Castiel's study is the warmest room in the little gray house, a fact he lamented all summer and has thanked his lucky stars for since November hit. As it is, he's wearing two pairs of socks; his toes are hooked behind the crossbar of his desk chair as he stares at the ceiling and tries to formulate his next sentence.
There's a pencil stuck in the acoustical tile of the ceiling, thrown there during another bout of writer's block; Cas wonders idly if he could shoot it down with a rubber band.
He's taking aim, one eye closed, when he hears a rattle and a draft as the front door opens, the thud of Dean's bag hitting the floor, followed shortly by the softer thuds of his boots joining it. “Hey baby, you in your room?” Dean hollers down the hall.
“Yeah,” Cas calls back, thrilled by the interruption. He sits up straighter and types out the word The, then deletes it in favor of That.
Dean appears in the doorway. “You writing?”
“Hello, Dean. I'm revising,” says Cas. He changes it back to The.
“Still stuck on that chapter, huh?”
Cas sighs. “I wrote about a page,” he says, “but I took out about a page.”
“Same page, or different pages?”
“Well, that's something,” Dean says. “Package for you came to the store.” He waves a padded envelope and winds up to throw it.
“Oh!” Cas spins his chair around, grinning. “That's for you, actually. You should open it.”
“Yessir.” Dean's already ripping the mailer open, his face lit up like...well, like Dean in a bookstore, or opening a present. He lets out a funny choked squeak when he sees what's inside: a pair of skimpy satin panties, hunter green and trimmed with matching lace. His breathing picks up as he turns them over and over in his hands, mouth slightly open.
“You told me about that girlfriend,” says Cas, almost nervous; even after a year together, where Dean's proven himself enthusiastic about every sex act Cas has suggested, he gets shy when he brings up something new. “Rhonda? The one who bought you lingerie?” He's pictured it so many times—especially now that Dean's showed him pictures of himself in college—pictured Dean young and lithe and lace-bedecked, legs spread wide on a dorm room mattress.
“Yeah, I remember.” Dean tugs open the plastic bag holding the panties and reaches inside, making a small soft sound in the back of his throat when his fingers make contact with the soft fabric.
“I thought,” Cas says, and now he lets authority creep into his voice, “you could take off your clothes, and put those on, and you could tell me all about the first time she fucked you up the ass.”
“Give me ten minutes. No, five.” Dean practically sprints in the direction of their bedroom.
Cas gives him ten. He likes making Dean wait.
Girlfriend isn't quite the right word to describe Rhonda Hurley's relationship to Dean. Summer fling, maybe, hookup or fuck buddy or sex friend; but Dean's always privately thought of her as his sexual awakening.
(“You incurable romantic,” Cas says. He kneels on the mattress in the V of Dean's legs, running his hands slowly from knee to thigh, just to the elastic edge of the panties, back down; he watches Dean's cock get hard under his touch, his gaze. “What was she like? Gorgeous, I'll bet.”)
She studied sculpture at College of Santa Fe, where Dean took a two-week film workshop the summer after his freshman year at KU. He saw her first outside the library, crouching down to lock up her bike; he stopped to chat her up, helplessly drawn to the sumptuous swell of her rear. “You need a hand with that?” he asked.
She squinted up at him and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “You were looking at my ass, weren't you?” she asked, and he got ready to grovel—but then she smiled and said, “I think you should return the favor, then. Bend over.” By the time she stood up he was a goner.
Rhonda was a foot shorter than him and a year older, with broad hips and strong legs, freckled bronze skin and wavy black hair in an afterthought of a ponytail. She fucked him the day they met—not fucked him fucked him, that came a whole five days later, but the way she pushed him onto his back and rode him left no doubt about who was in charge. Dean fucking loved it; he'd thought of himself as experienced, before, thought he knew what he liked. He realized, the first time Rhonda made him come and he tasted colors, he hadn't had a clue.
Five days later, he woke up naked on her futon in the middle of the night; the streetlight outside her casita was bright enough to make him squint, even through the sheet tacked up over the window. Rhonda must have woken him up getting out of bed, because she was just coming back from the bathroom, wearing nothing but the boxers he'd cast off the evening before. “Hi there,” she said, throwing a leg over his hips.
“Hi,” he said. “Those look hot on you.” He slid his hand up her inner thigh and into the fly to rub her clit.
“Mm,” she said, leaning down to brush her breasts over his face, grinding down on him when he opened his mouth to suck. “You wanna try it the other way round?”
“What?” he tried to say around her nipple, but she'd grabbed the back of his head and pressed him harder against her.
“Hold on a second,” she said, suddenly letting go. He pouted when she climbed off of him, but she just rummaged through the pile of clothes beside the bed and came back, a wide smile on her face and her pink bikini panties swinging from one finger.
“You want me to wear those?” Dean had never done anything that kinky, and he swore he could hear the hot rush of blood from everywhere else in his body straight to his cock.
“I sure do, cielito.” She flipped the sheet off him and tugged the panties up over one of his ankles, then the other, stopped and met his flustered gaze. “Tell me to stop if this is too much.”
“No,” he said, and licked his lips. “No, it's okay.”
“Good boy.” She bent down to take his half-hard cock in her mouth while she pulled the panties slowly up his legs. By the time he lifted his ass so she could settle them into place, he was stiff and aching, the feel of the silky material heavenly on his sensitive flesh. He was so hard the panties couldn't contain him; Rhonda licked gently at the head of his cock where it poked above the waistband, and Dean's voice broke on a groan.
“You look so fucking hot, Dean,” she said. “I could just suck you off like this, right through the panties.” Dean whimpered and lifted his hips, silently begging, but she shook her head. “Turn over, I wanna see your ass in those.”
(“A woman after my own heart,” says Cas, urging Dean onto his stomach. “Fuck, you look incredible. Keep going.” He kneads at Dean's ass, rocking his erection against him; it takes Dean a second to remember what he's saying.)
Rhonda muttered something in Spanish and bent down to nibble on Dean's earlobe. “You should see yourself, Dean. So hot.” She snapped the panties' waistband, making Dean squeak, then eased them back just enough to run her tongue along the red line she'd left. “I'd love to fuck you.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Dean, starting to turn over; Rhonda grabbed his hips and pushed them back down.
“Not what I meant,” she purred, thumb slipping confidently between his ass cheeks; Dean jumped, startled, as she pressed it against his hole. “I want in.”
“You, um.” Dean looked wide-eyed over his shoulder. “You wanna stick something up my ass?”
“No one's ever done that?” she asked, clearly surprised. She pressed a little harder; Dean felt his body start to give.
Dean flushed. “Uh, no. I'm not—I'm not into that.”
“Huh,” she said. “I could've sworn you were bi. You've really never fucked a guy?” Dean shook his head. He sort of wanted to ask why she'd thought that, but he also wanted her to keep touching him, and at this hour of the night the latter won out. “Done anything with one?” Rhonda asked. “My intuition's never failed me before.”
“Well, uh. I blew a friend at a party in high school? But it was on a dare, doesn't count.”
“Hmph. I think it might count. Did you like it?” she asked. “Did he come in your mouth, did you swallow it all down?” Her other hand was on his ass now, gently pulling his cheeks apart and rubbing circles across his hole. It felt good, better than he expected, and Dean knew he was gonna go for it.
“Yeah,” Dean admitted. He'd never told anyone that, not even the guy he'd sucked off. He'd made a grossed-out face, asked for a shot of Jack “to get that taste out of my mouth”—and then he'd jacked off to the thought of it for months.
“Glad to hear it,” said Rhonda. “So you wanna try my cock? Might not be real, but I'll betcha it's enough to get you off.” She jerked his hips up to kneeling, thrust her pelvis into him a couple of times, her breath coming in excited little gasps. “You'll love it, Dean, scout's honor.”
Dean's heart was pounding as he nodded; Rhonda didn't respond, and he realized her eyes were closed as she pulled them closer together, continuing to thrust, like she was already inside him. And he wanted that, he wanted it really bad all of a sudden. “Yeah, okay,” he said then, and then, louder: “Yeah, okay, fuck me.”
Rhonda grinned at him, delighted, and hopped off the bed to drag a shoebox out from underneath. And there was the dildo, curving thick and solid and tantalizing and nervewracking out of a black pleather harness; she wriggled out of his boxers and started strapping it on as he watched her intently, still on his stomach with his back arched and his ass—his panty-covered ass—up in the air.
When she was buckled in, Rhonda grabbed a bottle of lube out of the shoebox and got on the bed behind him. “Spread your legs,” she said, and Dean did, spread them wide and arched his back a little more. He held his breath as she slicked up the fingers of one hand, peeled the panties' thong aside and rubbed at his hole again. “Ready?” she asked.
“As I'll ever be,” said Dean, and held his breath as she slowly pushed a finger into him. It felt more weird than painful, and even the twinge of discomfort he'd initially felt went away as she glided it in and out.
(“Hey!” says Dean as Cas, who's been following along, licks over his hole with a noise of satisfaction. “She didn't do that.”
“Dramatic license,” Cas mutters.
“This is a true story.” But Dean's spreading his legs wider, pushing back into Cas's mouth. “Ah, fuck, baby, that's—I'm not gonna be able to keep talking if you're gonna do that.”
“Take a break, then, rest your voice,” Cas says. He yanks the crotch of Dean's panties further aside, buries his face in his ass and keeps licking him out sloppy and slow. Before long, Dean's panting, circling his hips on Cas's tongue and fingers, taking them in as deep as he can.
When Cas finally pulls back to take a breath, what feels like four fingers stuffed in Dean's hole, Dean manages to gasp out, “Do you wanna hear the rest? Cause then you're gonna need to back off or I'll just come and fall asleep.”
Cas twists his fingers, then pulls them out, bending down to press one last lush kiss against Dean's hole. “Go ahead and finish. And I'll fuck you when it's over, and then you can come on my cock. Doesn't that sound nice?”
Dean nods frantically, continues.)
“How're you feeling?” Rhonda asked after a while. “Good? Still on board?”
“Good, yeah,” Dean murmured into the pillow, turned his head to say it again louder. “Yeah, good. I think I'm ready, baby, want you.”
“Want me to what?” Rhonda pulled the panties down Dean's thighs and patted his flank until he flipped over. She walked two fingers up the length of his cock, rubbed her thumb over the head. Dean tried to break eye contact—no way he'd be able to say it out loud while she was looking at him—but she turned his face back towards her, a firm hand on his cheek. “What do you want? You can tell me, cielito, I won't tell.”
Dean bit his lip as she stared down at him, smiling sweetly, and summoned as much bravado as he could while wearing women's underwear. “Fuck me, Rhonda.”
“I would love to,” she said, and kissed him.
He took the panties the rest of the way off, tossed them back onto the floor; Rhonda pushed up his bent knees gently, guided his calves around her waist. The dildo grazed his cock, slightly cool to the touch—or maybe it was just that his whole body felt feverish, burning up for something he'd never bothered to want before. It was easy to ask now, and he did, started begging outright as Rhonda worked the head of the dildo into him; he shifted his legs further apart and rolled his spine upward. “More,” he heard himself say. “More, more.”
“Fuck,” she said breathlessly, “you like that, huh? Like taking my big fat cock?”
“The mouth you got on you,” he said, and held his breath as she bottomed out, rocking her hips against his ass. “Yeah, I like that.”
She lowered herself on top of him, pushed her unruly hair out of the way to whisper in his ear. “Then take it, bitch,” she growled, and snapped her hips forward.
“Holy shit, Rhonda,” Dean whimpered. “That's—you're—ohhh,” and that was all he had to say for a while, at least in words. As Rhonda moved her hips, thrusting the dildo in and out of him and cooing encouragement in his ear, he cried out with his whole body, asking for harder and deeper and more with the clutch of his thighs around her, the flexing bow of his back, the vulnerable curve of his throat. Her futon didn't have a headboard, but it was near enough to the wall that he could brace one hand against it, the better to push down into her thrusts; with his other hand, he pawed at her ass, dragging her closer, closer.
She lifted her head just enough to see his face; he'd been worried she wouldn't get much out of this, but her eyes were shining, her breaths short. “Your eyes are rolling back in your head,” she said, hand creeping between them to start jacking him off. “Dean, you love this.”
“Love it,” he slurred, and came like the end of the world.
Rhonda gave him a minute, let him come clenching around the dildo, before she eased it out of him and undid the harness with shaking fingers. “You have no idea how hot that was,” she panted, and climbed onto him, scrambling up till she was straddling his face. He had just enough energy to pull her pussy to his mouth; she was wet and warm and sweet, and he licked at her clit and gave her two fingers to ride until she came with a wail, grinding down onto him till he could hardly breathe and had to sort of pry her off. She curled into his side with a contented sigh.
“Can we do that again sometime?” Dean asked.
Rhonda grinned and nodded as she swirled her fingers through the mess on his stomach, then brought them up to push into his mouth. “Next time I'm leaving the panties on.”
Cas leaves the panties on this time, tugging them aside just enough to bare Dean's hole and slide inside. They're both so worked up it doesn't last long, but it's so good anyway; it's always so, so good. Dean comes first and his knees give out so hard he faceplants into the pillow, lies there shaking while Cas chases his own climax, then collapses onto him. Dean can feel Cas's pounding heart, thumping through his chest and into the broad expanse of Dean's back.
“Rhonda Hurley is an American hero,” Cas mumbles into Dean's shoulder.
“No kidding,” says Dean.
It's only three PM, but they take a nap anyway.