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Silk Stockings

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The bathroom tile is cool against Dean’s feet, even through the silk of his stockings. He rubs the ball of his right foot against them and wiggles his toes; something doesn’t feel quite right.

Balancing on his other leg, Dean rests his foot on the ceramic rim of the tub. It’s as cool as the tiles. Dean welcomes the chill; he already feels over heated, cock and balls heavy behind black satin and lace.

He bends down, tugging on the end of the stocking to give his toes some room before straightening it back over them, running his fingers over the smooth, dark silk. Dean shivers as his fingers graze his ankle, goose bumps rising on his skin, nipples hardening. In the privacy of the bathroom, he runs his palms up his shin, thumbs against the back of his calf, and lets himself revel in the feel of silk beneath his hand, of warm skin and hair beneath that. He doesn’t know how Castiel knew he might want this; he wasn’t even aware he might want this. But Castiel is smart, he makes connections where Dean doesn’t, sees things about Dean that Dean can’t. That Dean isn’t ready to see.

Dean rubs the silk over his knee.

He’s ready for this now.

Running his thumb over the line where silk meets skin, Dean pauses at the button where strap meets stocking and fingers it, pressing it down against his thigh with his thumb. He continues on, checking that the strap down the front of his thigh is straight, fingers sliding on the satin. He’s already checked the back, checked to make sure there’s enough give so nothing rips—Dean had looked that up online, and then erased the browser history. Let Sam find his busty Asian beauties; this is Dean’s.

He stands up and drops his foot back on the floor, making sure everything feels right. Hooking a couple of fingers beneath the garter belt, Dean shifts it to the right a fraction of an inch before turning to the mirror above the sink. He doesn’t have a full-length mirror to see himself in, doesn’t know what he looks like dressed like this, but from the waist up, he looks good. A little feverish maybe, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, but good.

Dean takes a deep breath in through his nose, then lets it out slowly through his mouth, trying to will himself to relax.

Turning toward the door, he pauses. Castiel is on the other side waiting for him; Castiel, who started all of this with an innocent plastic bag and a not so innocent gift. He’s given this, too, the stockings and garter belt. The thought of Castiel’s fingers on the straps, Castiel’s hands touching him through the silk, Castiel’s face when he sees Dean; the thought of his face alone is enough to make Dean steel his nerves and open the door.

Already in bed, Castiel has the bedspread folded over the foot of the bed, white sheet pulled up to his waist, tented slightly over his lap. His chest is bare, his nipples pink. Dean wants to crawl right over him and push him back against the pillows, lick and kiss and suck. Pull those breathy little moans out of Castiel that mean he’s having a good time.

He doesn’t, though; he can’t move. He’s stuck in the threshold between the bathroom and the bedroom, held in place by the look on Castiel’s face.

It makes Dean’s blood boil and his heart race, makes his skin feel too tight and his face feel too hot. His desires too obvious. It’s terrifying and exhilarating, and Dean doesn’t know what he did before this, how he was ever able to feel anything.

Castiel doesn’t say anything, though, doesn’t even move. He sits there, eyes on Dean, and Dean’s sure Castiel likes what he’s seeing—he’s seen that look on Castiel’s face before—but he wishes Castiel would say something. His palms are starting to sweat and he’s really starting to wish he’d made sure there was a full-length mirror somewhere when—


He looks up at Castiel, finds Castiel’s head tilted, his eyes intent.

Dean swallows hard and licks his lips. “Like what you see?” he asks, smirking, and resists the urge to gesture at himself.

“I always like what I see.”

For a guy that says the most inappropriate crap at the most inappropriate times, Castiel sure as hell knows what to say sometimes.

Dean’s smirk melts into a smile. “Yeah,” he says, “you do.” He does gesture to himself this time, can’t quite help it. “But seriously, how could you not?”

“Dean,” Castiel says, tipping his head in Dean’s direction. “Come here.”

There’s no way Dean can refuse, nothing he would refuse Castiel, not here and now. Closing the distance between them, feeling the give and pull of the satin strap, Dean stops at the foot of the bed. He pauses for a moment, the two of them watching each other over the white sheets, and then Dean lifts his knee and he’s on the bed, crawling carefully up Castiel’s legs.

Castiel’s eyes are on him the whole way.

Dean stops when they’re face to face, eye to eye, and leans into Castiel, mouth sliding over his mouth. The kiss is slow and strangely sweet, and Dean’s heart clenches in his chest.

Castiel’s hands find Dean’s waist, gently pushing Dean away, and Dean pulls back.

“Cas, what—?”

“Sit,” Castiel says.

Dean does, Castiel’s knees beneath his ass, his own on either side of Castiel’s thighs. “You going to tell me what else to do?”

Lips quirking upward, Castiel’s eyes trailing down Dean’s chest in a look Dean can practically feel, before rising back to meet Dean’s. “Yes,” he says. “As long as you’re listening.”

“I list—”

Castiel gives him a look and Dean swallows his protest, knowing that outside of this thing they’ve built between them, outside in the world where they both put their lives in danger more often than not, he has trouble following anyone else’s orders.

“Good,” Castiel says. “Now. Don’t move.”

Dean wants to ask why, wants to know what Castiel has in mind, but then Castiel’s thumbs are slipping over his hips, rubbing circles against Dean’s skin, and Dean doesn’t care what Castiel has in mind as long as Cas is touching him.

Castiel moves from Dean’s hips along the line of the garter belt, the tips of his fingers teasing against Dean’s skin. Dean shivers, and Castiel’s eyes flicker up from where he’s tracing the line of black satin low across Dean’s belly. They’re dark and deep and Dean could get lost in there, he really could. It’s a huge thought, a huge, frightening thought, one that scares Dean a little less every day.

Without looking away, Castiel’s fingers skim downward, brushing against Dean’s cock. They’re warm even through the satin and lace.

“Cas,” Dean breathes.

Castiel ignores him, hands moving to the straps down Dean’s thighs. His touch is feather-light. Dean wants to wrap his hand around Castiel’s wrists, wants to feel those fingers pressed hard against his skin, those palms hard against his thighs. Dean’s fingers twitch, and Castiel must see them because he snaps the band on Dean’s left thigh.

Dean’s breath hisses out through his teeth.

Following the straps down Dean’s thighs, Castiel pauses at the hook and button, fingering it between his thumb and forefinger before pressing it against Dean’s thigh, palms running across the silk.

And then Castiel’s hands are gone from Dean’s skin, dropping to the bed beside them.

Blinking, Dean looks up. “Hey,” he says, “what are you doing?”

Castiel licks his lips, his cheeks pink. “Touch yourself, Dean.”

Dean’s heart skips. “What?”

Fingers brush against the silk covering Dean’s calf. “I want to watch.”

He wants to watch.

“You want—”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel says, nodding. “This is what I want.”

The thought of Castiel’s eyes on him, all of that otherworldly focus directed at him, makes Dean feel lit up from the inside out. Licking his lips, Dean swallows hard, his cock hard and leaking beneath the panties.

He starts at his nipples, rubbing lightly over them with his thumbs. Not looking away from his face, Dean watches Castiel as his eyes follow the movement. Castiel’s done this before, pressed fingers and lips and teeth—just a hint—to Dean’s nipples. Moved down Dean’s chest to plant open-mouthed kisses to the rise of Dean’s hips.

Dean follows that remembered path now, fingers skimming over his skin, Castiel’s eyes on him like a caress. He teases along the line of the garter belt before he slides his hand down, palming his cock. Eyes fluttering shut, Dean groans as he presses down with the heel of his hand. Castiel’s breath catches, and Dean opens his eyes.

Castiel’s lips are parted, his eyes wide. Dean can see his pulse thrumming at his throat.

“You sure you just want to watch?” Dean asks, hips swiveling as he shifts his weight.

“No,” Castiel answers, and Dean smirks. A frown appears between Castiel’s eyebrows and he shakes his head, eyes flickering up to Dean’s. “I mean yes. For now this is...acceptable.”

Dean snorts. “Acceptable? Clearly I’m doing something wrong. I’ll have to fix that.” He slips his fingers under the band of elastic at his thigh, shifting the panties enough to pull his cock through the opening. It isn’t entirely comfortable, the panties digging into his skin, but it doesn’t matter. Not with Castiel looking at him like that. Not with the way Castiel is obviously getting off on this, his breath coming slightly faster, his hands curling into fists against the sheets.

Every fiber of Castiel’s being is focused on him.

Resettling against Castiel’s thighs, Dean rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing precome across the tip. Castiel licks his lips, and Dean shudders, fingers flexing against the shaft. He keeps his touch light at first—fingertips careful, palm held just slightly too far away—and breathes through his nose, watches Castiel watch his hand move slow and steady.

“This what you wanted, Cas?” Dean asks, voice rough. “This what you wanted to see? Me all dressed up, touching myself for you?”

Castiel’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows; it’s an effort not to lean forward and nip at it. “You want it, too.”

Dean can’t deny it; he does. He had no idea how much. Suspects he would never have known if Castiel hadn’t come along. Castiel sees into him, has seen him at his best and at his worst and still pulled him out of Hell and put him back together. He cares for Dean in ways Dean never thought anyone really would. It’s humbling and scary and glorious, and Dean doesn’t always know how they got here, but he thanks his lucky fucking stars that they did.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, hand speeding up on his cock. “Yeah, I do.”

Reaching for Castiel with his free hand, Dean twines their fingers together as he tugs Castiel’s hand toward him. Castiel resists for a moment, but Dean shakes his head. “I want this, too,” he says, and then he hooks Castiel’s fingers around the garter, holds Castiel’s hand in place against his thigh as his fingers tighten around his cock.

Castiel’s thumb sweeps across Dean’s skin, brushing the hair on his thigh against the grain. “Whatever you want, Dean.”

Dean knows it’s true, knows Castiel would do this for him, would do anything for him. Has done anything for him. He squeezes Castiel’s hand in his own, grips tight as he changes his angle, thrusting up into his own hand.

Castiel’s eyes are hot, a sheen of sweat already building on his skin. His voice rumbles across the distance between them when he says Dean’s name, soft and low and full of feeling, seeping into Dean’s bones. Dean clutches at him, hand working on his cock in counterpoint to his hips, and comes with a shout, shooting across Castiel’s stomach and chest.

“Oooh,” Castiel breathes, sounding as wrecked as Dean feels. He pulls his hand from Dean’s grasp and fumbles at the sheet still pulled over his cock. Dean grins, recognizes that desperation.

“Here.” He reaches for Castiel’s hands, stilling them. “Let me.”

Leaning forward, Dean keeps his eyes locked on Castiel’s, makes sure Castiel is watching him, until he’s a breath from Castiel’s chest and then he leans in and slowly laps up the stripe of come he finds there.

Beneath his lips, Castiel shudders.

Dean grins.

He mouths at Castiel’s skin, following the trail of come downward, sucking kisses as he goes, marking Cas as his. By the time Dean reaches the sheet, Castiel is panting above him.

“Dean,” Castiel says. “Dean. I want—I want—”

Pulling the sheet out of the way, Dean smiles up at Castiel. “I know, Cas. I’ve got you.” And then his mouth is on Castiel’s cock, lips wrapped around the head, tongue pressed against him. Castiel’s fingers slide in Dean’s hair, the muscles in his thighs twitching against Dean’s forearms, and Dean knows Castiel is close. He sucks Castiel down, swallowing around him, and Castiel keens in the back of his throat, fingers in Dean’s hair holding him steady as he comes.

When Dean pulls off, Castiel slumps back against the pillows, fingers still tucked behind Dean’s ears. Dean turns into the touch, pressing a kiss against the thin, pale skin at Castiel’s wrist.

“I don’t know how you get these ideas in your head,” Dean says, sliding up to press a kiss against the still thrumming pulse at Castiel’s throat.

Castiel chuckles beneath him, the sound vibrating through Dean. “You.”

“I’m a bad influence.”

Castiel sighs. “Or the best.”

Dean grins against his neck. “Or that.”