AN: Written for a request over at DeanCasKink on LJ, for user shannonknits. Uh… never written anything for SPN before, and I find it amusing that I immediately went for porn. I hope this is okay, though.

Pairing: Dean/Castiel

Warnings/Kinks: Humanised!Cas, broodings of a former angel, sexual content (naturally) including rimming, fingering, coming dry, coming untouched, mild dirty talk and swearing… think I got them all.

Spoilers: Mild for aired season 7 episodes

Castiel believed falling would be far more painful than this. Living as an angel for the vast majority of his existence, then briefly as a false God, he couldn't conceive of being able to adapt to humanity, to such a small way of thinking. Mortal men are to angels as microbes are to mortal men, and Castiel was, until his mission into Hell, a textbook angel, a 'poster boy', as his new species refers to them. He just couldn't imagine being so... small and knowing so little. He had become a speck on a grain of sand on the beach of Earth.

But humanity is not without its perks.

He finally sees colour. He knew it before, as Castiel, Angel of Thursday and Lost Travellers, and as Castiel, the New and Grand God of the endless Spheres of Heaven. He knew green as a point on the light spectrum, and knew it was the colour of Dean's eyes, and of grass, and most plant life and a baggy, stretched shirt he had a strange fondness for sleeping in (sleep- another new feeling, and surprisingly comforting after fear of never waking up again is passed). He knew everything about the colour green. But know he sees green, loves to look at green, all of its shades, it's vibrancy, and he loves it not solely because it is the colour of a certain hunters iris's, but because it is beautiful, and he understands it through the eyes of a human. And it is something of a relief to just see green as a lovely colour, not as the endless spate of things it is also. Now, green is just, plain green.

He finds even the smallest of foods decadent and indulgent, even as he realises he needs them for sustenance. Everything is new, even the burgers in which he gorged on during his time in the rotten, bloated presence of Famine. The tang of a raspberry on his tongue, the sting of pepper on a salad clashing with the cool watery flavour of lettuce, the sweet taste of candy nearly making him faint with the intensity. He never ate as an angel not only because he had no need to, but because he had no want to. Now, when they go for food runs, he tries anything and everything he can before Dean tells him to cut himself off or make himself sick.

When Castiel fell, he believed sensations would be dimmed, senses limited. He was right, and yet he was wrong. There were just fewer, he saw less, but he enjoyed them far more, and it was far more peaceful to look at the world, down at the ground, and only see ground, feel soil, see insects, hear twigs, rather than the constant thrum of everything.

But there was one thing, at least, he was completely unprepared for- touch. In Heaven, all beings were connected unless the wish to separate- if only for some privacy- became known and conscious and the angel pulled away from the ever presence. But the ties were wonderful, and full of fraternal love, and the ecstasy of being so one with the spheres, with the faith, the Father's love. So blissful. How can simple human touch compare to that level of intimacy of the Host? How can the connection be as pleasurable as that constant swell surrounding oneself?

How can any mortal, linear bonding Dean can offer be as intense as the one their souls- previously linked by grace, now by enochian mating and binding marks that ripped the Purgatory souls from him- shared, and would share from this life and into the next, when Heaven would be limited to the human side and theirs would entwine? Yes, he would love to physically connect with his mate, he would, and no doubt it would be somewhat... nice, but it was certainly never going to be the endless bliss of the host.

There was no way sexual intimacy could compare...

Castiel was willing to accept when he was wrong about something.

He was wrong about trusting Zachariah, about his unwavering faith in orders rather then what those orders meant. He was wrong to lose faith in Dean, or to underestimate his love. He was wrong about Michael, and Crowley, and Raphael, and Balthazar and even about God. He was certainly wrong about the souls. Or that Dean wouldn't save him, or couldn't.

And yes, he was wrong in saying that sexual intimacy would be nothing. Because this was no trifle- this was holy, this was wonderful. The closest he had felt to the host since Dean had used his own bright, pure soul to disintegrate the Leviathan with its light and pull his grace forward into dominance with it's weight, through their bond.

And they hadn't actually made love yet.

Castiel was not a fool. He was naive, perhaps, and unexperienced. Humanity was a strange thing to him, but he was learning slowly. That did not mean, however, that he was unfamiliar with the basics. He knew what happened with the human body. For Father's sake, he'd rebuilt Dean's entire structure from a single cell upwards. The was lungs worked, in particular, fascinated him- the flow of oxygen to the brain, the synapses, the empty, now useless part of the brain that used to allow for a function humanity no longer required, or the Father no longer wished them to possess.

He knew about sex. Castiel was more than aware. It sounded (and when he'd watched the porn about the babysitter and her pizza-delivering lover, looked and even felt) messy. Lubrication, semen, the excretion of sweat, which was something the former angel hated in normal situations, saliva- overall, sex seemed like it would be wet and uncomfortable. That aside, what came out of the body seemed as unpleasant was what was placed in. With women, they were designed for such a thing, even secreted a vaginal fluid to allow for the slide of a man inside. And even they, according the book Sam had given him ("It's just so you know what's going on with yourself a it better, you'll be better informed, so you don't need to ask anything, ah, too uncomfortable"/"Jesus, sound more like a sex Ed teacher, Sammy"/"Shut up, you try and imagine teaching an angel about why he has curlies") experienced some discomfort. For men, he imagined it would be even painful.

When he'd enquired why Dean would wish such a thing as anal sex, he'd been roused on by a red faced, slightly uncomfortable hunter- "Well how else are we going to do this, you don't exactly have the right bits and pieces. And we'll leave blowjobs for another time- I've seen you eat corndogs, no way I'm letting Little Dean near those chompers."

But he had not expected this. He knew about foreplay, about the pursuit for arousal and a want for the kind of blissful connection he had already felt with more senses than a simple human could even fathom. He had expected a weak, pale imitation of connection, an uncomfortable bringing together that was nowhere close to how their- his and Dean's- souls were already linked from in this existence and into the next. But, he was not an angel anymore, as he remembered, and he must stop thinking like one as much. For the kind of life he had been reduced to, it was all he and Dean would have for many years together, so he had pushed his disbelief and aversions aside.

Now, he was human. He was Cas more than Castiel. He felt the difference more keenly, particularly in moments such as these, when all he could do was see and taste and feel in his new mortal way.

Because for that moment, he was stretched out, bared and lacking of cloth armour, and simply awed, while Dean proved that human's had been gifted with their own forms of delight.

Oh, he had been so terribly wrong. And he was more than happy to be. This time.

Dean had started to snake down from an attentive examination of the skin of his neck and shoulder until he was level with his chest. The darting of his tongue reminded Castiel of sword thrusts, except this was nothing painful. Nothing hurt, except the ache under his skin, in his chest, at the softness this violent man was exuding when Cas had never seen it before. The mouth moved, travelled over skin until he had latched onto pebbled buds, and Castiel's back arched like a cats' as thin bolts of *something* incredible flooded through his blood. He knew his nerves would be stimulated but he hadn't known how it would really feel, and this... this was lovely, wonderful, a kind of magic bestowed on humanity by a kind Lord. Excitement built as a sharp nibble was delivered to the beaded flesh, his eyes snapping open with surprise and staring at the crack in the plaster on the ceiling.

Dean's tongue had started to lave at his left nipple, and Castiel, through the haze of dimness through his mind, had to wonder just what he tasted there that made them so fascinating. At least, he pondered for a moment- there was another light press of teeth, and the ache in his chest seemed to thrum straight to his groin, making it pulse and forcing a thrill of *please, want it* through his entire self.

So this was what arousal felt like. He'd been feeling tiny pricks of it for weeks, and assumed they had been brief spikes of pain from some human frailty- there were so many after all. But they had all been smaller, thinner versions of the ecstasy making him arch under Dean's clever hands and mouth, now playing with his navel and making his thighs tremble, his toes tingle and curl slightly.

It seemed that the hunter could sense where his pleasure was being focused, because his head ducked lower to mouth and ghost along his inner thighs. Before he could stop it, a soft warble left his mouth. A chuckle from Dean followed it into the air, and he was bitten lightly, just enough to play with tender flesh. There was a drop of warm wetness against his stomach, and Cas dared to look down at his own aroused body.

He was *hard*. For the first time, he was hard, and wanting, and truly lusting, and it felt so good, all of what Dean was doing to him. Making his body sing like the chorus of a hymn. A bead of something pearly, his own semen, had dripped from the tip of his penis and onto his waistline. More was starting to flow from the head- and Castiel wondered what his fluid would taste like, what Dean's would be like on his tongue, moaning lightly at the thought of taking his lover into his own mouth- and trickled down the length, down a protruding vein, and disappearing into dark curls. Somehow, the sight was alluring, erotic and powerful- he had to remind himself that yes, that was him. That was his cock, sitting flushed and proud and dripping for Dean, all for Dean.


Dean looked breathtaking where he was, enough that Castiel groaned his name aloud. His eyes, with those impossibly lovely just-green iris's, were lowered and filled him with a heady sense of smug accomplishment. That focus, or lack thereof, was all because of an unexperienced, unknowing Castiel. It was an empowering thought. He was still buried between the former angel's legs, playing with the sensitive skin, caressing with his lips the scar Cas had given himself when trying to zip up jeans for the first time (he wore button ups now- better safe than scarred). He was shirtless, and his back was as muscled and sinewy as a pack lion. The lamp light made his skin shine and illuminated his sweat. His jeans cut off, inconvenient yet strangely tempting, slung low at his hips- he must have undone the fastenings- and still covering what Castiel wanted to see.

Finally Dean pulled away, and Cas mourned the loss of connection. "Turn over." He murmured.

"What?" Castiel had hoped- perhaps futilely, it appeared- that they would wait until other routes of sexual coupling had been tried, before penetration. Before fucking, as Dean would put it (he'd tried to encourage Cas to start referring to it thus, but the term was too lewd and too strange on his tongue, and it had felt more forced than if he simply spoke in the more blunt terms).

"On your hands and knees." Dean insisted gently. "Go on." He lightly slapped at Cas's side, just enough to make him jump with the suddenness. But the words that came next were what made Castiel's body flush with heat, made the throbbing in his cock increase and strain. They shouldn't have, but they did, despite the crudeness.

"Want to see your pretty little hole."

He complied, despite his nerves, and tried not to allow his tentativeness show. It was difficult but not impossible. His own lust made it easier to comply. His breathing, already accelerated, quickened further, reminded him of when he first ran, really ran for the first time, away from a rugaru looking to eat his flesh. Too much saliva built up in his throat and forced him to swallow when Dean smoothed lightly calloused hands over his lower back and the flesh of his backside, and he jumped there was a sudden sharp nip on the right globe, near his tailbone.

"Dean-" he was about to ask what the hunter was going to do, how, and if they could do something different that didn't involve the potential tearing of his ass? when those warm, rough-but-soft fingers were pulling at his skin and separating his cheeks, warm air brushing against his hole and making him shiver. "Dean..." This time, it wasn't anything but a soft, impassioned chant.

And before he could really prepare for any actual touch so soon, when both of Deans hands were occupied, the feel of something slick made him jump and his head fall forward onto his arms crossed underneath the itchy pillow. "What... what are you- *ohhh*..." the sentence ended in a breathy sigh, and with good reason. Because he'd thought that the wetness had come from a lubricated finger, when it was too soft and spongy to be anything but Dean's tongue on the taut skin behind his balls, below his entrance, curling, licking and tasting. And he wasn't sure why it felt so, even though it sounded blasphemous even in his head, heavenly. So *good*...

But it shouldn't be- not pleasurable. Because Castiel may not know much about intercourse, about on what should or shouldn't happen, but he was under the impression one shouldn't have their mouth where Dean had his. If only for sanitation reasons (though Cas had showered thrice before their encounter, just in case).

Clearly Dean didn't care though, because before Cas could question again, the tongue had trailed up, and started lapping at his hole with the eagerness Castiel now approached sherbet icing. Like the taste was something he simply couldn't do without, it was so sweet, and intriguing in the way it felt in his mouth and on his tastebuds. The muscle traced around the rim, the pressed- damned well pushed in, to keep tasting, and exploring. He could feel his own virginal tightness unfurling, loosening as Cas began to whine, whether in protest or want he couldn't tell. Because Dean's *tongue* was in his ass. Because this was wrong, it was utterly filthy, it was strange, and above all, it was *wonderful* the way Dean curled his tongue to stretch just a little inside his channel, and *oh*.

Dean was inside him. Connecting, not in the way Castiel thought he would, or expected, or even knew how to. Dean was inside him, penetrating and pushing inside his new-old-new body. Castiel could feel himself lose control with his physical functions, feel his legs jerk and his hips move- forward to brush his now soaking, throbbing cock against the horribly coloured green bedspread and backwards against that delightful mouth on him. There was a moment of brief panic- the last time he had felt tension so great and needy in his groin, it was when he was newly human and it had not been pleasant- until he felt a hand move from his buttock to his spine and rub gently, like he was soothing him after a night terror.

Then there was the slightest wriggling motion from the muscle inside him to get in deeper, and his lips started to touch the previously puckered flesh ito suckle. Their shudders synchronised briefly, causing the soft vibrations of the hunter's body to transfer directly into Castiel and reaching like tendrils of Grace itself into the most pleasurable parts in him. A hoarse scream of something utterly passionate filled the room before he could stop it, and he bit his lip roughly to keep his noises in, tasting rusty blood.

Dean was making soft satisfied keens that kept rippling through his veins, flicking his tongue in and out, pressing then withdrawing, and it was mortifying, the noises Castiel made in return, desperate. Embarrassing, the way Cas was forcing his ass back onto that beautiful mouth, with those lips meeting the rim and sucking, pecking lightly like the moist kisses Dean'd placed against Cas's mouth. There was something urgent rising in his belly, along his spine, making his hands clench into the pillows and sheets and his head throw back. Something was happening, and even through logically, he knew what was taking over his body was an orgasm, he still felt thrills of worry despite the mind-numbing pleasure. This seemed like too much, too fast, he felt like he' die, pre-come spurting and slicking the sheets-

-and a whimper wrenching from him when Dean pulled away.

"Wha... Dean, what is it? Why..." Castiel buried his face in the pillow his arms were still crossed under, and he was tempted to turn around and order Dean to continue his ministrations, force his tongue back to what it was doing to him, when a wet finger started to trace around the outside, and Cas could feel himself twitch with the urge to have it inside him- because there was no way anything could be painful, not if it produced what Dean had building in his groin, making his cock twitch and flow with his own fluids. His hips pushed back slightly, trying to catch the digit and allow it inside, hoping he wouldn't have to ask for this. It would be too embarrassing.

Apparently that was enough, because Dean mumbled something that sounded like "Cas" and "tight" and "perfect", he pressed the spit-wet finger inside, his mouth touching the skin just above the pucker and tongue flicking out.

And yes, for a moment, it was uncomfortable, but the kitten licks combined with slow, steady thrusts and the gentle, massaging stretching to the inner walls of his hole, and Castiel was back to keening and shoving against the ministrations. The desperate build in his cock had faded briefly, but now had risen back to his urgent tempo as another finger was added.

This continued until there were three fingers, and Castiel felt so full- physically full, yes, but the attentions and the focus of Dean ensuring his ecstasy were undoing him just as easily, making him forget any wrong doing, the fact that he was limited to this human form, that he had so recently hurt and betrayed the man causing him such bliss. Because how could he think of anything but how good this was, the sensations growing too much, too fast and his hips bucking back and forth wildly, millennia of restraint cast aside and debauchery and low human passion taking front seat. He was close, he didn't even know how he knew he was, considering everything was so new, but his orgasm was approaching fast, the climax tasted on the back of his throat and deep in his balls, and he knew he was on the cusp of falling over a cliff's edge- and the only reason he wasn't shying away scared of feeling too *much* as the possibility of falling apart completely became close and the desperate screams built in his throat, was that he knew Dean would hold him to the ground and keep him there with him. He'd made a promise, and Cas believed him.

And then those rapidly thrusting fingers were hammering into him, and touched a point in his body, and white took over his vision as burn ignited every nerve, every skin cell, and made his mouth fall open. This was perfect, this was everything- he couldn't see, all his muscles had locked into place and seized as rolling waves washed through him, and Dean tended to him, kept him connected and corporeal.

Just when it started to subside, he heard his love murmur against his skin, "Jesus, Cas... can't remember the last time I'd made someone come dry like that."

Castiel's eyes fluttered open- and when had they shut, he wondered hazily, and slurred out, "I don' understand..." Sex was exhausting, it seemed. He had never felt so lethargic.

He could almost hear Dean's smirk. "Oh, we ain't finished yet, gorgeous. Not letting you up until I *see* you come."

"I don't-" Hadn't he just- there was *more*? Castiel managed to glance down between his legs, and felt surprise run through him. His cock, which he thought would be limp and flaccid by now, was still red, long and hard, straining. The veins were slightly more pronounced; the tip almost purple with blood and slick still oozed and dribbled. And now that he had come out of his blissful state, yes, Cas could still feel the aching in his scrotum, and the urge he still couldn't quite understand.

But there was no real time to ponder, because Dean had started to thrust his fingers again, and Castiel began to scream.

It was less pressing against his nerve-rich spot now, and more battering it. Cas was thrashing now, utterly out of control. If he had thought what he had just experienced was powerful, he was wrong, because this was like flying, like basking in the father's presence. Every touch to his prostate felt like benediction, like blessing, approval that yes, he could and was allowed to feel, be human, and enjoy it's experience. Continued beating of that perfect spot made him flail, and buck, and want to rub his erection raw until he had the climax he craved, and finally he broke and his mouth opened not to moan or wail, but to beg for please, more, need it. And Dean delivered, strikes even harsher and faster paced, before Castiel seemed to implode.

Again, his mouth open silently, and his body locked, but it was even more powerful than before. He could feel his cock jerking, feel wetness spraying everywhere, feel his testicles being milked and his stomach and the bedspread being moistened by spurt after spurt of semen, in the same wonderful rhythm the pleasure pulsed through his body.

And finally, it was over, and Castiel collapsed onto the wet patch of the bed, barely registering the moans of Dean behind him or the sound of skin on slick skin. He heard a grunt of, "Cas!" before more wetness hit his back this time, and he realised that Dean must have reached his own peak. A feeling of sleepy achievement washed through him. *He* had done that- made the Righteous Man feel pleasure, just by writhing and twisting to masterful hands.

A heavily breathing hunter collapsed next to where Castiel was still stretched out, lazy as sin and unwilling to shift for the Lord himself. There were surprisingly gentle fingers running through his mussed hair lightly. "Go slothful after, don't ya?" he mumbled, and stroked his hands over Cas's spine. Cas merely grunted in agreement, voice gone and vocal cords roughened, and moved into Dean's warmth more, knowing it was where he belonged now. And enjoying the fact.

Castiel was not an angel any more. He was not Blesser of Thursday's Child or the Traveller's Sheppard. He was not a God or a tool for the Leviathan. He was just Cas, a human hunter, Dean's mate, Sam's brother, Bobby's third surrogate son. He could see in limited clearness, and taste, and feel incredible things. It was strange, and he had but a small human lifetime to try it all. But he had Dean to escort him the entire way, teaching him things he may never truly understand and showing him the small wonders of living this mortal existence. Like the tartness of a raspberry. The acrid bitterness of burnt coffee. The glare of street lights on tired eyes. The stale smell of sweat after a hard day of labour. The feel of grass against his bare back.

Or lying in bed with someone's arm around his waist after making love.

Yes, it was different to being connected to the Host. But different didn't necessarily mean less. And it certainly didn't mean bad.