Nones Septembris (September 5).
One day after the final scene of Bright as a Gorgon’s Eyes.
Strong, slippery hands kneaded their way up the back of Castiel’s bare thigh. Again.
They slid up over the sensitive crease between thigh and buttock, pressed deep tempting furrows into the aching muscle there, rubbed the tingle of the liniment firmly all over and set shivers that had nothing to do with any liniment chasing each other up and down his body until the skin itself was yearning for those fingers to slip just a little sideways, just a little farther in, right to the most delicate spaces in the very centre of -
Then they moved away. Castiel’s slicked-up buttocks were left to the lazy lick of the summer sun, and the hands returned to the back of his lower thighs, just above his knee.
Castiel was beginning to suspect that he had betrothed himself to a very cruel man.
The calloused pad of Dean’s thumb dragged rough over the hairs on Castiel’s inner thigh.
Castiel buried his head deeper between his folded arms, breathing in the hot late-summer hay smell of the grass, and tried not to groan. Skin ought not be so sensitive, not when it had been kneaded and stroked and fondled for so long. How was it possible that every brush felt like something new, as if his skin had never known the touch of another?
Dean was singing to himself as he worked Castiel over: snatches of childhood songs and stories which he’d insisted half an hour ago that Castiel had to know, gone low and breathy and indecipherable. Castiel wasn’t sure what it meant: was Dean distracted?
What did he see, perched back there on Castiel’s legs? Were his hands as feverish as Castiel’s flesh, catching the heat and the shudder from each other’s touch and feeding on it until the flames roared? Were his fingers itching to slide between Castiel’s cheeks and press inside him, to open him up? What did Castiel’s body look like from that angle, and was it tempting?
Did Dean feel the urge to lean forward and use his mouth?
The skin in the centre of Castiel’s back shivered with the imagination of it: of Dean’s hot gaze, of lips ghosting over his spine, his ribs, out to brush the soft parts of his waist. And all the while Dean’s careful, attentive hands squeezed and knuckled and coaxed at Castiel’s stiffened muscles, until his body was humming all over at the touch.
It felt like floating. Like some strange new space he’d never known existed, that they were forging, just for themselves, with mouths and discoveries and the slide of skin on skin. A new, fluid world, to explore and delight in and create, vast and wild, lazy and urgent, in which every sensation was richer and deeper and more insistent than Castiel had ever noticed them being before. Dean’s voice wasn’t just a sound: it rumbled through the air and got into Castiel’s bones, quivered under his skin. The sheepskin under Castiel’s thighs and stomach and chest, and the grass that tickled at his calves and arms and nose, warred with each other: both dense and soft, but one warm and the other cool and damp, one a cushioned luxurious blur against his skin (albeit getting damper in one particular spot) and the other a kaleidoscope of little pricks and strokes and itches. And the wind - the soft, misty, elusive moor-wind, undaunted by the corral and the warded stone wall encircling the cabin - it teased at his feathers and his hair, provocative as the hard winds of the upper flight corridors never were, stroking tempting fingers down his back and over his neck as if even the elements were determined to torment him.
One of Dean’s hands faltered in its task: slipped forward to nestle in the curve of Castiel’s spine.
“How ya’ doin’ there, sweetheart?” he drawled, voice gone loose around the edges. “Feelin’ any better yet?”
Castiel arched up into the touch and groaned. Better was surely subjective. More alive, more beloved. More cocooned in something great and delighted. As if he were part of a family again, whole and real and new and just his; but more desperate, more hungry, and more ready to shout his frustration to the sky. Floating on the very edge of something, riding an arousal that was deep and full and hot but made no immediate demands, ready to fall over the edge or sail on interminably.
Although, difficult as it was to think about it (as the hand on his back slipped higher and began to comb familiar and deep into the feathers at the bend of his wing’s elbow), Dean had probably meant the stiffness in his thighs and buttocks, resulting from the horse riding.
(Castiel could explain to Dean that, unless given impersonal context by a medical situation or an emergency, even close friends and family - and perhaps lovers? - did not bury a hand in the depths of one’s feathers so rudely without a little tactile warning, a little leading into it. He could explain, but he hadn’t, not yet. Castiel was beginning to suspect himself of liking it, the sudden shock of Dean’s hand against his most sensitive skin, proprietary and intimate.)
Dean drew in his breath at something, perhaps the curve of Castiel’s neck or the way he shifted under Dean’s weight, pushing the hot weight of his arousal into the uncomfortably dry cushion of sheepskin below him. The press of fingers under his feathers went deliberate, sliding big and warm through the softness of down; while Dean’s other hand flinched upwards, just high enough to spread out wide over Castiel’s hip instead of his buttock.
“That much better, huh?”
Dean’s voice lapped over his skin, thick and rich as molasses.
So apparently Dean hadn’t been sitting up there drawing lustful patterns on Castiel’s skin with his eyes. Or if he had, he’d assumed that Castiel wasn’t lusting right back at him. Which was foolish, because Castiel always lusted, as soon as Dean touched him, and Dean was always surprised.
“You stopped,” Castiel mumbled reproachfully.
Dean laughed a bit, a softened incredulous huff, drew his hand out of Castiel’s wing and soothed the feathers down into place, where they were starting to ruffle.
“Feathers getting all toasty in the sun, man,” he murmured.
Wordlessly, Castiel arched his wing into the touch, stretched both of them up to catch the light and hold it, showing off. The feel of Dean’s hand from outside the contour layer was dulled, only a blunt weight; so Castiel pushed against him, twitching the skin forward so that the feathers lifted and parted under Dean’s fingers, dragging them back in like water. For one instant he got the sharp drag of Dean’s fingertips against the down below, setting the soft skin tingling, setting sparks racing over his skin and flashing hot in his groin - just one instant, and then it was gone. Dean’s weight lifted itself from his legs, sweat-stuck skin parting with a faint smack, and -
Dean slapped him. On the buttock. It stung, sharp and bright against the haze in his skin and mind.
Castiel came, with a startled grunt and a shock, all over the sheepskin.
... That was unexpected. And also messy.
More of a pat, his logical mind noted dimly under the confused clamour of his blood, just as Dean did sometimes in public to tease or embarrass, but without clothes - on skin made sensitive by his touch - oh, it felt nothing like that gentle buffet, and - why was Dean walking away?
Castiel made an indignant garbled noise, approximating the name of his frustrating betrothed, and Dean didn’t even try to hide the laughter in his voice.
“Gotta check on the horses, man. That was some hike - wouldn’t want ‘em to go thirsty.”
Dean had checked the horses’ water an hour ago when they had arrived. He had seen to the horses and dogs very thoroughly, investigated the state of the wards and the general maintenance of the cabin as they had come to do, and set everything in order before offering to balm Castiel’s sore muscles. Dean’s time and attention were Castiel’s, now. Dean knew that.
When the world stopped spinning, Castiel raised his head enough to glare through the grass at Dean’s retreating form. Then he squirmed and grimaced, because even that tiny movement dragged dampened curls of wool against the very sensitive head of - well, where he was sensitive, and it was awkward and uncomfortable and strange.
Dean shot a delighted cheeky grin back over his shoulder, reached back behind himself, and pattered a jaunty rhythm at the tops of both bare thighs until he jiggled.
Castiel burst out laughing. It startled him so much that he had to stifle it in his arms.
This was happening more and more often - laughing outright, a swell of joy so sudden it was almost terrifying - and mostly around Dean. Was this what love did to you?
Dean blinked at him for a moment, the twist of his mouth wavering between smug and awestruck, like he couldn’t believe any more than Castiel could that they had, somehow, ended up here. Dean, who had confessed just yesterday that he loved Castiel - Dean, who had been declaring it with every word and look for weeks.
Castiel drew his wings in self-consciously to fold over his back and cover himself, because there was a spark in Dean’s eyes that promised a nakedness deeper than body and skin.
And the lines of Dean’s shoulders and back and thighs were luscious, and - and was the skin faintly reddened, there, where his hands had landed? Just where the soft pallor of his upper thighs swelled out into that delicious shape that - that Castiel was not looking at, because Dean was not quite comfortable with the idea of penetration, and so Castiel would let his eyes fasten on it and think about...
... there were dimples just above it. Just where the muscles of his back tucked into the swell of extra flesh. Castiel could set his mouth there, his teeth and his lips and his tongue, and -
“Dean,” he said carefully. “Stand still.”
He gathered himself and rose to a shaky crouch, then to his feet.
He was only going to touch. He’d run his hands over all of Dean’s body before, he knew the taste of the skin in the small of his back. And Dean, after all, had passed the last half hour pressing his hands into precisely this area on Castiel’s own body.
He closed in on Dean, finding himself stepping soft as if he were on a hunt; and Dean’s eyes were wide.
“Eyes front, soldier,” Castiel rapped out, without a thought.
Shock wiped Dean’s face clean and slack, entirely blank for just an instance. Then his head snapped around, front and centre, and Dean’s hands rose to curl around the rough stones capping the corral wall.
... Odd. Having his orders obeyed had never sent a painfully excited throb to Castiel’s - to - to where he wasn’t ready for - having his orders obeyed had never made him feel like this.
Although possibly, on reflection, he oughtn’t be issuing orders to the man he was to marry. Dean knew he didn’t mean anything by it, surely? that power and authority weren’t Castiel’s to take?
Probably. But right now, Castiel was confronted with the back of Dean’s head, with the broad, summer-golden planes of Dean’s back and hips and - and thighs, and they were practically quivering with tension.
He laid his hand deliberately in the small of Dean’s back, and felt the breath fall out of him.
Castiel’s turn, now.
And Castiel had plans. It had taken them too long to reach last night’s pleasures, to let mouths lick and nuzzle and open around hot blood-swollen flesh. Castiel would make up for lost time: Castiel would learn how to make an art of it, not a clumsy wet mess, and study in lengthy methodical detail precisely what sounds he could wring out of Dean with the slide of his tongue.
Castiel leaned in far enough to press a small, amazed kiss to the back of Dean’s neck. Then he sank to his knees in the cool grass.
Dean swallowed, audibly. Not a protest.
The backs of Dean’s knees were soft and pale when Castiel laid his hands on them, but the finely shaped flesh in front of him was softer still, and more tender.
Castiel remembered, dimly, Balthazar boasting. Trying to cajole his younger brother to “loosen up” and sample the pleasures of the flesh. Nobody cared about marriage and forevers, he’d declared, with a rueful sort of glee, when there was a war on.
“Take your time, Cassie,” he’d explain, arm slung drunkenly over Castiel’s shoulders but still light and poised on his feet. “This isn’t archery. Nine tenths of the game is avoiding the target, until that coy little ring in the middle is begging ‘take me now, big boy’.”
Balthazar’s interest and experience had been limited to women, but Castiel suspected darkly that Dean would have agreed with him.
Castiel leaned in and touched his lips to one of the dimples beside Dean’s tailbone.
It twitched against him, like a deer’s skin shivering off a fly; and Castiel opened his mouth and pressed in firmer, wet and close, because he would not be shaken off. Not now.
His thumbs slid in, tightening on Dean’s inner thighs. One of them slipped on the glaze of their sweat, skidded up to bump against the delicate skin of Dean’s testicles, and Castiel felt the shock that thrilled through Dean echo back through his lips and fingers and palms.
He found himself smiling stupidly into Dean’s skin, intoxicated on the impossibility of it all - the tiger drenched with catnip and lolling about luxuriously on its back - and set to exploring the tiny landscape of tense golden skin within about a handspan of his mouth.
Salt, and sweat, and delicious skin, and the hitches and shudders of Dean’s breath, and the clenching of muscles where Castiel’s stubbled chin scraped against Dean’s right buttock. And Dean was leaning forward now, palms pressing heavily into the stone wall and head sagging between the hard knots of his shoulders, and some of his choked-off breaths sounded like curses.
That was enough teasing, surely?
Castiel kissed him with a wide, hot kiss, taking as much of the skin as he could into his mouth and lingering. Then another, lower, and another, until he was nipping right at the centre of one of those finely shaped mounds.
“Cas,” Dean croaked.
Castiel hummed something distracted in response. His hands groped their own way up to join his mouth, took each their fill, and squeezed.
“Gnah,” Dean amended.
Castiel sat back on his heels a little way, just enough to stare at what his own hands were spreading open for him. And to stare a while more, mouth heavy with water.
... It occurred to him, two years belated, that the ring Balthazar had been referring to was not only the bullseye of the archery metaphor.
He leant in, heart and groin throbbing, and nuzzled in at the back of Dean’s balls, breathing in the thick, musky scent of him.
Dean’s voice was a broken rag of a thing. “What are you,” he tried, and forgot the rest.
“This,” Castiel managed to scrape out, and pressed another kiss in there.
“Cas, it’s my ass,” Dean protested weakly.
Castiel contemplated it. “Yes. I find it delectable.”
“Ass,” Dean reminded him, bewildered.
“Yours,” Castiel pointed out, and drew his tongue along the fascinating crease between thigh and buttock.
Dean made a strangled noise.
Castiel nobly resisted pushing him right up against that wall and letting the tiger bite down. Hard.
(He was stronger than Dean, and that meant he could absolutely not use his strength on Dean. That, he had promised himself.)
The skin here tasted just the same as the skin everywhere else, Dean and salt and leather and the faint aroma of horse. But what if...
Another soft lap at the spot just outside his thigh and Castiel trailed back inwards - this time, with hands (claws) digging into the flesh, pushing it up and outwards, so that Castiel’s mouth could investigate that lower curve properly. And then in towards the centre, and -
Castiel took a moment to steady his breath, and to hear the quiet, quick little hitches of Dean’s, and to run one hand down the back of his upper thigh. Then he spread Dean open properly, and set to work.
He’d never before appreciated the pointiness of tongues, but he was appreciating it now. It was very handy for burrowing right into the centre of that cleft and working his way up either side, or licking little dabs along it until he reached the tailbone and could mouth at that instead. And he could make little circles on the skin, or little jabs in behind Dean’s testicles, or careful methodical little strokes; and it was all very wet, which Castiel hadn’t really intended, but he didn’t seem able to stop salivating.
And Dean’s hips were moving now, rocking back against him and forward to push at the empty air. His forehead was pressed into his arms where they were crossed now on the stone, his back slung between them tense and vibrating as fence wire, and his feet had inched apart so that Castiel had more space to work: so that Dean was open, offering himself up, Castiel’s wholly and beautifully.
But every time Castiel’s tongue edged closer to the - to the rim of him, to the entrance, to some word that sounded reverent rather than ridiculous or crude but Castiel couldn’t find one - every time he got close, Dean shivered or flinched. And it felt like a flinch that was not entirely anticipation - that had something in it of distaste, or discomfort.
There was a spot, though, just below the nub of the tailbone, that made Dean jerk and shudder, made soft helpless noises fall out of his mouth. Castiel lingered there for a minute, lapping at it careful and insistent, testing the theory.
“Can I jerk off yet?” Dean asked plaintively.
Castiel’s hands closed tighter in the meat of his cheeks. “I want my mouth on that.”
“Your mouth is, um. Kinda busy.” There was a rush of hysterical laughter chasing through Dean’s voice.
Castiel frowned at his tailbone. “You were happy enough with my mouth yesterday. Why do you find this so strange?”
“... Ass, Cas.”
As if Castiel were being purposely obtuse.
Castiel huffed out an impatient breath, all over the damp skin he’d been working on. Dean moaned.
It made him clench up under Castiel’s hands.
Castiel narrowed his eyes. Then he leaned in and deliberately, obnoxiously, dragged his tongue right over the centre. Right over the most sensitive, twitching part of him, so that he couldn’t use that as an excuse to jerk away anymore.
Dean shouted, and his hips startled forward, then shoved back again as if they couldn’t make up their mind. Castiel could, though: he could lock onto them and do it again, and again, while Dean writhed against him, half savage with adoring triumph at the babbling obscene frenzy falling out of Dean’s mouth, at the rich strange taste on his lips.
Nobody had ever mentioned all the flavours before, or the heavy enticing scent of arousal, or the way Dean’s hips bucked under him until he could hardly keep his mouth where he wanted it, when Dean freed up one hand and started tugging desperately at his erection.
Castiel realised, with a dark thrill, that Dean was opening for him, the edge tugging out more and more pliant under each flat, dragging stroke. And he could push deeper, he found, if he poked, if he remembered what he’d found at first about the pointed tip of his tongue. It was hard work, made the muscles complain and stretched his jaw until it ached, but there was just a little give there, just enough for the awed thrill of realising inside, I am just inside Dean’s body. And perhaps if Dean would let him moisten a finger...
Nobody had mentioned any of this, anything at all specific: not the way Castiel’s mouth tingled and ached with the scrape and shove of it all, or the urge to take the softer flesh between his teeth and bite down, or the way Dean squirmed as if Castiel was tickling him, almost laughing with his gasps as his body shuddered through - oh. Orgasm.
Then, “Shit, Cas, Cas,” and Dean’s knees were folding under him, and Castiel grudgingly let him collapse in a laughing, panting sprawl at the bottom of the wall.
He lifted himself up, covering Dean with his body and blocking him in with his wings so that the tiger purred in jealous satisfaction, and bent his head to the soft skin of Dean’s throat.
“I hope you realise,” he mumbled with his mouth full, trying to sound disapproving instead of breathless and frantic, “that this doesn’t mean I’m going to stop.”
Dean groaned eloquently, throat leaping under Castiel’s teeth. His hand slid up to tangle itself heavily in Castiel’s hair, to cradle the back of his head; and Castiel arched into it, hungry for the touch.
There was a wetness against Castiel’s thigh where it nestled between Dean’s legs. A wetness that was turning sticky, and Castiel should really clean that up for him, because his mouth was still watering and he wanted Dean in it.
He lifted his head against the lethargic petting, and kissed his insistent way over Dean’s chin and up towards his mouth.
Dean’s hand tightened in his hair, and his mouth ducked out of reach.
“Gross, man,” he rumbled, slurred and deep. “Not until you wash your mouth out.”
Castiel pulled back, and took a moment to puzzle over the logic of this.
“Your concern is cleanliness?”
Dean’s eyes opened a crack. “.... Dude. Ass.”
Castiel blinked at him, until Dean sighed messily and went a bit red.
“... C’mon, I know angels poop too. Don’ make me do details, man.”
Castiel bit his chin. “We also urinate, but you seemed eager to have your mouth on my penis last night.”
“Ow. ’kay, one, ’s only a penis in books or on kids too small t’ clean themselves up, and two... shut up, that’s different.”
“How?” Castiel nuzzled in against his ear, mouthing at it, rolling the lobe against his tongue.
Dean tugged reproachfully at his hair. “... Y’just made me come, man, can’t think right now.”
Castiel ruffled his hackles up and grumbled into Dean’s neck and let it drop. Even though it was irrational, and this was important. There was something going on here that Castiel didn’t understand, and he needed to.
It probably wouldn’t be polite to slide back down Dean’s body and resume activities now. No matter how frustrating it was to curtail an investigation midway through.
Dean stretched out under him, bit by lazy bit, as if he was experimenting with a strange new body. Head rolling back against the grass, muscles across the front of his shoulder firming up under Castiel’s chin, stomach arching up against Castiel’s side, thighs stretching and sprawling open lower down. One of them brushed against the heat of Castiel’s erection - made him jump - and Dean made a smug, lazy noise, turning his head to nose in against Castiel’s cheek.
“Still hungry, huh?”
Castiel wondered wistfully what Dean’s wings would have looked like, if he’d had them. He’d never imagined falling in love with somebody whom he couldn’t groom in return: to be only taking, when it came to that particular intimacy, and never to be able to give.
What if Dean never let Castiel inside his body? Would he only be able to receive that too?
Castiel rocked in selfishly against Dean’s thigh - once, twice, slipping through the sweat and the semen. Should he be able to feel the drag of each coarse hair against the tip? Was that normal?
“Dean, you make me want you,” he growled out; and Dean went still for a moment, then shoved at him until Castiel was rolling over onto his back, blinking and wrinkling his nose. Dean rose over him, propped up on one elbow over Castiel’s right wing, grinning as stupidly and happily as only he could, making Castiel’s stomach swoop and flutter in a way that had nothing to do with the demanding thump of blood between his legs.
“You’re adorable when you’re horny,” Dean informed him softly; and before Castiel could protest that he wasn’t, he was just justifiably irritated at Dean having the temerity to reach a climax before Castiel had finished exploring despite having teased Castiel for half an hour himself, Dean’s hand slid up to spread broad and warm over his stomach. His lips brushed against Castiel’s shoulder and nuzzled down towards his hand, pausing to mouth at a nipple because they had discovered three days ago that Castiel went lax and loose and hot when he did that. Castiel hooked an arm around Dean’s waist and tried to stifle the groan, feeling the sensation in the throb at his groin as much as where Dean’s mouth was.
He could feel Dean’s lips curving against the skin, that lazy contented grin of his. It was the one that always went straight to Castiel’s loins even when he was only seeing it. Pressed in against his nipple - a flash of hard teeth - it made him shove up into the air and hiss, empty and wanting and frustrated.
Dean kissed him, soft, just under the achingly tight nub, and squirmed inelegantly down to drape his body all over one of Castiel’s legs, to mouth sluggishly at the jut of his flesh. Which was all very well, but -
Too slow, too indolent, too indirect. Nothing of the urgency pulsing through Castiel’s body. And Castiel’s thoughts were fastened on that shrunken circle, startlingly pink, just beginning to open up, just hinting of more to come and of maybe allowing...
Castiel spread his wings, spread his legs, opened his body up and jammed a heel into the cool tangle of grass out to one side, tugging at the ache inside the muscles of his thighs. The little lump under his wing, when he fumbled for it, was swollen and full, so sensitive that it made him gasp to touch, because his wings were as hungry for attention as the rest of his body.
Dean was kissing the way up the shaft of him, light and fond, and Castiel gritted his teeth and did not swear, and got oil all over his first two fingers.
He didn’t do this often, because the angle was so awkward, but he wanted it - felt empty and anchorless without it. And maybe he wanted Dean to see it, to make him think about...
He slid his hand down past the slow tease of Dean’s mouth, and pushed a finger without preamble into the tight clutch of his own body.
A strangled cry got caught up and stifled behind his gritted teeth, and his hips kicked up towards the sky, arching into the rough stretch. He ignored the disappearance of Dean’s mouth and the sudden chill of the air that replaced it, rolled his wings back hard against the ground, and shoved in deeper, deeper still, until his three other fingers and his thumb were caught awkwardly against thighs and testicles and buttocks and his right shoulder was stretched at a frankly untenable angle. Too rushed, too hard, but he wanted it: the stretch was good, and he had been wanting it for weeks, and for an hour, and never got it.
He pulled out just far enough to feel it, just far enough to yearn for it, and pushed in again, and again, until his hips were rocking up into it of their own accord, until the tiger’s teeth were sunk into the back of his neck good and solid.
Then he opened his eyes.
It was too dazzling to see, for a moment; but when the glare retreated he found Dean staring at his hand, eyes glazed and face flushed, mouth stuck half open.
“Cas,” he breathed - just breathing, only that, with his hand hovering in the air barely an inch from touching.
Castiel moaned under the heat of his gaze, rocked up into it, and felt the furtive brush of fingers against the inside of his thigh.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” Dean said, rough and low.
“You haven’t?” Castiel bit out, rhetorical, and crooked his finger to edge it deeper, to tug himself wider, because his flesh was hungry. Might he even be able to stretch up to another finger, today, under the intoxicating warmth of Dean’s eyes? He’d never managed that before, not without ending the game too soon, not more than one finger and just the tip of another, but with the edge gone from his first orgasm and his body positively hungry, dragging him in instead of fighting it, tingling and burning with every touch -
“Why would I -” Dean’s voice stuttered out, and Castiel wondered wildly if he’d be able to persuade Dean to provide that second finger. “Never thought of it, Cas, this is all new okay? I never even knew a guy could...”
Castiel’s hand stilled, even while his hips pushed up hopefully against it.
There was a note of... of something in Dean’s voice, under all the off-handishness - something like panic, even reproach. Something that Castiel couldn’t quite identify, something that made Dean’s hot eyes dart away to the horizon and made Castiel pull his finger out and wrap his hand tight around his thigh, even though his body was begging for it.
“I know,” he said pointlessly, meaning something like I should have thought, because. That suddenly made far more sense.
Castiel knew that, before this had begun, Dean had had no knowledge or understanding of sex between two men, or two women. It had never occurred to him that it would extend to neglecting that part of his body altogether, even when pleasuring himself alone in his own bed. It had never occurred to him that it might barely have figured into Dean’s knowledge of his own body at all.
He dug his fingertips too tight into his thigh, a hard nip of self-reproach to keep them from slipping back in where he wanted them. It took a clear mind to remember just how new everything about this was to Dean. Even the ideas.
“I know. I. I apologise.”
His voice sounded flat in his own ears, under the protesting roar of his blood. But his left hand was spread broad over the small of Dean’s back, and he could feel the thud of his heart: not too fast, not too tense. He could feel the expansion of his ribs as he drew in a slow breath, and reached out to rub a hand over Castiel’s belly.
Then Dean leaned down and kissed him, firm and deliberate and deep.
Castiel clung to him, one-handed, sliding his arm up to clutch at the back of his neck, letting his mouth fall open under the determined jabs of Dean’s tongue. His skin was prickling all over, right on the edge, and everywhere Dean’s body pressed against him set his body cursing him and wailing at the denial.
So, all things considered, it was very fortunate that Dean pulled back just then (eyes sliding down over Castiel’s chest, stomach, lower, hungrily down to the clench of hand on thigh), and muttered, “You don’t, uh. Don’t gotta stop on my account, man.”
“Ohthankyou,” Castiel gasped out, and Dean slipped off to fall hard into the crook of his wing as Castiel reared back against the ground and pushed his finger home, biting his tongue against the sweet rush of relief. Dean was laughing somewhere beside him, then over him, and there was heat and weight on his left leg as Dean straddled it with one knee jammed in awkwardly against Castiel’s hip, and one hand was there, squeezing Castiel almost too firm right at the base, just where he needed it.
Castiel grabbed at Dean’s thigh and squeezed that in return, inarticulate; fixed his eyes on the feast of Dean’s face as he rocked into the delicious, shallow push of his own fingers. Dean was watching hungrily, eyes flicking back and forth between Castiel’s face, and his own hand moving slow on Castiel’s shaft, and the spot where Castiel’s body was welcoming the intrusion, starving for it. And the fingers of his other hand were slipping damp over the tops of Castiel’s thighs, like he thought Castiel wouldn’t notice.
Castiel’s eyes flickered closed, and he just felt: felt Dean brushing at the space behind his scrotum then sitting there heavier, pressing in just a little, almost rocking against the rough shove of Castiel’s fingers. From outside his body. Pushing, then massaging - little tentative shoves that made Castiel cry out, made him choke at the added pressure in that scrap of muscle and flesh between Dean’s fingers and his own.
“Cas, can I,” Dean said, all in a rush; and, “please,” Castiel hissed, and Dean’s fingers were sliding down, skidding in oil and sweat. Castiel jerked up against him, shoved into the deliciously tight ring of fingers on his erection, and Dean was there, sliding around the stretched skin, jolted back and forth by the frantic rhythm of Castiel’s own fingers. And there they hovered, suspended for a moment, before Dean pressed a little harder, stretching the muscle open on that side until it caught at empty air.
Castiel lost himself, to the rush of white-hot heat under Dean’s touch and the too-hard clench of Dean’s other hand, to the awed rush of Dean’s breath and the shudder of his own body around his finger and the tickle of grass under his thighs and the soft brush of the wind over his skin, distant and ecstatic.
“Fuck,” he heard Dean breathe, and felt the hot curl of his breath and tongue over the twitching head of Castiel’s - fine, his cock.
Then he whited out entirely, drifting in the clouds.
It was probably only a few seconds until he came back to the familiar shape of Dean’s skull cradled in his left hand, and the shiver of Dean laughing against his hip, hot little puffs of breath and awe.
“Now I’m hard again, man.”
Castiel lay there in the grass and hazily contemplated the prospect of an eternal cycle of orgasms.
“Cabins,” he felt obliged to point out eventually. He was almost sure they were meant to be checking on two more today. Then some others tomorrow. Or something.
Dean wriggled his way back up to drape himself over Castiel’s side, hot and broad and lazy. “I say screw ‘em. We won’t be missed for days. Why’d you think I volunteered us for this? First time I’ve been able to get you properly alone for weeks.”
Which was an arrant exaggeration; but, as Dean rested his forehead against the side of Castiel’s and just breathed, Castiel felt no particular need to say so.