nibbling gently at the skin. Already flushed, Dean wavered at the heat that seemed to flash-flood through his system with renewed force.

        “No, I wanna to stand around a talk about it some more,” he quipped, “and maybe after that we can discuss tomorrow night’s specials.” A hand snaked around to slap ever-so-slightly too hard against his ass. Dean jumped and immediately cursed himself for doing so. “I want your cock in me,” he clarified with an impetuous, “Sir.” He saw how much Castiel liked order around the kitchen, and Dean was willing to bet the chef had a healthy appreciation for the chain of command, even in an unconventional setting like this.

        By the way Cas smirked up at him from beneath those inkblot lashes, Dean knew he was on the money. But then Castiel began kissing his way down Dean’s body, deliberately wiggling his hips a little on the way so Dean’s cock got the full broadside for the briefest of moments. Fingers found his nipples, followed by a swirl of tongue and the sting of teeth, just enough attention to the hardening points that Dean’s head dropped back with a groan, mentally urging him lower. Cas did, hands and kisses trailing over belly, navel, hipbones, the line of Dean’s pubic hair.

        Finally the stubbled chin brushed Dean’s over-sensitized cock, followed by a teasing caress of lips as Castiel settled on his knees. Dean gasped and tried to keep his hips from jerking again, buckling like this was his first freaking rodeo. He could have sworn his dick was trying to grow a few extra inches in the direction of Castiel’s teasingly out-of-reach mouth.

        “Or—or that would be great, too,” he told Cas, and collapsed onto his elbows against the countertop, widening his legs a bit.

        Though he enjoyed the unexpected power trip of Castiel being fully clothed while Dean was naked—or maybe it was the other way around?—he wanted skin, skin and more skin. Hands on Cas’s flesh, his mouth against his mouth, his cock, his asshole. Dean wanted to be everywhere at once. Growling a little in frustration, he reached down and brushed his hands through the dark, messy hair before tugging at the fabric of Castiel’s T-shirt. Cas quickly got the hint and let Dean strip it off. The sight of lean, lightly tanned shoulders and a firm chest made Dean’s mouth go dry and his cock jerk. Yeah, he wanted all of that against him. In him.

        As if sensing Dean’s thoughts as much as his gaze, Castiel looked up at him once again, letting his mouth play against the underside of Dean’s cock in a way that suggested thoughtfulness, an almost-kiss alighting upon the head. “Suck me?” Dean asked hopefully, hips tilting. Having the mighty Castiel MacCarthy on his knees was fucking with his mind a little bit, making Dean want to say shit he would have rolled his eyes over at the best of times. “I bet you’re—oh—so good at it, aren’t you? Pretty mouth like that.” People said that kind of shit to him all the damn time; it was nice to be able to say it to someone else and have it be true.

        “Flatterer.” Castiel chuckled, apparently doubting Dean’s sincerity, but the important thing was that he was smiling and didn’t seem inclined to deny Dean what he wanted.

        As it turned out, Cas gave one of the most unconventional blow-jobs Dean had ever received. He’d had men and women who made up for what they lacked in technique with enthusiasm, more than a few pros who made it clear oral sex was an art to them, and, of course, some that were just plain bad. Castiel seemed to fit firmly into the second category—thank God—though he didn’t move around quite as much as Dean expected or was accustomed to.

        Instead he screwed his mouth down as far as it would comfortably go—not all the way, but a respectable distance and enough to make Dean’s eyes water, at any rate—and applied himself to what Dean could only describe as an attempt to suck his brains out through his dick. The pressure was incredible, Castiel’s lovely cheeks hollowing out with the effort, and through it all his tongue drew swirls and shapes along the ridge and head of Dean’s dick, so his balls started drawing up and hips twitching before he knew what was happening. Though his mouth moved a little up and down, Cas was mostly still, eyes closed and expression so focused that Dean stopped trying to file away what was happening and just go with it. From the way his nervous system seemed to be short-circuiting without his permission, Cas knew exactly what was needed to drive Dean to the brink, all without lifting a finger—literally. His hands remained fitted to the cut of Dean’s hipbones, stroking occasionally against the skin, but mostly holding him still.

        The only time Castiel’s hand moved was to reach down and unfasten his jeans. Dean caught not the movement, but the sound of a belt buckle clacking, and looked down in time to see Castiel lower the fly and push the front of his underwear down to withdraw his cock and balls. Hearing the strangled gasp that escaped his own mouth was something Dean knew he’d regret later, but he couldn’t help it; if Cas was going to kneel there and beat off while that unbelievable mouth made him see stars, Dean would actually go into cardiac arrest and die. Unlike the anaphylactic shock, he’d go out happy, and a wry part of Dean thought that if Cas really wanted to kill him, he could have skipped the wasabi poisoning and gone straight to this.

        It was too much to watch, and yet he said, “Yeah, Cas. That’s it. Stroke yourself for me,” because apparently he had a death wish after all. But Cas only made a muffled moan around Dean’s cock and happily acquiesced, wrapping his fingers in a sure grip and jacking himself in firm, deliberate strokes. As though hypnotized, Dean watched the plummy cockhead disappear in and out of its foreskin and Castiel’s fist, filing away every detail about Cas he could. That the chef was uncircumcised surprised Dean, but that he was beautiful and generously endowed didn’t. However, the thought of that gorgeous cock swinging free beneath a Utilikilt all day—assuming Castiel wore it in the traditional way, despite its untraditional function in the kitchen—sent a bone-deep shudder through his whole body, cock seeming to grow impossibly harder inside Castiel’s mouth. He pictured how easy it would be to press Cas up against the nearest work surface at Chapter and flip the kilt up and out of the way, bend him over the stainless steel and rut against that bare flesh; Dean whined at the back of his throat and almost came on the spot. It occurred to him that, despite how things had started off that evening, the tables were looking pretty fucking turned by now.

        As it was, he was damned close already, and getting closer with every second Cas refused to let up on the freaking insane suction of that warm mouth. Scarcely ten minutes had passed, Dean knew—a generous estimate—but from the way his balls were starting to feel like someone had locked them in a vice grip, Dean would have to force that little animatronic Hoover off his cock before he blew his load.

        The loss was immediate and agonizing, like a punch to the gut; even Cas seemed nonplussed. “What the fuck was that?” Dean gasped, when Castiel finally pulled away and licked daintily at his lips.

        Though his eyes were heavy-lidded and his breath whooshing out in fast pants, Cas didn’t seem to have lost his knack for maintaining a sense of superiority under fire. Dean saw him, very deliberately, release the grip on his cock, brace his arms against the cupboard doors on either side of Dean’s hips as if to keep from touching himself. “Does it matter?” he shot back, sounding peeved. “You seemed to enjoy it well enough.”

        Dean knew the muscles still jumping in his legs were noticeable to both of them, and he was about thirty seconds from collapsing onto the tiles. “Understatement, man,” he said, rather than trying to argue the point. “If you’d kept up any longer, the evening would have been over pretty quick.”

        Cas straightened and then slowly rose to his feet, hemming Dean in against the counter. His chest was flushed in a gentle gradient from below the neck up, and when Cas pressed them together Dean wanted to moan at the warmth of his body. The part of his brain inclined to remind him that Castiel was his boss seemed to have given up for the time being, leaving Dean free to enjoy these little pleasures as they came. He wondered how much more there might yet be in store.

        Settling his hands at the waistband of Cas’s jeans, Dean slowly pushed the material down, giving Cas a bit of extra room to hold their bodies together, to let their cocks bump and rub in the faint slickness of drying saliva and pre-come. “Do you want me to…” he began, dipping his chin to indicate Castiel’s cock and the fact that their exchange had been pretty one-sided until this point. Dean didn’t ask because it was in any way a chore—in fact, he felt his mouth water a little at the thought of taking that straining girth onto his tongue—but because he was, for lack of a better term, happy to let Cas be the chef on this one. If the other man wanted him on his knees, so be it. If he wanted Dean on his back, post-haste, well, that worked just fine, too.

        In answer, Castiel shook his head and brushed a kiss over Dean’s mouth, then turned Dean’s body so his stomach was pressed against the countertop. He curved over it as if by instinct. Yep, that definitely worked, too.

        Slow, torturous kisses began landing across Dean’s nape and shoulders, firm pressure and gentle wetness that eventually moved down his back, Castiel’s lips trailing with intent but no apparent pattern. No one had ever really paid Dean’s back this kind of attention before, and he was floored by how it seemed to wake up all the nerves beneath the skin, sent a rush of renewed heat to his cock and even more to his face. His cheeks were burning and each brush of Castiel’s mouth just heated Dean’s blood even more. The effect of not being able to see Cas behind him, of only being able to feel, was overwhelming and most unspeakably erotic. Dean had nowhere to look except at his darkened reflection in the window over the sink, so he shut his eyes and swallowed, mouth gone bone-dry.

        “Do you still want me to fuck you?” Cas murmured, voice coming from somewhere beneath Dean’s left shoulder blade.

        Another swallow. His voice emerged with an embarrassing tremor. “Christ, yes,” Dean forced out, eyes still tightly closed. “I got—There’s stuff in my wallet, in the back pocket of my jeans. A couple condoms and some lube.” He realized how that probably made him sound, and added, “I didn’t come here thinking—”

        Castiel’s chuckle was palpable against Dean’s spine, followed by a gentle, reassuring brush of fingers. “I didn’t say you did.”

        Then the warmth withdrew briefly, and Dean turned his head to see Castiel stooping to fish Dean’s wallet out of the pile of clothing on the floor. Though Cas had to flip through it to find the spare condom and packet of lube Dean kept in case of emergencies (not just wishful thinking, as Sam sometimes liked to tease him), Dean noticed Cas didn’t linger over the contents of the wallet, snapped it shut again with polite indifference. As he did, Dean realized he’d half-expected a snarky comment about his unfortunate Kansas driver’s license photo, the one that drew plenty of “Blue Steel” comments from his little brother. That Cas respected his privacy was a pleasant surprise, made Dean want to invite Cas to poke through whatever of his private life he wanted.

        Just as quickly, the thought disappeared again when Castiel paused to shuck the rest of his clothes, and then Dean was mostly trying not to whimper at the sight of that gorgeous, lean body coming towards him, heavy cock bobbing with each step. Cas’s hand came down against Dean’s ass, firmly but not hard, and slid down his flank with a gentle squeeze. “I love touching you almost more than I love looking at you,” he said. “Ever since I first—”

        Dean cut him off, inexplicably embarrassed by what Cas seemed about to say. “Come on,” he grit out, feeling Castiel’s erection nestle in between the crease of his ass.

        Thankfully, Cas took the hint. A couple easy thrusts of his hips rubbed the stiff length tantalizingly against the sensitive skin of Dean’s crease, and both of them huffed a little at the sensation. Like they were startled by it, surprised it could feel so good. The nudge of that cockhead at Dean’s hole made him push back for more and sigh. He buried his face in the pillow of his arms. Right now all he wanted was that cock ramming into him, wanted so badly he felt light-headed with it. He didn’t care how much of a slut he was acting, nor how desperate.

        “You don’t need to make a big production of it, I’m ready. Just fuck me.” More quietly, he added, “Please, Cas. Make me feel you.”

        Despite the plea, he heard the rustle and tear of plastic from behind, the sound of latex being smoothed and rolled down over hard flesh. What followed was a couple of slick fingers that brushed against his entrance with more tenderness than was expected or required. Dean wiggled against them, hoping Castiel would get the picture and fuck him with something, anything—right now he wasn’t being too picky. He glanced up and saw, in the reflection of the window, Castiel’s blue eyes intently watching Dean’s face as one of the digits circled and then pushed inside, gentle enough so it didn’t burn, but firm enough that Dean sure as hell felt it. He gasped, a ragged sound like Cas’s name, and knew they each felt how easily the muscles gave way and sucked the finger in, how Dean was so turned-on his body couldn’t summon an ounce of resistance to what they both wanted to happen.

        “Fuck. Me,” he repeated, barking out the words, and saw Cas gave a tight nod in the window as the finger pulled out.

        “Don’t need to ask me a third time,” he agreed. The next pressure Dean felt was definitely of Castiel’s cock, a blunter, heavier weight than fingers, slippery plastic and mind-liquefying heat beneath that.

        However much his body wanted to pretend otherwise, it’d been a while since Dean had bottomed for someone. The first impression, however anticipated, was always of being speared open, cracked in two, overwhelmed. Pain, radiating briefly outwards from his ass as the head of Cas’s dick popped inside, was nothing compared to the feeling of fullness as Cas slowly began to ease his way home, pressing firmly forward but not so fast as to deliberately hurt him.

        Dean cried out, a garbled, “Shitshitshitshit,” as he gasped for air and prayed his heart wasn’t about to go into tachycardia from the way it was hammering inside his chest. Sucking in a deep breath, he let himself surrender to the need for more that somehow surfaced in the midst of feeling too much. He wasn’t thinking right now. More often than not that was what got him into trouble, but mostly Dean trusted that his body knew what he needed. He braced himself and slowly, slowly shifted his weight back.

        This time it was Cas who cried out and clutched at Dean’s hips as he sat back the rest of the way onto Castiel’s length. Perhaps he leaned forward with the intent to kiss or lick the skin of Dean’s shoulders and neck, but wound up stalling to pant into his ear instead, arms coming around to bracket Dean’s. Neither of them had even moved yet, really, and Dean could feel sweat beneath his palms on the countertop, moisture beading on his forehead, sticking at the small of his back where he was pressed against Castiel’s stomach. God, Dean needed to come. He needed to come like yesterday.

        Reading his mind, or seeming to, Castiel’s voice hitched in something incomprehensible and he pulled his hips back, letting Dean feel his length slide out nearly the all the way. “You okay?” he whispered, and Dean barely nodded before Cas adjusted the angle and slammed back in.

        No burn whatsoever this time: Dean just arched his back as the dick inside him jammed head-on against his prostate, making him actually yell in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own. When had he ever been so hot for it, ever? Having Cas fucking into him from behind took the rush of fantasy-fulfilment to a whole other level, even though Dean hadn’t realized he wanted this so bad. When Cas helped him haul a knee up onto the countertop, spreading him impossibly wider, Dean knew for sure this night would achieve permanent spank-bank status if he didn’t pass out first.

        Traditionally speaking, Dean was not the most vocal in bed, but here he was, moaning and grunting like a champ, jerking into the cock riding his prostate and searching for more, more, more. It felt like a million years before his motor skills got with the program and he was able to reach a hand underneath to grasp his own erection—or tried to. One of Castiel’s hands intercepted him and brought it to rest on Dean’s lower back, then groped around for the other so Dean’s arms were totally immobilized. Dean whined in frustration. The angle bowed his spine and arched him against Castiel in such a way that they were almost upright, though all that was keeping Dean stable was the countertop in front of him and the subtle pressure Cas exerted upon his restrained forearms, locking their bodies together even as his pelvis continued to jostle against Dean’s ass. The lack of control made him dizzy and unable to concentrate on anything but the dick inside him. Feeling the hard points of Castiel’s nipples rubbing against his shoulder blades, Dean shivered so profoundly his teeth almost chattered.

        He caught a glimpse of his face in the window, and oh, yeah, he was a goner. The sharp, nearly stinging sensation of his prostate being relentlessly massaged robbed him of the ability to maintain any coherency of thought or speech; he heard sounds tumbling from his lips that were dazed and incoherent, barely more than animal noises, and his facial expression looked drunk, stupid, mouth slack and eyes starting to roll back in his head. It was the kind of captive retard look he normally reserved for an incredible piece of pie and, well, a good fuck, though admittedly it’d been a while since a dick in his ass had made him start to lose his grip on reality like this.

        Cas and his smooth, rolling thrusts, his perfect aim, his unbelievably intuitive rhythm that let him know exactly when Dean wanted slow and deep or hard and fast; it was all getting to be way too much, too fast. Hearing the pitchy moans in Castiel’s deep voice didn’t help, either, nor seeing his face broken and uninhibitedly transported in the windowpane. There wasn’t a single thing Dean could remember about himself that didn’t come down to the spiking pleasure that went straight from his ass to his dick, turning him inside out, and nothing else he wanted to know besides Cas being the one to do that to him.

        “I want you to come just like this,” Cas panted into his ear, slowing his thrusts to a pace that made Dean’s vision begin to waver and spark like he was about to faint. The sound of his voice made Dean clench around him involuntarily, and Cas groaned in response. “Just my cock inside you, nothing else. Can you do that, Dean?”

        Dredging up the words as if from the bottom of a well, Dean struggled to get his mouth to work and at first worried he wouldn’t succeed. Then: “I… I don’t know.”

        Being honest with himself, he didn’t think he could handle it, not if the current intensity of the feelings inside him were anything to go by. It was pleasure almost like pain, so white-hot and urgent he thought it might strip him bare, leave nothing but a husk behind like the dragonfly shells he and Sammy used to collect in the summer. The more he thought about it, the more Dean realized it actually scared him a little. For all his bravado, he never really let go like that with anyone. There was no doubt Cas would stop if he asked, and yet Dean didn’t know how he felt about being entirely at the other man’s mercy; the hold on his wrists wasn’t unbreakable, but Dean couldn’t say for sure he’d be able to pull away, even if he wanted to.

        “I don’t think I—”

        “Yes, you can.”

        Maybe Castiel didn’t mean to snap the words, but they came out harsher than Dean expected. Along with the way the thrusts picked up in speed, cock once again bumping Dean’s prostate with blunt, insistent jabs, it was clear Cas wasn’t prepared to take no for an answer, was going to pull Dean over the brink with him whether he liked it or not. The pressure got bigger, more intense, and tears stung at the corners of Dean’s eyes with the force of it, the sheer, overwhelming complexity of the feelings twisting around in his gut.

        Some of the consistency began to eke out of Castiel’s rhythm; his heartbeat was powerful and fast even against Dean’s back, and Dean realized he wasn’t the only one about to come. “That’s it,” Cas was muttering, hands tightening around Dean’s wrists. “That’s it, that’s it, so good, so close.” His voice was wrecked. “Goddamnit, Dean, you make me so crazy. I could fuck you until I die.”

        The likelihood Cas knew what he was saying or that Dean would remember half of it later was practically zilch. Right now, however, it was enough to nudge him that last little bit over, his orgasm taking off from that razor-sharp burn and exploding out of him. He made a little sound of, “Oof,” lacking even the capacity to moan, and for the first few moments he seemed to be experiencing zero-gravity, a weird feeling of total suspension, before that almost-pain kicked back in.

        It snapped so quickly to pleasure it nearly gave Dean whiplash. He did cry out then, bellowed actually, and if the window had rattled with the force of it he couldn’t have been more surprised. Dimly, he could feel Castiel’s dick jerking inside him, the other man muffling his own shouts into Dean’s hair. Stream after stream of come pumped out of him, onto his stomach, chest and the countertop as well, each shot taking a bit more of his cognitive functions with it until Dean felt hollowed-out, empty, though Cas continued to fuck him through both their orgasms. It went on so long that Dean found himself unable to do anything but pass out on the spot.

        No one had ever fucked him unconscious before. Maybe after he came to he could decide whether it lived up to the hype.


Part 3

Link | view all comments

Reply

From:
Anonymous( )Anonymous This account has disabled anonymous posting.
OpenID( )OpenID You can comment on this post while signed in with an account from many other sites, once you have confirmed your email address. Sign in using OpenID.
User
Account name:
Password:
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
Subject:
HTML doesn't work in the subject.

Message:

 
Notice: This account is set to log the IP addresses of everyone who comments.
Links will be displayed as unclickable URLs to help prevent spam.