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In a Twist

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Dean doesn’t know how Castiel found out. Though, really, angel of the Lord? He probably shouldn’t be surprised that he did.

The bag Castiel handed him when he appeared crinkles beneath Dean’s fingers where he’s gripping it, opening squeezed shut in his hands, Dean’s heart racing a little faster with every sound the bag makes.

Castiel misunderstands his stillness, takes a step forward and says, “Dean, you don’t—”

“No,” Dean interrupts him. “I want this.” It’s true, he does want it. He wants it bad. Wants to feel lace and satin rubbing against his skin, pulling across—

He doesn’t move.

Castiel looks at him expectantly.

Right. Dean swallows past the lump in his throat, breathes through the sudden almost overpowering anticipation building in his chest.

Dropping the bag on the end of the bed, Dean shrugs out of his shirt and lets it fall to the floor, his T-shirt finding the same trajectory. He can’t quite toe his boots off, and he kneels down to unlace them. He can feel Castiel’s eyes on his shoulders, the top of his head. When he looks up, Castiel is just standing there, watching. “Well?” Dean says. “This isn’t a one man show.”

Except it kind of is. It’s Dean that’s going to be on display here, Dean’s mind that Castiel has somehow gotten into and rummaged through, discovering things that only one other person—two, if you count future him—knows.

He watches Castiel back until Castiel’s lips quirk upward and his hand goes to the knot in his tie, pulling it loose from around his neck with a soft slither of sound.

Dean nods his head. “That’s more like it,” he says, standing and kicking his shoes off. His hands go to the button on his jeans and he unfastens it, lowers the zipper over his dick. It’s hard already, straining against the front of his underwear. They’re plain and cotton and boring, and Dean shucks them with his jeans, his socks landing on the top of the pile.

Castiel is barefoot and shirtless and he’s got a handful of black lace and, damn, Dean didn’t even hear him go for the bag.

Dean reaches for them, but Castiel brushes his hand out of the way. “No,” he says, stepping into Dean’s personal space. “Let me.”

Before Dean can respond, Castiel drops to his knees in front of him, Dean’s cock jumping at the sudden hot breath gusting across it, Castiel’s mouth so close. Dean shudders and feels weak at the knees, has to reach out and grip Castiel’s shoulder to keep upright. “What are you—?”

“Lift up,” Castiel says, tapping his right foot.

Dean does so without question, lifting his foot off the ground, using Castiel for balance. Castiel slides the panties over Dean’s foot, a ring of lace around his calf.

Dean’s heart thuds. “You sure you got the right hole?” he asks, trying for humor, only getting about halfway there.

Castiel blinks up at him. “Yes, Dean, I’m sure.” He presses Dean’s foot to the carpet. “Now the other.”

Lifting his other foot, Dean feels Castiel’s shoulder move with a chuckle more than he hears the laugh itself. “What?” he asks, feeling his face heat. It shouldn’t be possible, what with the majority of his blood currently occupying his dick, but it happens.

“Nothing,” Castiel says, moving Dean’s foot back to the floor. He slides the panties up Dean’s legs to his knees, pausing there to look up at Dean. “I am…simply glad you don’t always disobey me.”

Dean licks his lips and straightens. “Yeah, well,” he says. “Gotta give me the right motivation.”

Lace slides up Dean’s thighs, Castiel’s fingers hooked in the waistband. His breath is hot on Dean’s cock, hot and moist and he’s such a goddamn fucking tease with his voice and his eyes and his mouth when he says, “Would fucking you be the right motivation?”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and grips Castiel’s shoulder again. “Shit, Cas. Don’t say things like that if you want to actually get those on me before I come.”

Castiel would look contrite if he didn’t look so pleased with himself.

“But yeah,” Dean says, voice thick. “That’s not bad motivation.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He presses a hand to Dean’s hip and stands, face suddenly right in Dean’s, so close Dean can feel the heat of him, can smell the scent that clings to Castiel’s skin and hair no matter what they do and how dirty he gets, Dean’s own arousal sharp underneath.

Castiel leans in, eyes on Dean’s mouth, and Dean tips his head forward, expectant. Their lips almost brush when Castiel pulls away and pats Dean’s hip. “Pull them up,” he says, stepping back.

A growl of frustration gets caught in Dean’s throat when he looks down and sees the lace stretched around his thighs, a black band standing out against pale skin that never sees sunlight. He swallows hard, slides his fingers underneath the fabric, and pulls them up.

The lace slips across his skin, his cock, feeling cool and soft and different than worn cotton. Shivering at the sensation, Dean reaches down and adjusts himself, pulling at the waistband until it’s over the head of his cock, pressing it tight against his skin.

They’re a snug fit—of course they are, he’s got a dick after all—but not uncomfortable, digging into the flesh of his ass just enough that he’s aware they’re not what he usually wears. Hugging his hips and skimming the tops of thighs, cradling his balls and barely containing his cock, they make Dean feel like his skin is too tight, like he’s ready to burst free or burn up. Like every touch, every movement, is both too much and not enough.

He smoothes a hand over his belly and looks up at Castiel.

Castiel, whose eyes have gone impossibly dark, whose fingers twitch at his sides betraying impatience when the rest of him is perfectly still. He’s hard beneath his slacks, tenting the front of them obscenely, and Dean wants to get on his knees and shove his face against that hardness, get Castiel out into the open and swallow him down, urge him with hands and tongue to fuck his mouth already.

Dean squeezes himself hard and wills himself not to come. “Well?” he says.

He feels smug when Castiel has to noticeably swallow before answering. “On the bed.”

Dean moves to the side of the bed and lowers himself onto the sheets, half-sits against the pillows.

Castiel watches him from the foot of the bed, and Dean smirks, pinches a nipple between two fingers before sliding his hand down his chest and belly. There’s a wet spot where the head of his cock is pressed and Dean’s fingers linger there before he opens his legs and cups his cock through the black lace.

“You coming?”

Licking his lips, Castiel says, “You will be.”

Dean groans and shudders, bites at his lip as Castel raises a knee and presses it to the mattress, leans forward and crawls toward Dean. He slips between Dean’s legs, pressing them open with hands that skim up Dean’s thighs, with fingers that tease at the edge of lace that’s marking Dean’s skin with curves and lines.

Castiel settles there flat on the bed, face tucked between Dean’s legs, and looks.

Dean feels like his skin is on fire, feels every inch and dip and curve burn with the intensity of that gaze. He doesn’t know if he wants to cover himself up or open himself further, if he wants to let Cas look his fill or reach down and pull him up until they’re pressed together front-to-front and Cas can no longer see.

The only problem is that Castiel always sees; he looks at Dean—looks in Dean—and sees him and Dean would hate it except that it got them here.

That’s big, and that’s terrifying, and Dean closes his eyes against it, taking one deep breath after another, trying to find some composure amidst the chaotic thundering in his veins, to refrain from squirming away or squirming closer or just plain shoving his hips toward Castiel.

“Dean,” Castiel says, his voice at once rough and gentle. He skims a hand across Dean’s skin, rubbing the hair on Dean’s thigh against the grain. “Dean. Look.”

Taking a deep breath through his nose, feeling his chest expand around it, Dean releases it through his mouth. He feels better, centered, and opens his eyes.

Castiel’s eyes are blue and dark and deep and waiting.

“Good,” Castiel says, smiling at Dean. It’s full of promise and reassurance, and Dean knows that he’s safe in these hands.

And what hands they are.

Driving Dean crazy with teasing, drifting fingers barely touching, Castiel traces the ridge of Dean’s cock through the panties. Draws shapes that make sense only to him across Dean’s balls, dipping lower where the lace is sweat-soaked and tight against his skin.

Fingers following the path of his eyes, mouth following the path of his fingers, Castiel pulls Dean apart so easily.

Castiel mouths at Dean’s balls and Dean groans, pressing the heels of his feet hard against the mattress as Castiel nuzzles along his cock. Pausing at the head, Castiel sucks at the dark spot growing there, the tip of his tongue—hot and wet—pressed beneath the crown, and Dean’s hips jerk. Dean grips the sheets beneath him, gasping for air.

Cas,” he pants, hips shifting restlessly, desperately. “Fuck.”

Soaked with Castiel’s spit, his own sweat and precome, the panties mold against him like a second skin.

“Please,” Dean manages between breaths. He reaches for Castiel with one hand, needing to touch, to be in control of something, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him away, pushing him closer. “Please, Cas. I—”

Castiel shushes him, breath hot on Dean’s damp skin, Castiel’s nose brushing against him. The stubble on his jaw catches at the lace pulled tight over Dean, prickling through the fabric as Castiel breathes Dean in before backing away enough to slip the waistband over Dean’s cock. Fingers sliding underneath the fabric, he pulls Dean free, nothing between them when Castiel’s mouth returns. There’s just Cas and the slick-sweet slide of skin on skin.

Deliberate fingers press behind Dean’s lace-covered balls, pulling the fabric tighter so it rides up Dean’s ass, brushes against his hole. And Dean wants, he wants so fucking much he can practically taste it in the back of his throat. He wants Cas’ fingers and Cas’ tongue, Cas’ cock. Cas pushing against him and into him like there’s no place else he would rather be.

When Castiel sucks Dean down with a moan that vibrates through Dean’s limbs, it’s the best thing Dean’s ever felt and he groans like the world is ending, coming with sparks like blown-out lights behind his eyes as Castiel’s lips and tongue and throat work around him.

Dean might black out a little after that—he’s pretty sure he does—because the next thing he knows, Castiel is easing the panties off his ass and down his thighs, over his knees and calves and ankles, tossing them to the floor.

“Hey,” Dean says, reaching for Castiel’s belt. “Did you—?”

Castiel catches Dean’s hand in his own, threads their fingers together. “I…came…not long after you did,” he says, like he’s tasting the word in his mouth, mixing it with Dean on his tongue.

Despite the way his limbs feel like noodles, the way sleep is tugging at his eyelids, Dean feels disappointed. “Oh.”

Castiel squeezes his hand before letting go. “There will be time for that later,” he says, reaching to undo his pants. “But you can help me undress now anyway if you like.”

Dean likes. Brushing Castiel’s fingers away, Dean undoes the buckle on his belt, slides it open and slips the button on Castiel’s slacks through its hole, his fingers lingering on skin as Castiel gets the zipper. Castiel stands, letting his pants drop to the floor next to the panties.

Dean looks at them there, a small puddle of fabric dark against the carpet, as Castiel crawls back onto the bed, pressing himself against Dean’s side.

“This is between you and me,” Dean says, turning to look at Castiel. He doesn’t have far to turn, Castiel close enough to share a pillow. “No one else.”

Castiel props himself up on an elbow. “I had no plans of sharing,” he says, and Dean doesn’t imagine the path Castiel’s eyes take down his body or the way they linger on his skin before meeting Dean’s straight on. “With anyone.”

Dean smiles at him, reaches for him. “Yeah,” he says, pulling Castiel down to his mouth. “Me neither.”