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Desperate Times

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“Get the fuck out!”

His boot whacks off the door instead of his brother’s face, and he hears Sam curse from the other side.

“Dean,” he says. “Dean, will you just let me help?”

Dean grabs the pillow from his bed and wads it against his ears. Maybe he should try to smother himself with it; that’d take care of the humiliation and the sheer fucking agony between his legs at the same time.

He risks craning his neck to look at his dick, not that he has to by much. It’s standing erect, straining now even against the pair of sweat pants Sam loaned him (with a half joking condition that Dean burn them after).

Dean never considered himself to have anything to be ashamed of in the size department but, since they came home, still trying to figure out why the witch’s spell had done precisely zilch to either of them, only for Dean to realise the chafing sensation in his crotch didn’t mean his jeans had shrunk…

He’d sprouted two inches and there was no sign of it stopping.

Sam’s been hitting the books for a cure for the magical viagra-come-hulk serum but so far all he’s found is some kind of probably screwed up translation going on about the mouth and the spit of a child of the divine.

They have no clue what the hell that means but one thing’s for sure: that was about four hours ago and Dean can literally feel his dick getting slowly larger.

He drops the pillow, relieved to find that Sam’s not still pleading through the door, and decides fuck it. Sam doesn’t want them back anyway, so he reaches down and rips the front of his pants open.

His dick springs free and it’s more curved now than before. As if the extra inches weren’t bad enough, the spell’s making him perpetually hard which seems to make it hurt worse.

A lot of worst case scenarios have run through Dean’s mind. If it doesn’t stop. How big is it likely to get? Is it going to keep curving in like a Cumberland fucking sausage?

He’s got a terrifying image at the back of his head of people holding him down while Sam docks inch after inch from the end, with a black sharpie line marking the divide between what’s his and what was magically endowed.

He’d like to believe it won’t come to that, but he remembers how much that witch hated men, and how powerful she was that even a witch killing bullet to the brain didn’t break her spell.

He wonders if it’ll get to the point where he’ll gladly let Sam chop off his extra inches. Or whether they’ll have to cut off the whole damn thing.

There’s another knock at the door then: more tentative, less demanding than Sam’s.


Dean groans. Maybe the only thing worse than Sam staring at his dick is it being either Mary or Cas.

“No. Cas, go away.”

“I’m coming in.”

Dean looks around for his other boot, but it’s on the floor by the bed and the logistics of getting it without his dick touching himself or anything else seem impossible.

The door opens and Cas steps inside and quickly closes it behind him.

He stands there for a moment, staring. Dean can’t even reach the blankets lying folded at the end of the bed to save the last of his tattered pride.

“Yeah, impressive, huh. Wanna take a photo?”

“No,” Cas says, and Dean rolls his eyes even though he knows Cas can’t see the gesture.

“Then…”. Dean waves him away. “If you can’t fix this, please show me some damn mercy and get out.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised when Cas’s hand lands gently on his ankle: he figures Cas didn’t come up and touch the forehead like he usually does because then he’d have to pass by SuperCock (oh fuck even in his head it’s capitalised) and look at Dean’s face and he’s trying hard to make this as least humiliating as he can.

It’s not working because his huge dick is like the centrepiece of the room, but Dean appreciates the effort.

Cas makes a small disappointed sound. “I feared it wouldn’t work.”

Dean thinks if Cas wants to talk disappointment, they should swap places.

“But Sam was on the right track.”

Dean pushes himself up on his elbows which means trying to look at Cas and not the leaking curved cursed thing that is getting ready to poke him through the stomach.

He hopes Cas hasn’t read his mind and that his dark nightmare about Sam doing a little home surgery is what Cas means.

“A child of the divine,” Cas says. “He showed me the book. It’s a very old text, but this is a very old curse. And back then, any man afflicted ould surely have died of it. Very few angels would have even considered helping.”

A child of the divine. Dean groans at how they have such a person living in their home and looked right past it. But mouth...spit….

Cas is looking at him patiently as if he can see on Dean’s face that he’s working through this.

No. Fucking. Way.

He says as much to Cas, and the angel’s eyes flare with temper.

“Would you rather die? I’m willing to do this to save you; there’s nothing I know of that I wouldn’t do, Dean.” He looks away, suddenly bitter and ashamed. “I know you don’t want this, but it’s the only way.”

Dean is briefly distracted by Cas’s words. He’s gotten damn good at hearing what Cas doesn’t say, and it’s easy to swap this with me.

Cas really thinks Dean would find his touch so abhorrent that he’d rather die than let Cas save him.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he tells Cas. “You think I want you...tainting yourself like this? I...Cas, man…”

There’s no way to tell Cas that he’s dreamt of this scenario before: just minus surgeon Sam (in fact minus Sam altogether; he has zero sexual fantasies involving his brother), and his amazing growing pecker.

And that’s probably blasphemous anyway. He can’t let Cas do this.

Cas is suddenly sitting on the bed next to him, a hand pressed squarely in the centre of Dean’s chest. “You think I prefer you dead?”

Dean mutely shakes his head. Maybe this is isn’t just his decision, but it’s so far from what Cas he’d planned, in his dreams, obviously...for their first time to be. He slumps back down, with a groan.

“You know what to do?”

He hears a rustling sound and looks up long enough to see Cas taking off his trench coat, suit jacket, and then kicking off his shoes.

Dean’s beyond grateful that he stops there, but they’re dangerously close to another of his fantasies, where Cas is fully dressed, and he’s naked (he practically is right now anyway).

His dick seems to like his train of thought and the twitch sends a spurt of pain through it, his balls and his navel and thighs.

He might not actually survive this if just thinking about Cas and sexual contact provokes that reaction.

“Several of the examples Metatron included in my, uh, pop culture education were R rated. I have a basic understanding of the-“

Dean raises a hand to silence him. No, he’s definitely not going to survive this.

“Okay. Just…. okay.”


He isn’t ready for Cas’s first, tentative touches, even after feeling Cas climb onto the bed and nudge his legs apart.

He’s as gentle as he can be, light almost imagined strokes, but Dean’s dick is already hyper sensitive and it hurts and he can’t imagine how on Earth, with it curved almost back on itself, Cas is going to get his mouth around it.

And that was the wrong thing to think; he pays for it instantly as he hardens further and oh fuck fuck fuck-

Cas carefully, as if fearful of causing him more pain, or perhaps of Dean’s rejection, dabs at him with the tip of his tongue and the pain is suddenly muffled. Dean can still feel it, throbbing, but it’s like he’s in a different room and he can hear it thudding through the wall, but his angel’s sound proofing is easily up to it.

He lets out a slow, relieved breath, hitching a little when Cas’s actions become more confident.

He licks his way along the curve of Dean’s dick, and it’s not sloppy or newbie-ish like he expected. It’s maybe a little...clinical, but he isn’t complaining.

Just as Cas reaches the tip - and Dean’s sure he must be craning his neck at some kind of awkward angle - he can actually feel his dick pulling in, shortening.

Which is completely at odds with the reaction he’s experiencing to Cas but all the same he just knows he’s a little less impressive now than he was a few moments ago.

He badly wants to see but it’s not like he took a tape measure to his schlong (Sam had suggested it but Dean swore to use it to throttle him if he even brought it in the room). Besides if he looks then he’s going to see what Cas looks like with his tongue on his dick and if he survives this curse, he sure as hell won’t survive that.

The more Cas licks the less curved his penis is, and Cas works at it with the perseverance Dean’s accustomed to. It doesn’t take much longer until Cas can almost get his mouth around the head; but the pressure in trying to do more brings the pain back red hot and Dean pushes at whichever part of Cas he can reach to get him to stop.

Cas goes back to licking, until things ease off a little; he starts to lap at Dean’s slit and Dean sure wants to know what the fuck Metatron put in that download and if Cas can remember what it’s called.

But, truth…. Dean’s pretty sure it wouldn’t hold a candle to this.

“Perhaps,” Cas says, and Dean curses him silently because Cas talking means Cas’s mouth is no longer on his cock. “We need to try a different approach.”

Dean huffs. There aren’t exactly a lot of ways to give head, and he’s about to explain that when Cas is suddenly stretching himself out beside him.

Dean stares at him dumbly.

Cas gives him a look that says he accepts Dean would be smarter right then if most of his blood wasn’t flowing south. “Your penis has straightened enough for you to put it in my mouth.”

Maybe Metatron had the sound muted on that download; Dean thinks it’s just as well desperation drove them to this because Cas surely couldn’t have talked him into bed like that.

He risks a look at his dick and sees Cas is right; it’s still got a wicked curve to it, but he thinks he can do this.

He looks at Cas’s position and sees the angel is way ahead of him.

“Get under me,” he says and gets onto his knees under he can straddle him.

Touching himself hurts, but not as bad as before, but it does bring certain problems to light. It’ll stop hurting once he’s in Cas, but he’s still so fucking long that he’s going to be halfway down the angel’s throat.

“I don’t need to breathe,” Cas reminds him, and that should not, especially under the current situation, be the come on his body interprets it as. He bites back a groan.

“Put your hand on my thigh,” he tells Cas, and waits until the angel complies. “You need me to stop, slap my leg. No matter what, I’ll pull out.”

Cas nods and then he opens his mouth so wide Dean swears his jaw would have cracked if he’d been human.

But Cas isn’t, and he’s put a safeguard in place and there’s no other options right now. In the time it’s taken him to get into position, he’s sure his dick is another centimetre in length.

He goes as slow as he can, hissing at the heated pleasure of that mouth around him, then sinks deeper until he can feel the head hit the back of Cas’s throat and keep going.

By the time he’s seated, Cas’s nose is hard up against him; he doesn’t know why, but he reaches back and he can feel the swell in Cas’s throat around him.

There’s a growing pressure in his stomach, in his balls. It won’t take much but like this? He’s not sure how to move, how far to pull out. He isn’t even sure he can.

And it’s like Cas knows. Dean isn’t sure how he does it. But he swallows, somehow, and that sensation…Cas’s throat working around him...

It sends him tumbling over the edge and everything turns hazy and hot, like the worst fever he’s ever had is about to break.

And then it’s done. He braces himself against the headboard, panting, and starts when he feels Cas patting his thigh.

It takes a lot less time to pull out than it did to push in.

And it doesn’t hurt at all.

Dean helps Cas sit up, checks him over, grabs him the bottle of water from the bedside table and makes sure he can swallow properly.

Cas doesn’t even sound hoarse.

“How do you feel?”

Dean feels the blush spreading over his face. Kind of weird for it to be happening now after he’s had his dick down Cas’s throat but he’s not under the effects of an agonising curse that would have killed him in the most ridiculous of ways.

“I’m okay,” he says, and it sounds ungrateful because Cas just gave him the mother of all blowjobs to save his damn life and-

He doesn’t let himself worry about crossing any lines. There’s dedication and friendship and then there’s something else and he pulls Cas to him and kisses him.

He’s sure he’s read things right even if typically he’d have done this the other way around with some other fun stuff in between.

But there’s nothing typical about Cas. Never has been, never will be.

He feels like cheering when Cas kisses him back, and there’s one part of him that does its own standing ovation.

Dean breaks off the kiss to stare down in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Cas looks down, and then tugs off his shirt.

“Maybe the part that’s actually you is feeling neglected.”

He lies back on the bed, and undoes the top button of his pants. Dean gently brushes his hands away.

“You did all the work last time,” he says. And yeah, only he and Cas could go from a level of sexual frustration you’d only find in a damn monastery to this.

But as long as Cas is okay with is he.