Title: "Play On, Words, and Let Me See the Stars"
Pairing: Castiel/Dean (Established)
TV Show: Supernatural
Word Count: ~4,500
Rating: M

A/N: So, hi. It's smut time, and this is one of the few times I've actually written smut of any kind, and it's something else. You're in for a handjob, dirty talk (which is actually lit!kink), and just a good time. This was actually meant for a larger fic, but since I didn't like how the plot was going, or how I had written it, I decided to just go with the smut scene for my lit!kink premise. It worked.

Few things:

1) If you see something like this, it's a thought.

2) If you see something "like this" it's a quote from a poem (Dean has one or two exceptions from using italics, but, yeah).

So, yeah.



They were on a job. And they were supposed to be researching. Something about the latest and greatest monster in town disemboweling certain residents and some other gruesome stuff happening to them.

But Dean hated researching all the time, and he'd rather spend time watching television to get his mind off the hunt, at least once in a while. Hey, he deserved a break, too.

Which was why he prayed for Castiel to "get his precious ass down to Earth to spend time together while we can", and why the angel showed as close to him as he could with a "Hello, Dean" accompanied with a smile. A kiss and a pull into the hotel room later, there they were.

Dean had no idea how long research was going to be for Sam, but another hour going by kind of surprised the older brother. The little (hey, Sammy would always be little to him) guy must really love his researching—or the library (nerd, he thought). Still, spending time with Castiel was never that bad. Okay, sure, maybe some days they don't talk because of some major conflict between the angels and humans, or they hardly saw each other because of some stupid war. He still liked to relish in the fact that: A) an angel of the Lord would drop everything just to be with Dean for five minutes; and B) said angel totally dug Dean Winchester.

They were only watching television on the bed together that night (which Dean told him to "loosen up and lose the coat, because you're now relaxing with me and you're not going to wear that ugly coat on a bed", in which Castiel oddly obliged rather quickly). Dean had no idea what the show was even about (all he knew about it was the FBI was involved with solving some sick cases, and it made him uncomfortable for many reasons) but it was nice, in some manner. It was one of those times where everything was calm and right, nice and peaceful. There was nothing to complain about, nothing to argue about, but just him and his angel, side-by-side.

Dean was drinking down the whiskey he stashed in his bag before coming to the town (or was it the one he stole in town?). Castiel was fumbling with the belt of his coat. Together, they looked like a class-A couple, he was sure. And he was sure Sam would walk in on them and probably give the old chuckle and tease them about how married they looked (which, of course, would prompt Dean to chuck the pillow right at his face, even if it did miss). Then again, nothing was normal in a Winchester life, and he really had no problem with dating an angel of the lord, even if it probably went against something in the Bible. And he was sure God wasn't too happy with it either, but the dude had to repay Dean somehow.

Castiel was a good enough catch.

Dean choked down the last shot he had in his glass, the fire burning down his esophagus and his breathing getting a little more intense to take it all in. It took his head off of his problems for maybe a second, but he wanted to be able to indulge. So screw it. But as the burn started to falter away and die off with those coughing fits, he could still see his lover—there was no way he would call Castiel a boyfriend, and since Castiel was one that could melt his heart with just his eyes, and since he was as good as it got when it came to the bed, he went with it—fumbling with that damn belt on the coat (honestly, he could not be away from it for a few minutes?), and he turned his attention to that instead.

"Alright," Dean said. Castiel turned his head to meet the green eyes. "Why are you playing around with that belt?" And the angel tilted his head down to look at his hands, the fingers intertwining with the fabric, the wrinkles coming through. Suddenly, the angel dropped it.

"It is of no matter," said Castiel, who was a terrible liar. He never could look the hunter in the eyes when he lied. And, of course, he was still staring at the belt.

It made Dean chuckle. "You've been playing with that thing the entire time you've been here. What's going on?"

Of course, when Castiel was nervous, you could bet your ass Dean was twice as nervous, or even more than that. It wasn't every day that the angel was anxious about something, but every once in a while it happened. For instance, there was some rebellion in Heaven going down, and God wasn't really in the mood to pull the brothers apart, so Castiel had been worried the rebellion would spark a second Apocalypse, and the Winchesters would be pulled back into the mess once more. Turned out the rebellion was killed off as soon as it started building momentum, and it only depressed Castiel. That night was an exception to the "I really don't like cuddling, but as long as my brother isn't around, we can do it" rule.

Castiel frowned. "I wish to—try something."

Dean rose an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Like what?" He wondered if it was going to be some new adventure the angel wanted to embark. The last one was kayaking, and Castiel was not cut out for something like that at all. He came back drenched and soaking wet from head to toe, and complained about how his arms hurt. Dean laughed about it when Castiel was telling the stories of how the rocks were not at all helpful. He was helpful by rubbing a towel on Castiel's head to somehow get him dry.

Then the angel—now, Dean was being totally serious—blushed. Full-on pink coming onto those cheeks of his, slowly deepening to a cherry red color. Dean heard Castiel sigh. "It will only be an experiment, one that will not harm you, Dean." Castiel looked up from his lap, the blue eyes almost begging him to say yes even before he asked for permission. "May I try it?"

Dean shrugged. "I mean, I guess, but do I get to know when it'll happen?"

Castiel shook his head.

"Or at least know what it entails?"

Again, another shake of the head.

Dean sighed. "Well, alright. Whenever you want to do it, you have my permission."

And Dean expected it to be right away, something he would get to experience with his lover before the end of the episode of the show on the TV. But, as it had gone, Castiel didn't make a move to do anything. Instead, he went back to watching the show! What the hell! Can't make a guy wait, you know. But when he brought his attention back to the FBI chasing down some serial killer in Louisiana, he seemingly forgot about the whole experiment, drinking down the whiskey still in his glass every few minutes or so.

It didn't hurt to let his thoughts wander while watching the show, though. He was only human, and whenever he stole a glance to look at Castiel, he wondered how those lips would feel going down his body, how tender Castiel's kisses would be brushing over every scar, bruise, and stitched up skin, how hot the breath would be on his stomach leading to his hipbones, or how those hands fumbling with the coat could graze over the small bumps all over his body, how they could create new goosebumps down his spine to those hipbones Castiel would most likely hold down, keep him grounded and begging—

Sometime later (he honestly didn't have a clue how long it was), he felt the effects of the whiskey starting to sink in. He wasn't drunk, no, but he thought he'd get there with a few more shots of it down the hatch, so he leaned over to set the glass on the nightstand next to him. He thought about getting more drinks later, so it was best to keep the alcohol close (especially since "later" meant researching). Dean leaned back against the headboard and looked to Castiel. Ah, screw it, he thought, as he wrapped an arm around him. There was no one there, and he always liked the warmth Castiel seemed to radiate off his body. He felt a head turn against his shoulder, and he saw the angel look to him with wide blue eyes and a swallow go down his throat. Dean lifted an eyebrow. "What?" Then, with a grin: "Like what you see?"

Castiel, out of nowhere, grabbed the remote to shut the TV off. "I wish—to do this, Dean," he whispered, almost as quiet as the silence in the room. His half-drunk side had suddenly remembered the experiment, remembered that, oh yeah, Castiel wanted to try something. And he really hoped he wasn't going to waste any time doing it, from what it looked like. Dean blinked as he watched the angel turn toward him, the mattress starting to shift and turn with him. Dean mumbled out a "Cas?' before he watched the angel's eyes rise to Dean's. Castiel began to speak.

"He put down his glass," he leaned over to look at the whiskey still on the nightstand, still resting as if it had a chance of moving. Dean just lied there. "and stretched his bare arms along the back of my sofa." Dean was suddenly all too aware of his arm rubbing against the suit jacket Castiel possessed, feeling his hand rest on the angel's shoulder. And as Dean tried to move it away from its spot, as he slowly started to draw it back to his side, Castiel kept turning, almost completely facing Dean, and started to move his legs, which felt oh so good. With that came his hand down on Dean's bicep, stopping him from moving anywhere. Instead, the hand pushed him back into the headboard and guided him down into the mattress, lying down against the soft sheets placed underneath them. And Dean watched as Castiel inched closer to him, his body shifting and turning all the while.

"Cas," Dean stammered out. He realized it was getting harder to breathe.

But Castiel shushed him, the intimacy of the moment rising more and more as the silence grew between them, as the bed shifted because of him moving, as Dean leaned into the mattress more. He felt Castiel slide against him, a knee slightly embedded on the outside of his thigh, and a hand brushing against his chest, going up and up against the defined muscles and scars. Dean really wished he wasn't clothed so he could feel the hand against his skin, but he watched as the fingers fanned out, then bunched together suddenly to tug at the shirt. He could feel the knuckles against his muscles, feel the trimmed nails poke through the thin shirt, and—then the leg started to move again.

He could feel the tips of his toes tickle at his leg, first on the outside, then wrapping around to the inside of his lower leg. He could feel the knee that had been on his thigh to move over the thigh, slowly resting in the inside, slowly reaching upward, slowly—Dean moaned as the leg started to stretch, as the toes started to venture down his own, as the skin bounced with ecstasy and wished for the jeans to disappear because it wanted so much more. And Dean knew he wanted it, too.

Dean could feel the hand on his bicep start to trickle down toward his hand, toward the one resting by his side and waiting for company. But from the anticipation, Dean gripped the sheets as hard as he could at the touch of skin against his own. Castiel's skin was smooth, grazing over his arm hair and barely scratching the surface as he moved his way down, and Dean shivered. He felt all the bumps he grazed over become more prominent, electrifying the veins circling down to his fingertips, letting all the blood flow throughout everything and more. When Castiel reached his hand, Dean's grip loosened, and he felt those smooth fingers rub against his rough knuckles, intertwine with his cut up hand, and squeezed.

Castiel leaned forward, pushing his hand against Dean's chest. Dean pushed back. "And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart," he didn't have to look to know that was true. He knew to believe it. The hand on his chest started to travel south, and Dean leaned up toward Castiel's face, inch-by-inch, closing in on those tender lips he knew would be heavenly, knew could only taste like the clouds above and make him see the stars. Castiel breathed out, his words flooding Dean's mind just from the sound.

"I could bear it no longer."

And just like that, just from the tips of his fingers, Dean was melting away. He could really care less if Castiel was talking about love or marriage or anything Shakespeare ever wrote in his God forsaken life. Just the sound of his voice made Dean shiver with anticipation, crave for something he never craved for before meeting the angel. He could feel those soft fingertips poke under his shirt, feel the hot tips slide across his muscles, and his hips moved, bucked, damn, did something, he didn't know. He could feel that knee so far up his inner thigh, and those fingertips teasing him, circling around his hipbones, poking at the juts from the skin, then moving from inside back outside, back against his jeans.

And Dean might have whimpered—might have, only because he was impatient. And through all of it, through the touches and feelings he could have, Dean couldn't look away from those blue eyes staring back, feeling the hot breath on his lips, knowing he could just lean up and steal a kiss, steal a hundred, thousand of them, but he was on the edge, waiting for more words to take him somewhere else, take him on another journey of its own. And Castiel did not move, but only obeyed.

"I touched the inside of his thigh," sure enough, there were the ghost fingertips slowly going up the inseam of his jeans, slowly inching closer and closer to the bulge waiting and longing for those fingertips to touch it. And Dean moved closer, longing for more of the touches, more of something. "His reply was to move closer," and he could feel the fingers take a detour, from so close to his crotch to going up his thigh, up toward those hipbones, "I trembled."

"Cas," Dean whispered, his voice raspy and needing, wanting—fuck, he'd need anything he could get from Castiel. He was on the edge, and he was begging for salvation. The hand started to move again, from the hipbones back down his thigh, back to the inside, and Dean felt his leg move so Castiel could do whatever, and he—he was desperate. Castiel shifted closer, the knee almost there, the hand moving closer, almost there, almost to the release, and Dean couldn't take it. "Cas, you—you gotta," he breathed out, gripping the hand that held his own tighter and tighter.

He was sure his nails was going in the angel's skin, but he didn't give a damn. He'd heal.

And when Castiel hummed, when the smallest moan came out of the angel, so did one come from Dean, their bodies harmonizing. And the hand—"My heart thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly." With the smallest press, with the fingertips just barely arriving, he could feel it against his strain, feel the contact against his still hardening cock, and he couldn't suppress the moan, couldn't close his mouth in time to stop it from happening. But it felt all too good, felt as though he were receiving too much, but still wanted so much more.

His hips bucked as Castiel palmed against his bulge, his fingers reaching up under the shirt and barely grazing the skin above his button. He could feel one—was it two?—finger underneath his fly, the nail scaling up the zipper and clinking against the teeth one by one, slowly coming to the top of it, slowly getting to pull it down. And those fingertips were more underneath his shirt than before, the heat rubbing circles into his skin, and he knew Castiel didn't mean to do it, all because he was trying to get the button unclasped, but goddamn it felt too good.

"I opened a gap in the flap," he rasped out, his breathing also getting heavier and heavier, and his eyes looked down just for a second. But Dean needed those blue eyes back, he needed to see what he was doing to Castiel just as what he was doing to Dean. He brought his open hand to the tie hanging down, just to block the view from Castiel, and the angel looked back up, back to the green eyes, back to those half-lidded eyes so close that he could practically feel those eyelashes against his skin. Then he felt a sudden release below, the button coming undone.

The zipper was next, the slow release painful and agonizing, but all the more enjoyable as he moaned near Castiel's lips, as he wished to bite down on that lower one and show Castiel what he was doing to him. But those words still kept him on edge, still begged him to hear them, still kept him in anticipation. Dean lifted his hips, in the case of Castiel wanting to pull his jeans down any further (to which the angel did) and felt the fabric slide down and down, the denim not important. He kicked, slid, did everything he could to help Castiel pull the pants down, get them shucked away near the whiskey and not be touched until it was over.

When the jeans were long forgotten, when Dean was fumbling with the buttons on Castiel's shirt (using one hand was tough), when the cool air was clouded by the heat between the two men in the hotel room, Castiel's hand slid up the inner thigh again, and Dean was panting, making the smallest moans escape his throat, feeling the palm against skin finally make contact, finally making his body shiver in despair that it wasn't sooner, oh god, please keep rising, he thought, the hand disappearing from the fabric of his boxers clinging to his body.

And Dean felt the hot breaths from Castiel intermingle with his own, their lips so close, their noses pushing against the other, their bodies rubbing for some release, some freedom—the deep voice entered the silence once more. "I went in there." He wanted it, oh god, did he want it so much. And Castiel did not disappoint as Dean felt the hand dip against his erection once more, the palm pushing just enough to stagger his breathing, to bring out a higher pitched moan, to bring everything around full-circle.

Dean breathed out "Cas" over and over again as Castiel pushed against it repeatedly, the angel's body sliding more and more up on the mattress, adding more pressure to his groin with the knee that rested against the inner thigh, and Dean couldn't, he couldn't keep looking at Castiel. He had to tilt his head back into the mattress, had to close his eyes and feel as the palm continued to rub against him, continued to feel the fingertips slowly pulling his boxer briefs down, feeling the pressure of his own underwear finally slipping away, finally giving him some kind of freedom he knew he deserved from all the torture he was going through.

And as he felt it slip down his body, as his hips rose and fell with the rhythm of the hand, he could feel his cock finally in the open air, finally tasting the heat it had been yearning for, but it was welcomed in almost a heartbeat by those fingers, by those long, soft fingers drifting up his shaft—and Dean knew if he were standing he would have buckled as soon as possible. "F-fuck," he breathed out, feeling a few of the nails barely scraping against him, barely tickling his every sense as he went haywire. And the angel leaned forward, the hand doing the same, and Dean moaned as could feel his penis move. "Oh, fuck me," he whispered.

The soft lips he knew kissed his exposed neck, kissed his Adam's apple bobbing up and down with every swallow he had, with every breath he needed to take to keep him grounded, and he would have kissed the angel, but fuck, that hand was working some magic, and he was out of his mind. He couldn't think straight, couldn't do anything. He could feel the angel's bulge against his thigh, the hand on his cock, the pre-come starting to slowly work its way down and onto the angel's fingers, underneath his nails, against the hair Castiel sometimes twirled with when he was down near them, and he could only moan.

When Castiel pulled away from his neck, Dean brought his head back to the action, his eyes locking with those blue ones, watching as the angel was coming undone at his own work, watching the sweat bead down the forehead. Goddamn did he want to kiss Castiel, but his mouth was opening again, and he would have been lying if he said he didn't want to hear it. "Like a good devout," Dean didn't need to be reminded that he was being almost sodomized (god, he didn't even want to think of his lips and mouth going down on him) by the most devout being on Earth, in a rundown hotel, on the side of the road.

Just the thought of an angel wanting it more and more made him moan a little louder, his hips going a little harder against the hand. He could feel the fingertips going up and down the head, sometimes grazing the little slit, and he'd gasp out. "Oh, fuck," he would say, looking down at the work Castiel was doing to him, looking at the effort it was taking to break him apart. Castiel still kept his eyes on Dean, though, still refused to look down after the last time, after feeling the slight tug of the tie against the back of his neck.

The rhythm started to pick up, started to make the hunter pant and why they didn't have more clothes off he didn't know, but he clung to the sheets on one side, and clung to the hand in the other, feeling everything start to bubble under his skin. The stars were beginning to form. "I reach out to trace the invisible skein of your senses," it shot right down to his cock, right down to where his orgasm was slowly but surely coming to the surface, and he was breathing heavier and heavier and he didn't want to stop—

"Cas," he moved with the hand, moved with the fingertips rising and falling against his cock, and god, he needed to keep moving, repeating "yes" and some other gibberish under his breath, sure to stop when Castiel was talking, sure to keep repeating over and over again as he could feel his orgasm building, his own rhythm getting erratic. And Castiel kept moving, his hand pushing against him one—after—another, and pulling away, and moving up and down and, shit, he knew what he was doing. Castiel worked faster, pushed harder, moved with Dean as he was slowly watching the stars form before his eyes.

It was hard to focus and breathe, but feeling every sense of his body being torn apart from the inside out by the angel, feeling him know how to work the hunter—it was worth it. And feeling those lips against his earlobe made it ten times better, made everything closer and he was on the edge again.

He needed the push, and the lips moving against his earlobe started to grant his wish.

"My hands open the curtains of your being—"

"Don't stop—Ca—Cas."

"—clothe you in a further nudity—"

"Sh—Shit, ah—"

"—uncover the bodies for your body—"

"—a-ah, fuck me, fuckmefuckmefuckme—"

"—my hands—"

"—oh god, fuck me—"

"—invent another body—"

"—Cas, I—"

"—for your body."

And the universe was paved for Dean. He tried to bite down on his lip, tried to suppress the noise he would make when his orgasm hit him, but he was too intoxicated on Castiel's air to even bother trying. He was sure the neighbors a few doors down could hear him, hear the cussing mixed with his moans, the name of the being ruining him being rattled off like a mantra, back arching high off the mattress, and he didn't care. Hell, he didn't even care that his shirt was ruined by the come still dripping from his head, still spilling out as Castiel worked him off his high.

He just sunk down into the mattress as he let go of the angel, the grip easing. He let out a great sigh from all the tension leaving his body, needing the release that had been built up for so long. "Oh, god," he breathed out, unable to form the correct words for his lover. Castiel hummed.

"It does seem that literature has an effect on you," and Dean caught a glimpse of those bright blues before collecting his breath once more, his head against the mattress and his eyes shut. "I hope you are not disappointed that we had not engaged in intercourse."

And Dean huffed out a laugh, utterly exhausted at what Castiel could even achieve. "Baby, I feel like jelly after that. I am okay with it."

Really okay, he thought.

Dean felt the angel moving away, the weight leaving his leg, and he felt those toes brushing against his skin. And just as Castiel turned away from Dean to maybe clean up, he had other ideas, and Castiel was drawn back into the bed, back against the mattress. Dean knew Sam wouldn't come back for another hour or so, the nerd, and he really needed to research the entire outline of Castiel's body, needed to know every jut and cut scaling the man. Dean would definitely return the favor—just, less words, more action.

And he started with those lips in conjunction with his own.


Poems used (in order):

"The Platonic Blow (A Day For a Lay)" by Auden

Unknown title, unknown author

"Touch" by Paz