FYI: I am uploading a lot right now because I am transferring (and slightly editing) a few recent stories I haven't posted here yet. There's another to come, and then it will slow down as I'm working on finishing my other fics. There'll be more to come, just not as rapidly :) My fic is also posted on LJ here: isasminion. livejournal. com, but I barely use it as more than a dumping ground for fic, like here.

Pairing: Dean/Castiel

Genre: PWP

Rating: Hard NC-17

Word Count: 1,221

Warnings: Biting, Rimming, Come-Play, Ass-To-Mouth (sort of), Blasphemy, Misuse Of Bible Verses

Spoilers: None

Summary: Cas is noisy and Dean actually reads scripture. It's for a good cause, after all.

Author Notes: No plot, just pure and utter filth. Verses in italics are from 'The Song Of Solomon' via the Hebrew Bible via Google. I don't pretend to know much about it. I'm easily pleased: I just picked the dirtiest ones *whistles innocently*

Cas made the most delicious sounds.

With no reference, he simply let go, no holding back, and each noise was completely genuine. Unrestrained. He hadn't practiced for years to keep quiet for anyone within earshot. Society hadn't taught him that men don't whimper, men don't yelp, men don't scream when they come. They don't say random things during sex or stare adoringly into their lover's eyes like they were nothing but the center of the universe personified - while riding their cock…

Cas licked sweat from shoulder blades and nipped palms. Suckled on delicate wrist veins and nuzzled his nose into Dean's hair. He squeezed ankles, stroked feet, scratched his nails across Dean's jaw line and bit into the narrow strip of skin between each rib.

It wasn't animalistic – it was honest.

Each time Dean entered him and the head of his cock made the first push past that tight ring of muscle, he'd make a strangled, choking sound. His throat would click dryly like the air had been stolen from his lungs mid-sentence.

Cas would dig his nails into the delicate skin between his buttocks and spread his cheeks wide to feel every single sensation, every thrust Dean made, each entry and exit. He'd reach down further to where they were joined and feel himself stretched around Dean's cock, the hard length of muscle moving inside him over and over. The way his body would try to close when Dean withdrew, the way it opened for him when he pushed back in. The skin around his hole pulling back and forth minutely as the friction increased, loosening with every thrust.

He couldn't help trying to feel it all – both inside and outside.

The curves of your thighs are like jewels, the handiwork of a craftsman. Your navel is a round basin, where no mixed wine is lacking…

When Cas came, it was as though every pulse was ripped from him by force. The moans started low and growled into high pitched whines and a sharp gasp of air to start the next. He would buck, slipping free of Dean's cock. Every time it was like a surprise. As though he hadn't expected it, eyes wide to watch as his come painted Dean's chest.

He'd smear it over Dean's breastbone with his fingers; swipe it across his forehead and over his face, marking him up. He always fucked back down on Dean's erection, as deep as he could so Dean could finish, even though each thrust into his oversensitive body drew grunts of discomfort.

It was at that point Dean usually lost it. The feel of Cas' long fingers trailing wet and sticky over his skin was enough to push him over the edge. His body would spasm as Cas clenched tight, knowing Dean liked to come buried deep inside him.

They marked each other in their own ways.

The sight of his come oozing from Cas and running down his thigh when he eased out reduced Dean to short, breathless curses. 'Fuck' and 'God' and 'Jesus Christ.'

When they fell into a heap of limbs, panting, Cas would run his fingers over his hole. He'd feel the lube and come, explore the stretched out, sensitive muscles before bringing his hand to his mouth and tasting them both.

If Dean was ten years younger, he'd be hard again at the sound of Cas sucking his sticky fingers between his lips. The first time was curiosity, each time thereafter obvious pleasure, although what Cas found pleasurable about it Dean wasn't sure, because it certainly couldn't be the taste.

And with that kind of sight, Dean could forgive himself for letting fly a string of words worthy of a badly scripted porno - eloquent pillow talk be damned.

My dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the coverture of the steps, show me your appearance, let me hear your voice…

On occasion they'd swap, and Cas would bury his face between Dean's cheeks and lick into him as far as he could. He'd point his tongue and swirl around the tight muscles, massaging like he would if he was using his fingers to prepare him.

He'd suck hard on the sensitive skin behind Dean's balls; maybe nip it, causing Dean to shout in pain and threaten to break out the holy oil. When he'd lose his erection from Cas' rough treatment, the angel would growl in frustration, flipping him over to suck him down until he was hard and desperate again.

If Uriel was the funniest angel in the garrison, then Dean had surely landed the dirtiest.

Then again, Cas had a good teacher.

Spreading Dean's thighs, Cas entered him carefully each time, driving Dean mad with the slow, drawn out pace he set. Long, deep slides, always so gentle and just shy of what he needed. It frustrated Dean almost to the point of begging.

But Cas would never speed up, he'd thrust with precise control to a rhythm he alone created, ignoring Dean's urges for faster, harder. He kept it up until they were both shivering, covered in sweat and barely able to talk. Nothing coherent at least. And after what seemed like forever it would take just one touch of Cas' thumb to the head of Dean's cock to have him coming hard, Cas following seconds later.

And it shall be when he lies down, that you shall know where he will lie, and you shall come and uncover his feet and lie down, and he will tell you what you shall do…

Cas never learned to be ashamed when the dirty things Dean whispered in his ear were sometimes enough to bring him off, no touch necessary.

When he was feeling particularly playful, Dean treated it like a game. What exactly did he have to say - how long and in how few words could he make Cas hard, drive him to the point he thrust into the air and came in his pants?

Just how blasphemous did he need to be?

Surprisingly, the answer was very. The more religious metaphors and analogies he muttered, the wilder Cas got.

With much embarrassment, he found himself – very privately – reading Song Of Songs, looking for inspiration.

My beloved stretched forth his hand from the hole, and my insides stirred because of him. I arose to open for my beloved, and my hands dripped with myrrh…

He reassured himself it was purely research.

Research he could take to bed and use for the very practical, honorable purpose of driving an Angel Of The Lord crazy with lust. Said angel often resorting to literally ripping Dean's clothes apart, pinning him to the bed and just taking what he wanted.

At least Cas had the decency to wait until they were alone, although Dean sometimes had the urge to mutter something barely audible to him in public, just to tease.

Only teasing tended not to work with someone who could fly and bend time.

Sam and Bobby got used to the press of fingers to Dean's forehead and the sudden departure of both hunter and angel. He had no doubt that two exasperated sighs and maybe a curse or three followed them through the empty space they'd been standing in just seconds before.

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his filthy mouth…