Smut, smut, smut. So many dirty fruit metaphors – gotta catch 'em all!
It is strange how, even without clothes, they are still so much apart, so very different to each other. Their classes seem to be evident, down to even their scents, and the feel of their skin. Dean is rough with scars, calluses, rough from the very garments he clothes himself in. He smells like green wood and split bulbs, like grass and air and all things free. Not in the sense of their being under no dominion, but in that they cost nothing, and yet are truly owned and inhabited by the man on his bed. He smells, in a word, cheap. But undervalued for being so, given the wealth of majesty that lies in him.
There is nothing cheap about the way Castiel sees Dean at this moment.
He would not sell the feeling of Dean's skin on his for any amount of gold or favour. What better favours could there be than those bestowed upon him by a mouth as lush and soft as that of well treated silk? Dean's mouth alone would set him back a small fortune. And what price was there for the full weight of him for Castiel to sit astride of? For the soft hair at his temples, the way his teeth feel against Castiel's lips?
Dean rolls them over and breathes against Castiel's neck. "You make me tired, thinking so much about so little."
Castiel runs his hands over the broadness of Dean's back, as he would over a horses flank. "I don't call this a little matter...this is...perhaps the largest undertaking of my whole life."
"I'm flattered indeed." Dean leans and takes soft bites of flesh, his kiss swollen lips capturing Castiel's throat right down the centre, making Castiel feel like a tender morsel, a soft candied fruit perhaps, being relished and tasted before it is devoured. "That I'm considered so notable of proportion."
Castiel's breath is stolen from him in wicked humour, and he turns them again throwing Dean out on the bed like a captured slave in some foreign, erotic painting. With his arms stretched out over the richly embroidered bed linens, his legs slightly parted, all of his body a sinuous continuation of line and muscle that belies his class, his almost mongrel beginnings, Dean is all that has been burning in Castiel's heart of hearts for these past years.
Castiel looks down on him, unable to keep a look of wonderment from his face.
Dean looks up at him, unflinchingly, and Castiel does not know what he sees.
"This is what you want?" Dean murmurs, moving one leg wider, framing Castiel's kneeling form with his long, vaguely crooked legs. "To take me?"
Castiel is unable to say a word, but gazes on Dean's form and thinks how deeply, heavily satisfying it would be to feel all that bulk shuddering around him, under him, as he grasped Dean greedily about his great back and chest, feeling the pull of pleasure taking him far, far from everything but Dean himself.
Dean's eyes search his face, finding Castiel's as black as sloes.
"That, is what you want." Dean says again, only this time it is not a question. "With the power you hold day by day over this house. Over when my body rises from sleep, stops to eat, stoops in work. Over when and where I lay my head, and what my hands are busy with from dawn to dark rising. And now, you've taken me to bed, to be inside of me..." Dean's body moves upward, a long movement, his hands running down Castiel's arms to take his fine, unmarked hands in his, and bring his master down on top of him.
"So that there is nowhere you have yet to take control of, and nothing I can do without you having had some part of me. You who own my days, my service...now you want to own me, take out of me your pleasure."
Castiel, almost drawing his breath from Dean's lungs, so close are their faces, a wealth of heat between them the perfection of Dean's body a bed carved by God from some divine flesh beneath him, utters, "Yes."
"You are not my better."
Castiel riles. "I'm master here."
"But you, are not better than me." Dean breathes. "You were born in blood and you'll likely die in it, a disease or clotting that stops your heart in this sainted house." Dean meets his eyes squarely. "But you and me were born equal, and it is only your family's wealth, your name that put you here. That may give you the right to order me to and from your gardens...but this...here..." Dean lifts his body a little, touching it to Castiel's, an offering, a comfort. "I give you this because it is my body, born mine, and something that you cannot take from me...the most valuable thing either of us have – the only thing that cannot be bought – our God given skins."
"God gave us our bodies equally for this, did he?" Castiel murmurs. "But then did he not intend always for me and my family to own you and yours? Did he not put us here for that?"
"God set the king upon the thrown, and made him infallible." Dean says, a teasingness in his voice. "Perhaps he does not think like you and I."
"Hush." Castiel says, the blasphemy warming his skin. "This talk of God and kings here, when there is nothing beyond that door. No one but us, and nothing but our bed."
"Does that not make you God? Most powerful of we, the only two." Dean jokes, and his face is lighter when he does, Castiel finds he likes it.
"And you the second, the king." Castiel whispers, moving, lifting Dean's hips, rubbing his intimate part against Dean's buttocks. "And I shall set you on a throne."
Dean lets out a sound, something like Castiel's flesh would utter if his skin had a hundred tongues with which to voice its longing. Castiel draws away a little and looks at Dean as he would a newly acquired piece of furniture. Only Dean is not some cold concoction of wood and filigree, he is like nothing else. Castiel's hungry eyes feast, and his mouth is not far behind, tasting first one of the buds on Dean's chest, then the softness just under his ribs, the warm give of his belly, and the deep ripeness of what lies between his legs.
Dean cries out, and Castiel tastes, like a starving boy suddenly faced with an orchard of ripe fruits, hot from the sun. Sucking their piquant flesh until juice runs down his chin.
There is something bestial about him when he abandons this delightful activity to once more press Dean's body beneath his. As if he has tasted the fruit forbidden to man by God, as if he has lost his reasoning to it.
He turns Dean onto his well laved stomach, hearing the other man's heavy, happy moan at the action. There should not be beauty in the view between the legs of a man as he lies, wanton, on a foreign bed. By Castiel admires him, the smooth, luscious curve of his backside, the root of his prick, which itself is furrowing the sheets. And, when Castiel reaches forwards, parting flesh as he would to seek the dark stone in a soft fruit, he finds the unassuming pressure point that will undo them both.
Strange, that such a base thing, something so crass and biological, should be the source of so much desire. The cause of his revelation at Dean's beauty.
Dean buries his face in the embroidered sheets, his cries lost there as Castiel takes a bottle of oil, a balm for the nerves, and applies it, privately stirred by the sight of the shining liquid creeping into Dean's body.
When he enters there himself, he pulls at Dean's body, bringing him up, until the other man is resting in his lap, himself deeply seated within him. With a shaking sigh, Castiel urges Dean into a smooth ride, bringing their bodies an agonising inch apart, before claiming him in heat again. All the while that Dean moves for him, Castiel is stroking his skin, fingers sifting through his short, brown hair, trailing over his full lips, into his welcoming, warm mouth, trailing spittle over Dean's chin, down his throat, which flutters wildly with his racing heart, over his chest and down, fondling him until Dean loses the self control that had brought them this far, shuddering and heaving – dropping from Castiel's lap, slumping to the bed on all fours. Like an exhausted hound.
Castiel sweeps Dean's arms up, holding them against the man's back, pushing him down onto the bed, his face meeting the sheets, eyes closed, mouth slack and uncomplaining. Everything he wants in those minutes can be found in Dean's body. Everything.
In the moment that he wants to be in such a state forever, he is undone.
Exhausted, their bodies no longer a tormented pleasure for the other, but rather a comfort, they lie on the sheets, Castiel's fingers tiredly tapping the flesh of Dean's hip, where his cheek lies.
"You're wrong." Castiel says, the first true words to leave him in quite some time.
"How am I wrong?" Dean asks. "Aside from this obvious flaw in my design?"
"In saying that I am not your better." Castiel tells him. "I was not born like you - for I was born here, and being born here, makes me better..."
"Luckier. Fortune was your godfather, coincidence your godmother."
"Then I am lucky, for being born above you, means that I can command you."
"You cannot!" Dean sits up and glares at him. "Command me then. Command me to leave you, and I will go, because I don't want to be here, in your bed, any longer. But, command me to be yours, to lie with you as you tell me I am lesser – and see if I choose to...bare myself for you again."
Castiel touches Dean's furious face, and adores the quick jerk of denial in the other man's brows.
"I will not command you to go. Neither will I command you to be with me. But, I can command you. I can command you to consider us equal, to believe in me and my belief that you are worth more to me than I myself. And so you are not beneath me."
"You think I am worth so much...and yet you will lose me, let me leave this room like a torn shirt off to be mended, and I shall not find my way back."
Castiel embraces Dean, taking them both to the pillows and holding him there.
"I was born lucky, and, so fortunate enough to have the means to keep what I value, safe."
"And you would keep me safe? Locked away for private viewing? Like a canvas?" Dean mutters, "You play games with me, with words and...with power, and I am already tired of it."
"I will keep you safe, like I keep my own heart safe from harm." Castiel promises. "With me, always. In my home, by my side. Day and night. My consort, my advisor. I shall never be without you, or you without me." He places his hand over Dean's heart while they lie, curled around each other. "Because you have taken my heart, and I believe I have yours in its place. You have done this so quickly, that it frightens me, worse than all the punishments we would endure, were I not lucky, and well born enough to hold their whisperings off."
Dean is silent as Castiel feels his heart beat.
"I wish us to be men. Nothing more, nothing less than each other. And for us to love, like ourselves, and no one else." He kisses Dean's throat. "Was that plain enough for you? No games for me to play on you, does that suit?"
Dean turns over slowly, facing Castiel with the merest suggestion of a smile on his lips.
"It suits well...but, I believe I've won." Dean breathes. "As you forfeit the game."
"Then by all means..." Castiel whispers. "Claim your prize."