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Pink and Blue

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It starts with Rhonda Hurley’s panties.

“Why don’t you put them on?”

“What, seriously? You -- you want to see me in --”

“Oh yeah.”

It’s not just that they’re all satiny, smooth, and soft against his dick as they make out on her bed, although that is certainly.... certainly something. It’s the way they ride low on his hips and barely cover half of each asscheek. It’s that they’re pink. Pink with little white lace trim and a tiny white bow on the front, nestled right above the swell of his cock which they were clearly not designed to accommodate. It’s the way Rhonda looks at him when he slides them up his legs, his face fire-engine red but his dick definitely fucking interested -- and she’s looking at him with bared teeth. Like he’s prey. It’s the way she shoves him face-down to the bed and holds him there, straddles his hips, and grinds her pussy against his ass, damp and hot through the satin, forcing his dick against the bedspread as he rocks to and fro beneath her.

That’s where it starts.

And for a long time, that’s where it stays: a remarkably persistent memory that shows up in his fantasies to be embellished and elaborated on over the years. Then one day -- Sammy’s at Stanford and Dad is on the other side of the rust belt doing his own hunt, and Dean finds himself passing by a Victoria’s Secret.

He’s not sure why he goes in. A whim. A passing fancy. He’s just looking. No harm in looking.

The variety is bewildering: boy shorts, briefs, bikini briefs, G-string, french cut, and so on, in cotton, satin, silk, lace... Dean knows his face is as pink as the decor around him and he is two seconds from just high-tailing his leather jacket ass out of there -- he sticks out like a sore thumb anyway and he’s getting some seriously suspicious looks from the sales ladies -- but then. Then he spies a shelf full of hot pink satin. With a matching-pink lace panel on both hips and a little gathering of fabric down the back that has him imagining what it might feel like riding up and down over his ass crack. He reaches out, rubs his thumb over that soft, silky pucker, and suddenly he’s tingling all over.

He’s at the counter before he can think twice. The words “For my girlfriend” are ready on his lips, but the lady doesn’t ask, so he doesn’t elaborate.

That night in his dingy motel room, he sits on the bed in his birthday suit and stares down the bright pink bag, having a minor personal crisis.

Rhonda Hurley telling him to wear her panties had been a hot, sexy game. He’d gotten off on it, obviously, but he could at least kid himself into believing that it wasn’t about the panties.

This? This is just him, by himself, with a pair of women’s underwear. This is dangerous.

Which is maybe part of why he’s already more than half hard and his blood is thrumming under his skin before he’d even opened the bag.

Fuck it, he thinks. He’d worry about it later. This is just -- something he wants to try right now. That’s all. No one ever needs to know about it.

The pink satin is like cool water on his palms. He spends some time just... touching them. Feeling them. Rubbing the satin and lace between his fingers, appreciating the different textures. There’s a subtle rose motif in the lace he hadn’t noticed before. It was nice. Cute. Pretty. He feels his face flush hot. And that little gathering at the back..... With a full-body shiver he runs his thumb over that soft-textured ridge again. Finally he lays down on the bed and slides the little satiny scrap up the length of his legs.

By some sort of miracle he’d managed to grab the right size, and once they settle on his hips.... Ohhh god, it’s heaven. His dick encased in softness, the pretty pink against his freckle-tan skin, the silky smooth slide against his ass, fuck, he’d been right about how the gathered satin tickles between his cheeks just right. His cock surges to full hardness, and he wraps his fingers around himself, over the luxurious silky slide, and his hips rolling into the heat of his touch. “Ohhh Fuck,” he can’t stop a moan, feels himself already leaking, sticking the fabric to the head of his cock. He looks down -- looks at the obscene tent his dick makes in the delicate satin, straining to its limit and dampening dark over the head with his precome. He watches the fabric pull and stretch, bunch and ride as he tugs on his dick, pulls and writhes and leaks and --

That’s it. Fuck. Like a lightning flash, his orgasm shocks through him and he jackknifes almost off the bed. The slick of his come spilling into the well of satin is filthy-hot; he presses his palm over his twitching dick and jerks a few times into the spreading mess as his tension ebbs. It’s over almost as quick as it came on, a flash-flood of intense pleasure that leaves him seared out and trembling. His dick takes a long time to calm down though, softening slowly in the mess of come. “Jesus,” he sighs. He hadn’t come that fast and that hard -- ever, maybe. He’d be embarrassed about it if it hadn’t felt so fucking good.

Now he has to figure out the best way to clean come out of satin. Fuck.

A few days later, he’s at a local library, hitting roadblocks at every turn on his current case and preoccupied with the scrap of satin stuffed in the bottom of his duffle. He knows he’s obsessing, but he can’t help it. He’s jerked off into those panties every night for a week and frankly it’s some of the best sex he’s ever had, with or without a partner. It’s..... starting to worry him.

Abandoning local disappearances for the moment, he glances over his shoulder -- like any of these small-town nobodies actually give a fuck about him -- and opens a new search window. His fingers hover for a moment, deliberating, and then he just types the words out as quick as he can with his eyes closed, like ripping off a band-aid.

I’m a man and I like wearing women’s underwear.

It feels like a confession. Even if he’s only confessing to a search bar.

Dean would be the first to admit that he’s not the most educated on issues of gender and sexuality. So when he dives into the wide weird world of gender variance, it’s an eye-opener. He’s this close to storming out of the library in uncomfortable confusion but he steels himself and forges ahead. He can face down shifters and ghosts and witches and Wendigos; he can face a little bit of natural human variation.

After a very long afternoon of reading, he comes to some conclusions: His fixation is not about gender. It’s not even about the budding attraction to men that he was stubbornly NOT admitting to, even though he’d been drunk enough to act on it a few times. Ultimately he’s not really sure what it IS about, but at a certain point he figures it doesn’t have to be about anything. Once he’s reassured himself that it’s totally possible to be 100% male (which he is) and straight (even if he isn’t) and still get off wearing panties, he decides to just run with it because it feels good and since when has he needed any more analysis than that?

Still. The panties get stuffed to the bottom of his duffle inside a pair of balled up socks, brought out whenever he has a free evening and a hotel room to himself. It’s a sad, sad day when he finally has to toss them in the trash. By then the lace is almost completely separated from the satin and they are permanently stretched in strange ways to accommodate the abuse he’s put them through, not to mention the fading and the stains... even though they are clearly beyond saving, he still feels palpable grief.

That could have been the end of it. But of course it’s not. Sam is back by then, so he has to be more careful -- but he enjoys it, and he’s not ashamed to admit it (anymore) (to an audience of himself). What business is it of his brother’s how he chooses to get his rocks off?

So he buys another pair of pink panties, this time all satin with a subtle polka dot pattern and bows on both hips. Then it’s baby blue boy shorts with lacy ruffles on the ass. Then a lavender and white striped pair that turn gloriously transparent when he leaks precome into them. These are comfortable enough that he experiments with wearing them under his jeans a few times (he stops this though because he can’t stop blushing and fidgeting and Sam gives him weird looks over their pancakes). Then he branches out: thigh-high nylon stockings that feel so beautifully silky when he rubs his legs together. A clingy pale pink camisole that shows off his perky nipples and lets him touch and feel that silky softness everywhere. A tube of violently red lipstick that he can barely look at after he comes so fucking hard while looking at his own face in the mirror, all tarted up like a strawberry whore in his finery.

Then -- well, then he goes to Hell.

(He’s not sure what becomes of his collection when he goes downstairs, and he’s not sure he wants to know. Sam and Bobby don’t bring it up if they found anything and he’s certainly never ever ever going to mention it either, so if they found it, well. Best for them all to just pretend it never happened.)

And when he gets back the Apocalypse is upon them. Then he loses Sam, and he’s with Lisa -- with whom he never seems to get around to sharing this particular part of himself -- and then Sam is back but they lose Cas and then Bobby and then he spends a year in fucking Purgatory and it’s just all a mess, and there isn’t much time for extended self-care.

But then. Oh, then, they find the bunker. And for the first time in his adult life, Dean Winchester has a closet of his own. With the security of a home base and his own room and his own bed and his own goddamn closet, Dean slowly -- very slowly -- allows himself to loosen the reins on a lot of things he’s been holding tightly for a very long time.

It’s... possible he goes a little overboard.

The middle of Kansas is perhaps not the best place for a man to go lingerie shopping for himself, but he sets up a special PO box and a few discrete online accounts. He starts with panties, obviously -- more panties than he can shake his dick at, in all fabrics and styles and colors of the rainbow. He buys stockings: nylon, mesh, lace, thigh high, knee high, full-leg. Teddies and camisoles. Tiny frilly skirts that barely deserve the name but flow around his hips in sensuous, ruffling waves. A couple of flat, silky bralets that strain around his ribs and just barely hug his pecs, tickling his nipples. Garters and garter belts for the stockings, a small collection of makeup, and one pair of glittery high heels that Dean can barely stand up in, let alone walk, but that doesn’t matter much since he usually only wears them on the bed anyway.

Alongside all of this, developing separately but in parallel.... there’s Cas.

Cas, with whom Dean plays the will we-won’t we-could we-should we game for years before some straw breaks the camel’s back and they finally, finally fall into each other like raindrops on a windshield.

Cas, who takes to sex and sexuality like a duck to -- well, like a duck to mountain climbing, if Dean’s being honest. But they go slow. After all those years of dancing around each other, they can afford to take their time and do things right. Through trial and error they figure out how to communicate, how their bodies fit and function together, and after a few cycles of fighting and forgiveness, they find their blissful rhythm.

Cas, who just smiles, curious and fond as Dean blushes and stammers his way through an explanation of his kink.

“It sounds lovely,” he says, brushing Dean’s hair back from his forehead. “And very erotic.”

Dean blinks at him, pulling his face halfway out of where he’d smushed it into the pillow. “Ya’think?” he asks.

“Of course, Dean. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Dean shrugs one shoulder as if it were nothing, as if he isn’t buoyant with relief, giddy with feeling like if he can share this with Cas, he can share anything.

Then Cas’s hand, warm and broad, strokes down his shoulder, side, waist, hip, coming to rest on the round of Dean’s currently-bare ass. “Would you --” Cas swallows, his voice low and yeah, that’s definitely his ‘I’m horny’ voice, the one that gives Dean the shivers. “Would you like to show me your favorites?”

With a grin, Dean vaults from the bed and strides -- with very determined, manly strides, not scampering at all thank you very much -- over to his closet. There’s a box at the back, under a stack of skin mags, almost overflowing with multicolored scraps of silk and lace. His heart beats wildly as he skates his palms over the colorful waves. God. His favorites? He’s not sure he can....

That’s a lie. He knows exactly which pair he wants to show off. He digs a moment and finds the pair he’s looking for. They’re not pink. Pink was his favorite for a long time but lately he’d had a penchant for blue and these -- these are exactly the right shade of rich, striking cobalt blue. The back is all lace, curving high over his ass cheeks and riding up between them, not quite a thong but not providing much coverage either. But the front is all satin, soft and shining and liquid-smooth, hugging his cock like a dream. He clutches them in one fist and turns back to find Cas sitting up in bed, watching him with a little tilt to his head.

One of Cas’s hands has already disappeared under the sheets to cup his cock. Dean feels his own dick twitch in anticipation, and he swallows. “You, uh. Want me to put them on?”

Cas’s eyebrows rise and his gaze is stuck on the panties in Dean’s hand. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

Breathless and nodding, Dean unfolds the panties, turns around -- may as well show off his best assets -- and slides the things slowly up his legs, taking the time to relish the sensations. Smooth satin and tingling friction of lace, Cas’s gaze warming his skin. It’s enough to make him shiver around the racing of his heart.

When he’s got the underwear situated, he turns. Cas is staring, mouth dropped open and eyes wide, staring straight at Dean’s... packaging. There’s a frisson of tension thrumming along Cas’s shoulders and arms and in the clenching of his jaw, and it ripples right through Dean too, tingling behind his ears and making his knees watery.

“You --” Dean’s voice comes out as a squeak and he clears his throat a little. “You like what you see?”

Cas’s eyes flick up just for a second to meet his gaze, then drop right back down to the spectacle of Dean’s cock encased in satin. “Come here.” His voice is a gruff growl that has Dean obeying without a second thought.

God, he’s never been so aware of what this must look like. He saunters back to the bed, and he can feel his cock and balls shifting, bouncing in their satin package; his is cock chubbing up nicely thanks to the attention and the hugging silk. Cas watches without so much as blinking, moving to sit on the edge of the bed so that he can reach out as soon as Dean is within arm’s reach. His palms are hot on Dean’s hips. Dean stops when his toes hit the bed frame between Cas’s feet.

Cas just... stares, for long enough that Dean starts to get antsy. But then his gaze flicks up to Dean’s face before he leans in to nuzzle at the bulge and rise of Dean’s cock through the soft blue satin.

“Ohhhhh yeahhh,” Dean lets out on a breath. He can feel the prick of Cas’s stubble as it catches on the satin; feels the heat of his mouth closing possessive at the base of his quickly-rocking up cock. At the same time Cas’s hands slide up to finger the lace over his ass cheeks, pressing the pattern into Dean’s skin. Dean whines and whimpers, pulsing his hips back and forth between the heat of his mouth and the lace sliding and tickling between his cheeks. It’s torture -- barely two minutes, Cas has hardly done anything, and he’s already a shivering mess. “Cas, please --”

“Please what?” Cas murmurs, and fuck, that low voice resonates through his balls and makes Dean fucking squirm--

“I don’t know -- just -- guhh.”

There’s very little warning, just a smirk and a gleam in his eyes. Then Cas’s hands grip him tighter around the hips and before he can breathe again Dean is on his back on the bed, thrown there by angelic strength. His blood sings in his belly and he feels his knees fall open, ready and willing to offer Castiel whatever he wants because fuck it’s not like he could say no if he wanted to.

Cas takes the offering, insinuating himself between Dean’s legs, all firm muscular heat and strength. “You are so beautiful,” he breathes hot into Dean’s neck, and Dean trembles, has to close his eyes against it. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much.

“Cas....” Dean presses up with his hips, up into Castiel’s weight and there -- “Ah!” -- there is Castiel’s arousal hot against him through the damp, heated barrier of satin.

“Ohhhh Dean --” Cas raises himself on his arms and they both look down between their bellies at the spectacle of Cas’s hard, leaking prick pressing against Dean’s answering erection barely encased in cobalt blue. Castiel rolls his hips and Dean grips him tight with his thighs, wishing he had his stockings on -- the friction of mesh or the slide of nylon would be amazing right now, tingling from thigh to toe, and he knows Cas would love it, would love feeling it on his hips and flanks -- wouldn’t he? God, Dean hopes he would.

“I would,” Cas murmurs. “That sounds -- incredible, Dean.”

Dean laughs, all breathless. “Fucking angel mind reading.” It only happens sometimes and only when they’re -- like this -- but whenever it does it’s hot as hell. “You want me to --?”

“No.” Castiel is moving, gripping Dean’s legs under the knees and pushing back, pushing him open, and Dean’s breaths quicken. He’s still just moving his cock against Dean’s, both of them iron-hard and oozing precome, darkening the blue to navy in patchy spots. It’s filthy and obscene and perfect. “No, I want you right here. Right here where I can worship you.”

And there it is -- Dean’s hips snap up and he feels like he might come already, just from this, from having the singular focus of this being of light and strength all on him -- but what the fuck has he ever done to deserve this? He doesn’t -- he shouldn’t have --

“Dean.” In Castiel’s mouth his name is a benediction. Dean scrunches his eyes closed and jerks his chin. “Yes. Dean. You deserve this.”

“No --” Dean chokes out.


He’s moving again -- his hips lift away and the skin of Dean’s thighs and ass prickles in the cold. But he’s not gone long. When Dean opens his eyes and looks he sees Castiel on his knees by the bed, pulling Dean by the hips so that he is positioned on the edge with his legs still crooked up in the air. He looks down to see Castiel’s blue blue eyes and pink mouth opening over Dean’s satin-covered cock.

“Fuck!” He can’t feel the wet or the suction like he could if he were bare, but the heat spreads out around him like fog on a mirror, and the dampness of his spit slowly seeps through satin. Cas applies an edge of teeth and the scrape of danger slices through him, only barely dulled by the satin. His cock jerks. Then Cas pulls off and to the side, working his tongue under the edges of the satin to tease at the base of his cock, at his balls, and it feels a thousand times softer, wetter, hotter by contrast. Dean’s hips are out of his control, squirming and bucking into Castiel’s mouth, chasing sensation.

“Hold your knees,” Castiel humms against his balls, and Dean does as he’s told, hooking his hands under his knees and pulling up, pulling out, exposing himself to whatever Castiel has in mind. “Yesss,” Cas murmurs, running a hand up over Dean’s hard cock over the damp satin. “Perfection.”

Before Dean can protest this, Cas is pulling the fabric aside, further down where the satin meets lace, and his tongue is plunging down to flick over Dean’s puckered hole.

“Oh SONofabitch --” Dean cries out, but he’s helpless, he has nowhere to go. Of his own volition he is pinned here with no recourse but to accept the pleasure Castiel gives him. Cas is moaning into him too, he can feel that deep-delving voice as Cas opens his mouth wide and laves his tongue all around and over Dean’s ass. He circles the furrowed flesh with the tip first one way, then the other, and then he pushes and Dean feels his hole release just a little to the slick pressure. Quick side-to-side motions and Cas’s stubble scraping the tender skin and Dean is gone, he’s just fucking gone, babbling nonsense. “Please, fucking fuck, Cas, please, I need -- I need -- feels so fucking good, Cas, come on, please --”

“What do you need, Dean?” Cas murmurs and he’s still so close Dean can feel his breath on the slick skin of his cleft. There’s two spit-wet thumbs taking over at his asshole, pushing, massaging, and he feels so empty, so fucking ready --

“Fuck me,” he whines. “Please, Cas, just -- fucking fuck me. Right now.”

“As you wish.”

It’s several more torturous minutes with the lube and fingers before Cas will fuck him though. Cas keeps up a litany of praise as he goes about it, whispering hot into Dean’s ear how precious he is, how beautiful, how deserving. Dean’s face is flushed hot but he’s too focused Cas’s fingers pushing in and out of his ass to deny it, busy trying to get pressure right where he needs it, distracted by the occasional squeezes and swipes of Cas’s other hand over his cock, still wrapped in clinging-wet satin. By the time Cas tells him to turn over, he’s a boneless mess who barely understands English and Cas has to more or less manhandle him into position.

“Mine,” Cas growls in his ear as he lays over Dean’s back. “All mine,” he whispers as his cock slides between Dean’s cheeks, pushing against the ruined lace that still rides up the cleft. “I love you,” he breathes as he pulls the string of lace aside and the head of his cock catches on Dean’s stretched, wet hole. Dean pushes up and back, pure instinct, impaling himself on Cas’s cock and gasping in deep at the piercing intrusion. Cas doesn’t stop though; he knows Dean better than that. He pushes forward until he is seated, balls-deep, knees astride Dean’s ass. They both tremble with the intensity.

Dean feels Cas’s hands stroking up his shoulders and back, twining and stroking in his hair, as if from a distance. It’s as if being filled by Cas’s cock has stripped away every other sensation he’s ever felt. “Are you okay?” Cas asks, a barely-there tremor in his voice.

Dean nods. He’s incapable of speaking right now, but he knows Cas will understand him. “Please,” he manages, a simple moan.

With long, slow, pulsing rolls, Cas starts to move inside Dean. “Ohhh fuck,” Dean moans into the pillow. “Oh Jesus -- Fucking Christ --”

“Please don’t blaspheme,” Cas murmurs. He sounds so cool and collected in that moment that Dean almost laughs -- he does laugh, a high twittering giggle that’s more a release of tension than humor. He cranes his neck to look over his shoulder and the laughter ceases because suddenly all he can see is Castiel’s eyes. He’s staring at Dean, intense, wide-eyed, looking broken by pleasure and lust and awe and love, and Dean can’t -- he can’t keep looking at that. He eyes slam shut and he buries his face in the pillows, rolling his hips back to meet Cas’s quickening, pistoning thrusts.

“Jes -- Fucking Chr -- Oh Cas -- CAS,” Dean is nearly screaming into the pillow because Cas is splitting him in two, cleaving him with bliss, breaking him apart and putting him back together all wrung out and clean. His whole existence is reduced to Castiel moving inside him and the softness cupping his cock, surrounded and penetrated by beautiful things, by pleasure, by things he doesn’t think he deserves but somehow he has them anyway --

When Castiel stops his motion Dean cries out in wordless disappointment, but only for a moment as Cas repositions -- his knees knock Dean’s open so that Cas can kneel between them, and his hands hoist Dean up by the hips, and then he is driving home again. Dean gasps, deep and rasping, as the new angle allows Cas to plunge deeper. He drops his chest to the bed and presses back with his hips and Cas is over him again, bracing himself on one hand while the other curls around Dean’s hip to cup him, stroke him, grip him tight through the soft, ruined satin.

“Dean,” Castiel moans in his ear. “Ohhh my beautiful Dean.”

It starts low in his belly, coiling tight, slow at first like a rolling wave of thunder and then cracking like lightning that splits the sky. With a tremendous cry, Dean shatters in release, shaking fit to break and coming, coming, coming in long, thick pulses that wet Castiel’s hand through the satin. Castiel strokes him through it, his own thrusts rolling quick and tight as Dean shakes to pieces around him. Dean pushes back -- it’s almost too much, too intense, but he wants it, wants to feel Castiel coming inside him, wants -- yes, fuck, there, he’s rutting and gasping in jerky shuddering thrusts, holding Dean close with an arm around his chest and shoulder as he plunges in deep, twice, thrice. With a final groan he collapses, spent, panting into the back of Dean’s neck.

For several long moments they don’t even have the wherewithal to roll so that Cas isn’t crushing Dean under his weight, but eventually he twitches enough that Cas rolls them to the side. They are stuck together at the skin with sweat and other fluids, but Dean can’t bring himself to care right now. He feels boneless, puddled into the bed, high on endorphins and other brain chemicals that come along with really fucking good sex, and he has Cas’s breath still tickling the back of his ear. He’ll move in a minute.

He’s not sure how long he’s out, but when he rouses it’s because he feels cold everywhere that’s not touching Cas, where they do touch feels sweaty-hot and sticky. He rolls out of bed and makes his way on shaky legs to the bathroom.

The panties are -- well, they might be salvageable. He’s pretty good at getting come and lube out of satin at this point, but they are definitely a mess, covered in fluids, pulled and rolled in all the wrong directions. He drops them into the sink with a sigh. Worth it. He can always get more panties.

When he makes his way back out to bedroom, Cas is watching him. Dean smiles at him and sits on the bed, close to Cas’s hip; Cas sits up too, and for a few minutes they just... look at each other. Dean blushes, not sure what to say.

“So, uh --” he rubs the back of his neck. “You uh. Don’t mind that I like panties?”

Castiel’s eyebrows lift. “I believe that would be an understatement.”

Dean grins down at the bed, picking at a fold in the blanket. “You don’t think it, uh.... makes me... I dunno.”

And maybe that mind-reading thing happens outside of sex too sometimes, or maybe Cas is just getting better at reading him the old fashioned way, because that earns him a scoff. “Dean. Do I need to remind you just how draconian I find human conceptions of gender? Because I will.”

Dean laughs, dropping his head. “Yeah, ok. I get it.” But he still doesn’t meet Castiel’s eyes until Cas moves closer and cups his jaw in one hand. When he looks up, his face is very close, and his eyes are very, very blue.

Cas doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to. When he leans in to brush their lips together, chaste and soft... Dean knows.