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He isn’t entirely sure when he first became fixated on the handsome shape and subtle strength of Cas’s arms and hands, but he sure as hell knows it isn’t going to stop any time soon; if anything it’s getting worse. Rolled-up sleeves are somehow even better than nothing at all, drawing a finite edge between bare skin and hidden flesh, a glimpse at something he usually covers up and may do so again at any moment before Dean has looked his fill. It isn’t as though he doesn’t see Cas naked on a regular basis, which is why Dean cannot understand why he is unable to stop himself from staring at inappropriate moments.

Right now? It’s sick is what it is, the way his heart is pounding and his dick shoved half hard up against his zipper. Cas is checking if their grandfather still has his soul, for crying out loud; Dean should be worried, wincing in sympathy at the guy’s obvious discomfort, and yet all he can see is Cas. He can’t take his eyes off the angel’s lean forearm and the shift of muscles beneath skin; he’d noticed it earlier, when Cas was elbow deep in Sam, too, but at least then his brain had had the decency to veer away from that’s hot and back onto the more serious matters at hand.

He wonders, in an abstract sort of way, what it must feel like when Cas does this; his thoughts aren’t even explicitly sexual with it, just the image in front of him and a vague phantom feeling of what it would be like to have a hand push right into you like that. He doesn’t understand why pleasure dips low and hot in his stomach at the thought.

Forcing his breathing into an even rhythm, Dean frowns and turns away.


The first time Dean really thinks about it- the actual act, what Cas could actually do with those smooth wrists and slender fingers- he’s in the shower, jacking off nice and slow. At first he’s simply remembering the last time he and Cas were together, some three or four days ago now; a brutal day followed by an even more brutal fuck, Cas laid out on the carpeted floor between the beds so he could pound into him hard as he liked without sending furniture through the wall.

It’s been a while since he’s gotten a good hard fucking himself, since he let Cas fill him with fingers, his tongue, his cock. Yeah, that definitely how it’s gonna go next time Cas is around, he thinks. He can picture it as he strokes himself, Cas’s pretty fingers slicked up and sliding into him. He imagines what it would be like to let him go that bit further, maybe add a fourth finger, pressing in until his knuckles are rubbing the sensitive rim on every movement. He visualises the dull ache and pleasurable stretch, those totally fucking perfect hands and wrists; suddenly memories of Cas pressing arm deep into someone else’s body mingle with everything else in his mind and Cas’s hand is inside him, actually fucking him, strong and exquisite in its intensity.

His orgasm hits him like a punch and he’s blindsided by it, grasping for purchase on the tiled wall as he squeezes every last drop of come from his throbbing cock.

The idea stays with him for a long time after.


As much as fantasies of Cas’s hands make for enjoyable jerk off material, it isn’t something Dean is in any rush to try out for real. Sometimes, though, Dean’s mouth seems to bypass his brain entirely.

He’s laid back on the bed, losing himself in the sensations as Cas thoroughly fucks him with his fingers. He’d intended for Cas to fuck him properly tonight, but ruined that plan at the last minute with an overenthusiastic blowjob against the wall that was meant to get Cas started but actually ended up finishing him off. Either way, Dean had been determined to get the fucking he’d been craving tonight, which is why he’d stripped off, tossed a still-dressed Cas the bottle of lube and told him to go to town.

It’s clear that Cas enjoys doing this immensely, loves learning the details of the human anatomy from an outsider’s viewpoint; Dean can see it in his pupil-blown eyes as he watches the minutiae of his reactions, can feel it in the way his fingers flex and twist inquisitively.

Cas is up to three fingers now, changing his technique with every few strokes; he’ll get three in alignment, inches wide to stretch Dean open, widening slightly to put a small space between them on the outstroke so he can watch the skin pull and drag against his own, and then tuck two fingers neatly beneath the middle one so that he can plunge in knuckle-deep.

Dean’s deliberately not touching himself, his cock a hot brand where it lies against his stomach; he wants to drag this out for as long as possible. One minute he’s uttering a stream of filth and praise in Cas’s direction, and the next he hears himself say “Fuck, Cas, could get your whole fucking hand in there, fuck me open with your fist,” his voice gravel-rough and breathless.

Cas is surprised, Dean can tell, though of course he shows little of it barring the shift of his shoulders and the slight widening of those too-blue eyes; in fairness, Dean’s surprised too, since he’s pretty sure he hadn’t meant to say that at all. The request apparently isn’t startling enough to halt the relentless push-pull of Cas’s fingers in and out of Dean’s body, though.

“It would be too much,” Cas says quietly, looking at the space where their bodies join as though hypnotised. “I don’t see how it could fit,” but he sounds curious, and hey, Dean thinks, how will they know if they don’t try? He was going to bring it up some time, and he ain’t gonna back out now.

“Just- Christ!” Dean gasps as Cas crooks his fingers just-so, arching off the bed. “Just use a fuckton of lube and go real slow, okay? Keep going that bit further ‘til you’re right in there, and I’ll tell you to stop if it’s too much, yeah?”

Cas pauses, held in his gaze, but then nods once and reaches for the bottle of lube in silent acquiesce. He doesn’t even take his fingers out of Dean’s ass to apply it, just drizzles it over his hand in cool, glossy ribbons and pushes his shirt sleeve up a little further out of the way like he means business.

He’s straight in with a fourth finger and it slides in no problem alongside the rest; Dean doesn’t know how long Cas keeps it up, just this gentle rocking dip back and forth, testing him with every thrust, but by the time he feels like they’re getting close to managing the whole thing, he’s so over-sensitised he’s almost incoherent. When he finally does open up fully, relaxing on an exhale, it takes them both by surprise; suddenly the widest point of Cas’s hand is going in and then just keeps going, and holy fuck that’s his wrist he can feel.

He isn’t sure who groans the loudest.

It’s too much, the pleasure and the aching stretch too concentrated too bear. His hips move restlessly, wanting less and more at the same time, and he wants to keep still in order to allow his body to adjust but he just can’t.

“Dean, calm down,” Cas tells him firmly as though Dean is getting worked up over nothing rather than completely wrapped around his freaking fist right now.

You calm down!” Dean hurls back at him, and that probably made no sense at all, but he’s a bit lacking in oxygen and needs to breathe. He feels ridiculously vulnerable, gossamer-thin and like the smallest movement could tear him in two, and yet he can’t stop writhing against the sheets.

“I won’t move until you tell me to,” Cas says, his other hand stroking up Dean’s thigh in a soothing motion and coming to rest on his hip. He’s holding him still with it and oh sweet Jesus he’s not even applying any pressure in order to do so, just resting it there feather-light and as immoveable as stone, the chaotic energy of a supernova beneath the delicate whorls of his fingertips.

“Do it,” Dean says over the drumming of his heart in his chest. His initial shock is rapidly being overtaken with want, a craving for friction and movement. “Just… careful, dammit.”

He knows he doesn’t need to say it, trusting Cas implicitly, but it makes him feel more in control all the same.

Cas starts up a gentle back and forth motion, treacle-slow and barely there, but every maddening drag on his insides has Dean gasping with pleasure, cock rapidly swelling back to full hardness.

He watches Cas through the haze of pleasure, and he’s absolutely striking like this. He’s intensely focused, controlling his movements with a careful cadence; in some ways watching him restrain his power, carefully keeping it thrumming just barely out of reach, is almost as hot as when Dean gets to see him unleash it in its entirety. He still looks tousled and a little wrecked from his earlier orgasm and Dean wishes he could have him like this always.

“Damn, Cas, that’s so fucking good,” he groans in encouragement. “Thought about this, you fucking me like this, so damn perfect.”

When Cas finds his prostate with his knuckles and rubs, Dean would probably have jack-knifed right off the bed if he wasn’t held in place. His cock leaks copiously onto his stomach as Cas continues his movements, so slight and yet absolutely devastating. Eventually Cas pushes in another inch or so, teasing him with that edge of roughness and force to his movements, and the surprise of it has heat whipping through his veins in response until Dean’s riding a razor-edge, about to shoot at any moment. He can feel the power in Cas, or maybe he’s imagining it, pulsing within his fist and written in the taut muscles of his forearm.

He wants to wrap a hand around his own cock so bad it hurts, but he really wants to see if he’s able to come without being touched. He’s so, so close and when Cas takes his hand from Dean’s hip to let him move freely, rubbing teasing circles against the crease of Dean’s thigh with his thumb, it’s as much as Dean can take. He comes with a strangled shout, hips jumping as his cock jerks against his stomach, spilling all over himself. He can’t ever remember coming for so long, his body still twitching with the aftershocks long after he’s drained dry.

He’s pretty sure he can’t move right now, so he simply relaxes onto the bed and waits for his heart rate and breathing to return to normal. He’s absolutely filthy, stomach streaked with come and sweat and his thighs slicked up with what has to be the most ridiculous amount of lube ever, but Dean feels pretty damn awesome.

He feels Cas withdraw his hand with a careful slowness he’s grateful for, and Dean suddenly feels bizarrely empty. Cas still has that focused, fascinated look, and he traces a finger slowly around the slightly open rim of Dean’s ass, causing a full-body shudder from the oversensitivity; he really hopes Cas isn’t eager for another round any time soon because Dean is spent.

Thankfully, Cas simply cleans them both up with a sweep of his fingers and settles himself on his side next to Dean. Much as Dean would have liked a cool, refreshing shower, his legs feel like liquid and walking is probably out of the question.

“Damn,” Dean grins, turning to face him. “Gonna be feeling that for a week.” God, he’s so blissed out he’s gonna be asleep within a minute. He stretches and yawns, reaching to pull the sheets over himself. “You staying or going?” he asks, leaning in to share a lazy, languid kiss with Cas. He’s too damn sleepy to care about how sappy that is, and fuck if he can’t kiss someone just for being awesome.

Cas pauses and thinks about it as though he’s trying to weigh up all the things he probably should be doing up in Angel Central against the possibility of lying in bed for several hours, enjoying sleep he doesn’t even need. Apparently Dean’s bed wins out, because he eventually murmurs “Staying,” and divests himself of his shirt and pants before sliding in under the sheets.

Dean’s asleep before he can even say goodnight.


The next day, Dean’s aching, tired and chilled out in a way he hasn’t been for some time. It’s early enough that the sun is only just starting to filter through the open windows with the breeze, casting shadows over the table where they sit drinking coffee in comfortable silence. He’s pretty sure Cas doesn’t even like the stuff, the stupid bastard; he only seems to drink it every now and then as some sort of weird human gesture before winging his way off to wherever he’s needed.

There isn’t much they can say, what with Bobby and Sam sat mere feet away poring over books and talking about something or other that Dean really can’t focus on this early in the morning, but he sends a little smirk in Cas’s direction and gets the tiniest quirk of lips in return. He can‘t stop looking at Cas’s hand and thinking that was inside me, what the fuck.

Cas turns his head slightly to check that Bobby and Sam aren’t watching, then takes one of Dean’s hands in his own. Dean’s about to be all dude, what-, but then Cas is carefully moulding Dean’s hand with his, tucking the index and ring fingers beneath the middle, adding the little finger and finally pressing Dean’s thumb into his palm. He gently curls his fingers around Dean’s to shape them into a neat fist. Dean looks at him, really looks at him, and Cas simply stares back serenely.

“You could try me, sometime, if you want,” Cas says, so whisper-low that Dean barely hears it, and then he’s gone in the blink of an eye and a rustle of feathers; seconds later he can still feel the lingering touch of Cas’s hand wrapped warm around his own.

Well, Dean thinks. That’s certainly something to consider.

He pictures Cas spread out underneath him, his beautiful arms trembling with pleasure as he carefully takes him apart, shaking some of that carefully contained power loose until it’s leaking right out of him and Cas’s fingers are gripping the sheets hard enough to tear through. He wants to see Cas arch off the bed prettily, blossoming marks bruising his narrow hips where Dean has tested his skin with his teeth. Wants to hear him groan ‘til he has to put a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.

Unfurling his fingers, Dean picks up his coffee mug and smiles.