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Questa è la Mia Sfida

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The street lights whiz by in blurs of colors; red, green, yellow, blue. They reflect off of his helmet, blur in his side mirrors, and halo him in brief flashes. The purr of the bike between his legs always stirs something deep within him, something that nothing (or no one) else can elicit. It’s all power, it’s minimalist but purposeful, and Dean Winchester feels like home every time he revvs the engine. On the turns he eases the brakes, so much so that bystanders surely think he’s on a suicide mission with how fast he’s still going as he dips the bike to one side or the other. Dean’s strong body atop such a nearly delicate frame is always eye-catching, especially when he pulls to a stop at intersections, both feet flat on the ground as he rests his hands on his thighs, flexing his gloved fingers to free up some circulation he lost from gripping the handles.

Not much ever grabs Dean’s attention whenever he’s riding his Baby. He’s always too focused on listening to her, feeling her, thinking about what he can tweak next to make her smoother, make her shift gears more seamlessly. In the city there’s not much he can do to really test her strengths, but out on the open road of the country at two a.m. he does much better. It’s barely eight in the evening as is, and as he pulls up to another intersection, he flips up the visor of his helmet to allow a soft breeze over his skin.

The familiar high pitched whine of a motorcycle engine reaches his ears, though slightly muffled through his helmet, and the vibration of the bike coming close makes him turn his head to the left. Sharing the lane with him is a black Ducati, the rider atop looking as thick and built as the powerful bike he’s straddling. He obviously pulled up with a purpose because he looks towards Dean, flipping up his tinted visor, the prettiest blue eyes Dean has ever seen crinkling with a smile hidden by the mouth of the helmet.

“Vyrus?” the guy almost shouts to be heard over the idling of their engines and the general noise of traffic around them.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, allowing his gaze to travel over the Ducati. It’s a powerful bike, a menace on the roadways, pretty much the exact opposite of Dean’s own sleek, elegant frame.

“Valve engine?”

Dean nods, “Four-VV.”

The man whistles, his eyes looking over Dean’s motorcycle with the same look Dean knows is mirrored in his eyes as he looks over the Ducati.

“Where are you headed?”

“I-20,” Dean finally lifts his gaze back up towards the other riders’. “You in?”

The man’s eyes are still crinkled in a smile, but they flash almost dangerously with the challenge. He twists his right wrist and the Ducati roars, and then the man nods, flipping his visor back down and turning his attention forward towards the light. Smirking to himself, Dean tilts his bike slightly so he can get his left foot on the gear, the heel of his right foot lifting slightly off of the ground so only his toes are touching the asphalt. It’s been a long time since another rider has approached Dean - a lot of them are intimidated by his bike, and when he revvs her engine, the sound tame in comparison to the Ducati, he starts to feel adrenaline swirl pleasantly in his gut.

The light turns green, and they shoot off.

The Ducati leaps ahead of the Vyrus initially, the torque much more impressive than the feather light run of Dean’s bike. But Dean shifts seamlessly, hitting sixty when the Ducati reaches fifty, and he knows the other rider has a good view of his tail lights as he starts weaving through the traffic. A glance in his side mirrors shows that the Ducati is following him seamlessly, if not a fraction slower for safety on the car-filled streets, and Dean’s interest spikes. A lot of the dudes that have motorcycles are just in it to look cool and grab chicks; not a lot of them actually do custom work on their bikes, or learn how to properly handle them.

Dean, though. Dean had saw the Vyrus and fell in love, upgrading from his old Honda and re-learning everything he knew about motorcycles. The intricacy of the Vyrus is unparalleled and when Dean had finished learning all of the ins and outs, he couldn’t help but feel the pedestal the bike had put him on. Not many people in Texas know anything about Italian made motorcycles, and though Dean had started off as a car mechanic, he quickly graduated to motorcycles as well when he had bought his Honda and rebuilt it from the ground up five years ago. The Vyrus, however - that launched him into a new level of mechanics, able to service pretty much any European made bike that came his way.

It’s lucrative.

It’s passionate.

They reach the outer city limits and Dean takes the proper on-ramp to get to where he really wants, and it’s pretty risky going this early in the evening - cops are probably still making their rounds diligently - but when he glances in his mirror and sees the Ducati hot on his trail, Dean couldn’t give a damn. Being pulled over and ticketed for speeding would be well worth the heat coiling in his gut.

It doesn’t take long to get to the interstate at the speed they’re going, and once they break free of the traffic the Ducati leaps forward, still sharing a lane, the roar of the engine over the wind whipping around Dean’s helmet making his groin stir with interest. It’s so opposite of the Vyrus - the Vyrus, which is meant for sleek power and almost a royal elegance. The man riding the Ducati is just as impressive, Dean sneaking a glance at the strong thighs under black denim, wondering if the stranger feels just as connected to his bike as Dean does.

It’s not a race. They ride together, side by side, matching each other’s speed and efficiency. When one engine revvs, the other replies. When they go around slight curves and hit the more rural roads they lean together, a synchronized dance, and when they hit ninety-five Dean feels free. They ride for a little over an hour before the Ducati starts to slow down, and Dean follows suit, easing up on the throttle and expertly flexing the toe of his left boot to start shifting the gears down. When they come to a stop it’s amongst a few tumbleweeds on the side of the road, and the Ducati rider takes off his gloves, dropping them onto the steering hub so he can reach up and start unbuckling his helmet. Dean follows suit and gets his helmet off first, running a hand through his hair, feeling the sweat from the heat trapped in his helmet and resisting a grimace. He glances over to the Ducati, and feels his breath wheeze out of him in one go.

The other man is gorgeous. Tan skin, his hair ultimately fucked up from the helmet, and pink, pink lips. He ruffles a hand through his mussed hair and then sends a gummy smile over to Dean, his cheeks flushed in the same exact way Dean knows his own are, before he speaks.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden with someone.”

Dean nods dumbly for a second before catching himself, nodding a bit more surely. “Yeah, same. Lotta idiots on bikes in this city.”

The man snorts. “I agree. I saw you go by and honestly, the fact you’re wearing a helmet interested me almost as much as your bike.”

Dean shrugs. “Helmets exist for a reason. I don’t understand the idiots that choose not to wear them.”

Nodding, the man toes his kickstand and then swings his leg over his bike to dismount, taking a step closer towards Dean. “May I take a look? I’ve only read about Vyruses.”

Kicking out his stand as well, Dean nods as he gets off of his bike with a grin. “They’re pretty rare in the states. Haven’t come across any other owners.”

Before the man goes closer to the Vyrus, he turns to Dean and holds out his hand. “My name is Castiel, by the way.”

Dean meets his grip, doing his best to ignore the spark that ignites in his fingertips. “Dean. Mind if I take a look at yours?”

Something twinkles in Castiel’s eyes and he replies, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

The immature comment has Dean barking out a surprised laugh, and he shakes his head with a chuckle as he waves a dismissive hand. “Nice.”

“I thought so,” Castiel says, laughter lacing his words.

The two men turn their backs to one another at each other’s bikes and Dean takes a moment to drink in the Ducati visually. This is also a rare model in these parts and Dean hesitates a moment to reach out and touch it, before he decides fuck it, trailing his fingertips over the steering hub. He moves Castiel’s gloves to the seat of the bike so he can get a better visual of the gages, taking in every detail. It really is a beast of a bike, thick and sturdy, and Dean grabs a handlebar to pull it off of the kickstand slightly, marveling at the weight. No wonder Castiel’s thighs look so damn strong. He gently sets it back down and then squats, running a hand over the chrome molly.

“Eleven-ninety-eight cc?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Castiel replies, his voice soft.

Dean turns to look over at Castiel, feeling a lump form in his throat. Castiel’s thick fingers are running along the seat of the bike, his eyes filled with the same intensity Dean looks at her with.

“She’s incredibly light,” Castiel says.

Dean knows that Castiel has been mirroring all of his own inspections. “Yeah. Her performance is best with a rider that weighs about one-fifty or so, but she does well with me.”

Castiel’s eyes meet Dean’s, an amused smile quirking his lips as his eyes rover over Dean’s body. “You weigh more than that?”

Dean rolls his eyes a little, standing up from his squat. “‘Bout twenty pounds or so.”

Castiel hums. “I would be afraid to push her too hard.”

Dean shakes his head, moving to stand opposite of Castiel. “Nah. She takes it like a champ. The leans are the best part. Gotta wait ‘til the last second to brake or else she gets a little wobbly. Nothing she can’t handle, though.”

“I have to ride the brake around corners,” Castiel says, but he doesn’t sound sad about it. “If the Ducati tips too far it’s game over for me.”

“I bet,” Dean says. Their eyes meet and Dean’s mouth goes a little dry. Then, he blurts, “D’you wanna sit on her?”

A wry smile crosses Castiel’s features and he glances down at the seat. “I wouldn’t want to overstep any boundaries. We just met, after all.”

The tone of voice makes Dean think that Castiel isn’t talking strictly about the bike. So he replies, “You seem like you know what you’re doing.”

Castiel’s eyes flash in the dark. “I’m quite experienced.” A new kind of adrenaline swirls in Dean’s gut. “You may sit on mine, if you like.”

Dean’s eyes drop towards Castiel’s crotch without his permission. Oh, he’d like to take a seat. Clearing his throat and shrugging, he knows Castiel saw his eyes drop but chooses to ignore that fact as he turns around towards the Ducati. It’s so much larger than his Baby, and even though Dean has about an inch on Castiel, swinging his leg over the seat almost feels like mounting a horse. Letting out a breath, his half-hard cock enjoys the pressure of the seat underneath him, and Dean testingly tips the bike slightly so he can really feel it between his legs without the aid of the kickstand. He holds back a groan, and then spares a glance over towards Castiel.

Nope, bad idea.

Castiel straddling the Vyrus has lightning flashing in Dean’s veins. The bike looks tiny under him and Dean suddenly has the strangling thought that he wants to be between Castiel’s legs, that he wants Castiel to touch him as reverently. He wants to feel tiny between Castiel’s legs.

Castiel catches him looking, a smirk curling his lips. “How do I look?”

“Huge,” Dean blurts.

Castiel cocks an eyebrow and Dean feels himself sweating slightly. The man seems to consider Dean for a moment before he leans the bike on the kickstand and then swings his leg over, dismounting with all the grace in the world, and then he makes his way over towards where Dean is perched on the Ducati, glancing down. Dean has the kickstand out on the left side, and he’s surprised when Castiel toes down a kickstand on the right side, helping the bike stay upright and center. The height of the Ducati isn’t much more than the Vyrus but Dean can’t put his boots flat on the ground, so he’s left with his toes touching the dirt and both hands on the handlebars.

After a moment, Dean finds his head. With Castiel this close, Dean breathes out, “How do I look?”

A wicked smile curls on Castiel’s lips. “Small.”

Dean can’t hold the whimper that escapes his lips. At six-two with wide shoulders and bow legs Dean is hardly any sort of small, but he feels it when Castiel says it, he feels it straddling this behemoth, and he wants nothing more than to let this man make him feel it in every fiber of his being. The fact that Castiel picked up on it at all lets Dean know that he hasn’t been doing a good job in hiding his attraction whatsoever.

Learning that it’s mutual only fuels the fire.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Castiel says.

There’s not a headlight in sight on the rural stretch of highway.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, licking his lips in anticipation.

Although Castiel had basically asked permission, when he leans in and claims Dean’s mouth Dean whimpers in surprise and arousal. Castiel’s hands come up to cup his jaw, strong fingers cupping behind his ears to press into the base of his neck and take control, Dean’s body twisting slightly to better the angle. Dean’s mouth falls open at the glide of Castiel’s tongue to his lips and he takes care to not jostle the bike beneath him too much, not wanting to upset the balance. However, Castiel crowds closer and Dean is surprised and impressed when the Ducati barely budges, the kickstands apparently much sturdier than the Vyrus.

That knowledge sends a zing through Dean’s system. The dream of being fucked on a motorcycle had always been pretty far fetched until this very moment, Castiel proving that he and his monster bike can take Dean apart without holding anything back.

Dean passes a moan into Castiel’s mouth, the other man swallowing it greedily. Their lips part so they can suck in air and then Castiel’s fingers pull down the zipper of Dean’s leather jacket, hungry, greedy, pushing the material off of Dean’s shoulders and draping it over the windshield. Dean returns the favor, popping the buttons of Castiel’s jacket with a bit of difficulty, and they’re both wearing long sleeves (always thinking about protection while on the road, and Dean is finding Castiel’s similar level of safeguarding way hotter than it should be) but Dean can see the outline of Castiel’s biceps, the curve of his strong shoulders. Tipping his head back and moaning towards the stars, Dean’s hands fall a little lax when Castiel presses his hand to the crotch of his jeans, applying pressure to his growing erection.

“How do you want it?” Castiel asks, his deep voice sounding almost exactly like the growl of the Ducati’s engine.

“Fuck,” Dean puffs out, trying to clear his head enough to think straight. “What can your bike handle?”

Castiel bites at the hollow of Dean’s throat, “Anything.”

Still straddling the bike, Dean weighs his options. There’s not many, but there’s just enough room behind him for Castiel to get on the bike as well. “Both of us?”

“Take off your pants,” Castiel replies, pulling away so he can start undoing his own.

Dean complies immediately, swinging his leg over the bike to momentarily stand so he can shed his pants and boxers, unlacing his boots clumsily. He tosses them towards his bike so they don’t touch the dirt and then he gets back onto the Ducati, unable to stop the groan that leaves him when the warm leather of the seat comes into contact with his ass and balls. When Castiel moves to climb on Dean catches a glance of his hard cock, and feels all of the spit in his mouth dry up momentarily.

Everything about Castiel is huge.

Suddenly saliva floods his mouth and Dean has to swallow to keep from outright drooling, and when Castiel crowds up behind him on the small seat Dean straightens to drop his head back on Castiel’s shoulder, the press of his hard cock against the small of his back dizzying.

“I don’t-” Dean has to swallow again when he feels spit trying to leak from the corners of his lips. “I don’t have anything.”

“I do,” Castiel says, using the angle of Dean’s head and neck to start sucking a bruise into the meat of his shoulder. Castiel’s arms reach around Dean towards his jacket and he unzips one of the pockets, a travel size bottle of lube and a condom coming out in Castiel’s hand.

Dean lets out a slightly delirious laugh, “This a habit of yours?”

Castiel hums contemplatively as he brings the items back around to where Dean can’t see. “This has never happened, but I have been known to be both an optimist and an opportunist.”

A flash of possessiveness flings through Dean’s nervous system and he hums in satisfaction, even if the feeling is a bit foreign and misplaced. Knowing that Castiel had been seeking this out and managed to find Dean and take what he wants has Dean feeling powerful. And when Castiel wraps an arm around Dean’s stomach and holds him close Dean feels small and lithe, all of the sensations clouding his thoughts once more.

The sound of the lube clicking open barely makes it through Dean’s senses, but the first dribble of cold down his crack has him leaning forward over the steering hub, moaning low. “Fuck, yeah.”

Castiel’s finger slides over Dean’s pucker, his voice low. “Turn her on.”

Dean’s bare toes curl and Castiel has his own feet on the grips, Dean’s legs shifting slightly before he rests the soles of his feet over Castiel’s for purchase. He glances down and finds the key, moving his left hand to the gear shifter, turning the Ducati on with a roar. Castiel’s left foot flexes down and the bike’s engine and the vibration of the power beneath him coupled with Castiel’s finger circling his hole has Dean letting out a wrecked moan. Castiel grabs his jacket off of the windshield and lays it over the steering hub and then gently presses Dean down, Dean letting out a hum as his body submits to Castiel’s strength.

The first finger slides in with little difficulty. Dean isn’t promiscuous by any means, but he likes his alone time with his toys, and he’s thankful for it because he’s pretty sure he won’t be able to wait much longer to get Castiel inside of him. His hips shift and he grinds down against the seat of the bike, the vibrations delicious against his balls, traveling up his cock, and he assumes Castiel won’t mind the mess they’re about to make. Castiel’s finger tugs on his rim slightly before a second finger joins and Dean buries his face in Castiel’s jacket, breathing in the leather and motor oil to try and ground himself. Castiel crooks his fingers, barely grazes Dean’s prostate, and then returns to scissoring and tugging gently.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, voice drowned out by the engine as well as the leather pressed against his face.

The position is as ideal as it can be and when Castiel adds a third finger, Dean can’t take it anymore, his cock already weeping and balls threatening to tense and release just from grinding against the thrumming seat. Castiel seems to sense this and he removes his fingers, the emptiness making Dean whimper, asshole fluttering at the loss before Castiel’s heat is against him once more. The bike shifts minutely, Castiel’s feet finding a more sure grip beneath Dean’s, and he feels Castiel’s body lift slightly before his cock starts to sink into Dean’s body.

Staying laid out so he doesn’t mess up the angle, Dean turns his head so he can let out a long suffering moan at how slow Castiel is entering him. He hears Castiel’s chuckle, the low rumble mixing in with the purr of the engine, and Dean wildly thinks that if the Ducati could fuck him, this is what it’d feel like. When Castiel bottoms out he moves his hands to grip the handlebars, Dean getting an eyeful of the way his forearms flex and tense, and Dean manages to tilt his ass up slightly to help the angle.

“Fuck, fuck me,” Dean whuffs out, eyes falling closed.

Castiel obliges.

It’s slow at first, Castiel obviously testing how sturdy the bike is beneath them. But it’s deep and languorous and Dean feels every slide, every drag, his body heating up from the combination of arousal and the heat emanating from the bike itself. Castiel’s breath sounds like it’s purposely measured, like he’s doing his best to control himself, and Dean lets out an embarrassing keen when his cock presses against his prostate.

“Right there,” Dean finds himself saying, “again, please, Cas, fuck-”

Castiel pulls out a fraction and then slams in, the bike rocking but staying upright. Finding a rhythm Castiel finally starts really fucking into Dean, his knuckles white with their grip on the handlebars, Dean only able to lie in his position, not trusting the bike enough to fuck his hips backwards towards Castiel. A few thrusts in and Castiel twists his right wrist, the Ducati roaring and revving beneath them, the vibrations rocking Dean’s core at the same time Castiel slams into his prostate, a tear falling from Dean’s eye as pleasure rockets through him. He cries out, the sound drowned out by the engine, and he should be embarrassed by how quickly this is going to end, but judging by Castiel’s groans and pants, he’s not going to last much longer, either.

Dean’s cock is trapped against the leather of the seat, and the way his balls are squished is just the right amount of pleasure and pain, the wet head of his cock smearing against the black material, and his adrenaline and ecstasy ramp up bit by bit with every thrust, with every moan breathed into his ear, Castiel’s big, strong body feeling all-encompassing above him, Dean feeling smaller than he ever has in his life.

“Come all over my bike,” Castiel suddenly growls low into Dean’s ear. “Paint her white. I want to smell you every time I get on her.”

Yeah, Dean lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched noise in reply to Castiel’s words, but he couldn’t give a damn. He’s so close, so close he can’t even form words and then Castiel is twisting his right wrist again to get the engine to roar and Dean is coming before his brain catches up to it, euphoria flooding all of his senses as cum explodes from his cock, spilling across the leather seat and up onto the hub as Castiel fucks him through it. Castiel follows soon after, burying himself as deep inside as he can, biting down on Dean’s shoulder through his shirt as he climaxes, and when both of them are emptied Castiel lowers their hips down so they’re both seated, still joined, his forehead falling to rest on Dean’s spine between his shoulder blades.

It takes a few moments for Dean to gather his breath, torso still resting on Castiel’s jacket. “Fuck.”

Castiel kills the engine and replaces the sound with a low, rumbling laugh, before he shifts his body and pulls out of Dean. Dean winces minutely and when Castiel climbs off of the bike Dean fully sags, resting all of his weight on the Ducati, looking over towards Castiel who is already starting to dress. Dean sends him a dreamy smile, which Castiel catches and lofts a brow in return, and then Dean finds himself letting out a small hum.

“We should be ridin’ buddies.”

Cracking a smile, Castiel finishes dressing and then walks towards Dean, reaching to help him sit upright and swing his leg over. He then grabs Dean’s boxers and pants, handing them over to the exhausted man, and Dean should find it weird that a strange guy he just fucked is being so gentle and caring towards him by helping him get re-dressed, but he… can’t. Instead, he finds it oddly endearing. He steps into his boots and crouches to start lacing them up, feeling the pleasant, dull ache in his lower back, and a slight burn in his thighs.

“Never thought that was possible,” Dean says as he straightens, looking over at the Ducati. His drying cum is glistening in the moonlight.

“Me either,” Castiel replies, catching Dean’s eyes so he can send him a small smile. “And yes, by the way.” Dean blinks, so Castiel elaborates. “We should definitely be riding buddies.”

Dean grins wolfishly as he grabs his jacket, shrugging it on and zipping it up all the way. “Awesome.”

Castiel reaches out, catching Dean’s jacket by the collar and dragging him in for a searing, soul-sucking kiss. When he pulls away Dean is slightly dazed, and Castiel says nothing as he turns towards his bike, swinging his leg over it and kicking up the stands, not bothering to wipe up the cum. He starts pulling on his gloves and sends an amused, meaningful glance towards Dean, which spurs Dean into action as he turns to mount his own bike, putting on his helmet first before starting in on his gloves.

Both of them start their engines at the same time, and Dean feels Castiel’s penetrative gaze on him as he toes up the kickstand, straightening his bike. He glances over to meet Castiel’s gaze, and then they both flip down their visors at the same time, Castiel rolling onto the road first, Dean quick behind him. Castiel revvs his engine, hops forward a bit, and Dean replies in kind.

Dean is very partial to his Vyrus. He knows how he looks on it - sleek and powerful - but he’s finding a new appreciation for the more rugged, larger bikes. Maybe it has something to do with the rider currently perched on the Ducati. Maybe it has something to do with the fact Castiel is riding with Dean’s cum soaking into his pants.

It has everything to do with the way the Ducati engine roars and Castiel shoots ahead of him.

Grinning, Dean lowers himself for aerodynamics, shifting down and shooting forward to pass Castiel in the blink of an eye.

This is a challenge he will never get tired of.