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Beg Pretty for Me

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Things are good.

          Like, really good.

          Sammy‘s already asleep in his room with the excuse of the long drive back from Eileen’s leaving him wiped out. Dean didn’t buy that for a hot second and didn’t pass up the opportunity to tease him with, “So... Been practicing your sign language?” and a wiggle of his eyebrows (the bitchface he got in response was totally worth it). Jokes aside, he’s happy for him. Eileen’s a great chick; smart, tough, witty, stubborn. Keeps Sam on his toes and puts that goofy, love-struck smile on his face.

          Sometimes Dean’s still gotta pinch himself. A physical reassurance that yeah, this is their life now. This is real.

          There's no Chuck or world-ending prophecies. No more destiny or “chosen one” bullshit. Unfortunately, the things that go bump in the night didn’t up and vanish, but there’s a whole new generation of hunters to help keep ‘em at bay and with all the resources at their disposal, Sam taking point on training and research, Amara getting Heaven back in order, and Rowena downstairs whipping Hell into shape, they’re leagues away from where they started the day Dean snuck into Sam’s apartment, “Dad went on a hunting trip and hasn’t been home in a few days,” on his lips and fear in his heart.

          There’s no Apocalypse on the horizon, no more Big Bads. For the first time in Dean’s life, he can actually see retirement on the horizon and it doesn’t feel like an empty promise.

          Smiling at the thought, he parks himself against the edge of the stainless steel island in the kitchen and listens to the hum of electricity and machinery keeping the bunker running with a beer in hand and his own special person on his mind.

          Cas is with Jack, Claire, and Kaia clearing a vamp nest down in southern Texas. Dean had already been halfway to Oregon following a lead with Donna when the call came in—fucking ghouls, he thinks with a shudderand though Cas had wanted to go along with him, it'd been Dean’s idea for him to stay behind. Jack might be an all-powerful Nephilim and hunter-in-training, but they’re still just a kid, and with Sam busy tracking leads and appointing cases to the rest of their steadily growing network, at least one of ‘em had to stick around to help Jack out (and keep them out of trouble).

          Maybe Dean’s regretting that decision now. Just a little.

          Okay, a lot. So sue him. He thinks he’s earned the right to be a bit selfish now and then.

          Sure, they’ve called and texted daily during their time apart. But tonight makes eight whole days since he’s seen his angel (well, ex-angel). Eight frustrating days since he last kissed him, tasted him, heard his throaty moans, or felt his skin beneath his palms.

          Eyes falling to the silver counter below, a memory resurfaces; just a month ago, he’d been in this exact position with Cas knelt between his legs, hands pinning his hips to the cold steel, perfect pink lips wrapped around him, sucking and licking and teasing until he was a squirming, whimpering mess.

          His dick twitches in his jeans just thinking about it. Which is incredibly frustrating because nothing he can do alone will ever equal the way Cas takes him apart piece by piece, fucks him into his memory foam so hard he nearly forgets his own name, and puts him back together with gentle caresses and admissions of unconditional love.

          Fuck, how he wishes at this moment that Cas still had wings because the days of calling for him without the constraints of human travel have long since passed but are still close enough to taste the memories of.



He's walking back down the hall to his room when his phone buzzes in his back pocket. Nudging the door open with a shoulder, he fishes it out and thumbs the screen as he lifts it to his ear. “Heya, Sunshine.”

          “Hello, Dean.”

          His stomach does a happy little somersault. Grinning, he says, “You've got awesome timing.”


          “Mhmm. Was just thinking about you.”

          “I’ve been thinking of you as well.”

          “Yeah? Anything specific on your mind?” he says suggestively, feeling playful. Not like Cas will get the implication, anyway.

          “Are you alone?”

          “Yup.” He plops into the chair at his desk and takes a long pull from the beer. “Why? Where are you?”

          “At a motel in Boerne. Also alone.”

          “Uh,” he mutters intelligently.

          Cas ignores Dean’s fumble, for which he’s oddly grateful. “You’re in your room?”

          “Yeah... Wait, where’s Jack?”

          “With the girls. They are ‘hanging out’.”

          A shuffle of movement on the other end of the line gives Cas’ air-quotes away. Dean snorts, fondly shaking his head. “What about the—”

          “Taken care of,” Cas interrupts, a hint of impatient exasperation coloring his tone. “But I don’t want to talk about that right now, Dean.”

          “Okay, what’s up?”

          “I’d like for you to take off your clothes.”

          Oh. Oh.

          “Seriously? You uh, you wanna… Right now?”

          “Yes, Dean. I want to have ‘phone sex’ with you.”

          His cheeks burn at the request. He hadn’t expected Cas to take the bait because, for one, nearly thirteen years on Earth still hasn’t exactly made Cas the master of subtlety, and two, they’ve never actually done that before. This thing between them, whatever you wanna call it (lovers, partners, boyfriends?), is still kinda new although it’d hung thick in the air between them for years. It's easier somehow to let go and simply feel when Cas is here in front of him, touching him, distracting him from his own mind. Over the phone like this, he feels awkward, exposed. Logically, it should be the reverse, but then again no one's ever accused Dean of being logical.

          Despite his sudden shyness, the determination in Cas’ voice sends a thrill rushing through him, heady and enticing. Blunt and straightforward as the day he walked into that barn, Cas knows what he wants and has no embarrassment around sex or the human body. Unfortunately, Dean has it in spades.

          Action is one thing, but talking? It’s always been difficult for him to say what he wants, to share those vulnerable parts of himself, to put all the shit swirling around his mind into words. And frankly, he’s never had the time to build that sort of trust with anyone. But with Castiel... Well, everything is different with Cas.

          Cas pulled him out of Hell. Gave up everything for him. Stood by him for over a decade. Guy even died for him, more than once. Cas has seen the deepest, darkest parts of him—shit, he’s seen Dean’s soul. Cas knows him more intimately than anyone in the universe, including his own brother, so when they’re alone, when they’re doing that, he usually doesn’t have to say a word beyond “yes” or “harder” or “oh fuck, don’t stop!”

          Cas is always sensitive to his needs and knows, without being asked, how to give him exactly what he desires—how to take the reins and lift the yolk of responsibility from Dean’s shoulders—and what he lacked in practical experience when they first started having sex he’s sure as shit made up for with raw enthusiasm, eagerness to please, and an utter lack of shame. Took him a while to grasp some stuff, like dirty talk, but once he saw the effect it had on Dean, he went all out

          Same for the kinky shit (Cas even told him he’s been “doing research,” whatever the hell that means), and of course, dude takes it on with the same solemnity and conviction he does everything. From day one, Cas made it perfectly clear that no matter what, Dean still has the final say, yet submitting to Cas provides him a sense of freedom unlike any other. With Cas, he’s not a brother (and unwitting father), not a hunter, or, as it was once-upon-a-time, Michael’s favorite meat suit. He doesn’t have to be the leader here, doesn’t have to make the hard decisions. Or on some nights, any decisions at all. He’s just—


          “Y-yeah,” he mumbles. “Yeah, I can do that.” He fumbles at the button of his fly with trembling fingers, the phone jammed between his ear and shoulder, and shudders with pleasure as his knuckles brush against his rapidly swelling cock.

          It’s beyond awkward—more than once, the phone threatens to slip from where it’s wedged and crash to the floor as he shimmies the denim down his legs—but he manages to drop both the jeans and his boxers before Cas speaks again.

          “Are you naked, love?”

          “Almost.” Dean puts the phone down long enough to shirk out of his flannel and pull the t-shirt over his head. “Okay, okay I’m ready,” he says, panting a little from the combined buzz of alcohol and curious elation. “So, uh, what now?”

          “Very good,” Cas purrs, putting a hitch in Dean’s breath. “I miss you, Dean. Will you let me see you?”

          A wicked idea flits through his mind. There’s something he has hidden that Cas has yet to see, and although he’s a little worried about his reaction, this whole phone sex deal has put him in an experimental mood. Castiel is trying something new once again, bridging the physical distance between them to satisfy their mutual needs, and Dean wants to show him how much he appreciates the effort. Wants to please him. To share the pieces of himself Cas hasn’t witnessed, rare as they are.

          “Gimme a sec?” Dean replies.


          He puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the desk. Practically vibrating with anticipation, he tugs open a dresser drawer and reaches beneath the layers until his fingers graze the soft, silken material buried there. Once freed, he rubs the black satin between his thumb and forefinger. Presses it gently to his cheek, relishing the caress of it over his heated skin. It soothes, comforts, emboldens just as much as arouses, and a moan slips past his lips unbidden.

          “I hope you’re not touching yourself without me,” Cas says, his tone admonishing. It makes Dean feel like a schoolboy getting scolded by his teacher or some shit, which... Wow, okay, that’s... Super hot, actually, he thinks, mentally adding teacher-student roleplay to the ever-growing list of things they definitely have to try. Cas already has the look down, all they’d need is a nice pair of glasses...

          “No,” he quickly denies, sliding the cloth over his feet and up his bowed legs, “no, I’m uh—hold on.” Adjusting the fit until his now fully hard, throbbing cock sits perfectly, the flushed head peeking through the top of the lace waistband above a tiny pink bow, he grabs the phone, tongue darting out over his plump lower lip as he turns the camera on and snaps several pictures.

          It feels kinda weird though, taking them standing like this in the middle of his room, so he sits down on the bed instead. With his back against the headboard, he props up one knee, lets his legs fall slightly akimbo, and reaches his free hand down to tease at the lace edge. Hair wrecked from disrobing so messily, his eyelids hang low and heavy with lust, the gentle lamplight throwing his features into sharp relief. Somehow he just knows this is the one, and before he can overthink it, he hits send.

          The moment Cas receives it is punctuated by a surprised gasp. “Oh, Dean. Fuck. Lingerie?”

          He nods even though Cas can’t see him, teeth scraping over his bottom lip. “You like?” he whispers nervously.

          “I like them very much. They’re lovely.” There’s a rustling sound beneath Cas’ harsh breathing, followed by the drag of a zipper. Picturing Cas palming himself through his boxers to the image of Dean laid out and wanton like this, all for him, he has to clench his hand into a fist just to keep himself from doing the same. “I wish I were there with you right now.”

          “I wish you were too, babe.”

          “I bet those feel wonderful on you, don’t they? So soft and pretty. Do they make you feel pretty, Dean? Because you are. You’re beautiful.”

          The flush upon his cheeks spreads down his neck from the compliment, warms him from within until he’s glowing with it.

          He’s not oblivious—not entirely, anyway—and when he is, it’s usually at least somewhat intentional. He’s a master of burying the things he’d rather not shine a light upon. Shoving them down into the dark places where he can ignore them, however temporarily because they fester regardless. It’s something he’s working on. Has been for a long damn time now.

          (Sam helps, but he’s also learned not to push, at least not the way he used to. Cas, though... it’s Cas who’s really bringing it all out into the open. Reading him like a friggin’ book now that the air’s mostly cleared between them. It’s not perfect, but they’re getting there, they’re making progress. Healing together.)

          So yeah, he knows he’s attractive. He’s used it to his advantage, used it to fill a void he knew existed but at certain points denied, feigned ignorance of. Wielded it like a weapon, one that’s also been turned on him more times than he can count. Sharpened, dug in deep. By hunters, old acquaintances of John’s (shit, even by John himself a couple of times to prove a point). By men in skeevy bars, sneering lips curved around bottles, eyes dark and wanting in a way that made his skin crawl, made him fold in on himself, made him hate his own reflection like nothing else could. By cops, monsters, demons. Crap like, “You have delicate features for a hunter,” and, “What’s a twink like you doing in a place like this,” and, “Heard you were handsome. But you’re just edible,” and, “Look at those cocksucking lips.”

          But this—being called pretty? Beautiful?

          The first time Cas said it, that sullied part of Dean, that bit of his soul that never quite healed from those old scars, rebelled against it. Recoiled. He’d waved it off, the embarrassment and humiliation of it wriggling and slithering uncomfortably just beneath his skin. Shame, disgust, self-loathing. 

          But Cas saw. Cas knew it would take time, and it has.  

          Even now, it’d offend and insult him coming from anyone else. But when Cas says it, it’s not pain he intends to inflict. It’s not rubbing salt in Dean’s wounds. It’s a salve. Cas means it with complete sincerity. He says “beautiful” with a voice full of awe—absolute adoration bordering on worship—and though it still feels a little weird hearing it, though Dean struggles to believe that it’s in any way true, he trusts Cas implicitly, knows he means it, knows it isn’t simply about his face or body (although Cas sure as shit appreciates them, too; he made that abundantly clear one time with a super awkward monologue on the golden ratio before Dean shut him up with his mouth around his cock).

          When Cas calls Dean beautiful, he means all of him, inside and out. Makes him feel worthy.

          “Cas…” His eyes flutter closed, mind slipping into the warm, pleasant haze of that special place, the one that allows him release, relief. Peace. Heart pounding in his chest, he fights the temptation to touch himself through the delicate material because Cas hasn’t told him to yet and he wants to be good.

          “I want to hear you say it, Dean.”

          “Fuck…” He swallows thickly. “Yeah. I-I feel beautiful.”

          “Thank you. You’ve made me very happy.”

          The reddening of his flesh spreads like wildfire. “Can I see you now, too?” he pleads.

          There’s a brief silence before his phone pings. And son of a bitch, Cas is already completely nude, spread out on the cheap paisley motel duvet like a wet dream come to life, miles of tanned skin begging for Dean’s mouth, his hands. Castiel’s hair is an absolute disaster as though he’s been running those long fingers through it all night, lips puffy and pink from obvious biting, hooded eyes dark and intense. Cas holds the phone near his hip, the angle giving Dean a glorious view of its sharp edge.

          And that’s not even the best part.

          Dean’s only been with a few men in his life. Secret rendezvous, mostly back when he was hunting alone (well, and there was that threesome during his demon stint). But he can safely say Cas has a dick made for fucking porn. Gorgeously flushed, long, and thick, it strains proud and straight toward the divot of his bellybutton with Cas’ gorgeous fingers spread around the base in a tempting V.

          Whimpering with the need to taste the little bead of precome glistening at its tip, Dean licks his lips and murmurs, “Shit, Cas, you look so fucking good. I wanna suck you so bad. Wanna taste you.”

          Cas hums appreciatively and promises, “We’ll have time for that soon.”

          “When?” Jesus, he sounds clingy as hell, but he can’t even bring himself to care.

          Cas heaves a sigh. “If I leave early in the morning, I can make it back to the bunker by 6:30 or 7 p.m. tomorrow evening.” A pause. Then his voice drops even lower. Tinny though it is through the phone, it’s a familiar tone, one that brooks no arguments and compels Dean to listen, to obey. “Tonight, I want to listen to you fuck yourself. Pretend it’s my cock you’re riding, filling you up and breaking you apart. I want you begging for me, Dean, pleading for me to let you come. And you won’t come, not until I tell you, because I know you want to be a good boy for me. Isn’t that right?”

          Holy shit.

          His brain short-circuits, going completely blank with the overwhelming thrum of desire flooding his veins because fuck, that’s gotta be the single hottest thing he's ever heard.

          Sure, Cas is a massive dork. Socially awkward as ever, he uses a ridiculous amount of emojis in his texts, has an unnatural obsession with bees, and terrible taste in music and cars. He still doesn’t get the majority of Dean’s pop culture references despite the encyclopedia Metatron involuntarily uploaded into his brain all those years ago, drinks enough coffee to put a lesser man’s ticker permanently out of commission, and his sense of humor goes down like a mouthful of cotton.

          But that confident, assured, commanding demeanor comes out in exactly two situations; battle and the bedroom, and it’s always a stark reminder that even mortal, Cas is no ordinary man. A former multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent or whatever the fuck, Castiel is eons old. Witnessed the formation of the universe, commanded heavenly armies, razed Hell to save him, the Righteous Man. Has even been God.

          Though to be fair, it fucking sucked and drove him psycho, and yeah… Dean doesn't like to think about that


          True to form, he repeats the first stupid thing to cross his mind, “Holy shit.”

          “I require an actual answer before we can start, Dean.” Is it possible to hear someone roll their eyes? 'Cause if so, he's pretty sure Cas did just that. Fuck, Dean is so gone on this guy.

          “Yes. Hell, yes. All of that.”

          “If at any time you’re uncomfortable or want to stop, you will tell me, yes?”

          “Heh, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

          Cas chuckles. “Regardless, what are your safe words?”

          “Green for good, yellow to pause, red to stop.”

          “Will you use them if and when you need to take a break or stop?”

          “Yep. Cross my heart.”

          “And you understand that it’s okay to use them?”

          “I know, Cas.”

          “Very good, thank you. Now, you’ll need lubrication and a toy, whichever you like. Set them on the bed.”

          Dean rolls toward the nightstand on his side of the bed and flings open the drawer, fishing out the lube. He knows exactly which toys he wants tonight, too, so he sets them by the pillows. They’ve got nothing on Cas because ain’t no way cool silicone can match the silken skin of Cas’ cock, the throbbing heat of it that makes him feel so alive, or how Cas puts it to such masterful use. But using them knowing Cas is listening? Getting off to it right along with him? Fuck yeah, they’ll do just fine.

          “Got ‘em,” he says, almost breathless already in his excitement.

          “What did you choose?”

          He swallows the lump in his throat. It feels so weird saying this shit aloud. “The, uh—the vibrating plug and that big blue dildo. The one that, um, reminds me of your eyes.”

          “Perfect.” Dean can practically hear Cas smirking through the phone. Smug bastard. “Kneel on the bed and face the wall opposite the door.”

          He chokes down the desperate sound threatening to erupt from his throat and closes his eyes, slipping down, down, down into sweet, luxuriating calm, the place where nothing matters but this moment, this beautiful here and now. With a long, smooth exhale, he settles upon his knees, heels digging into the meat of his ass—heavy yet weightless as the rolling tide with Cas as his guiding moon, his gravitational pull—and murmurs, “Okay.”

          "Are you hard for me, Dean?"

          “Hell yes.”

          “Perfect,” Castiel croons. “Now get the lubricant, spread it on your fingers. Don't take off the panties, and do not touch your cock. I want to take my time with you, as I would were I there now. Do you understand?”


          “Shift the panties aside just enough to slide those fingers down your perineum. Move them in circles around your rim.”

          Dean bites his lip to muffle another whine.

          “Let me hear you, sweetheart,” Cas gently orders, the desire in his voice palpable. He knows Dean has misgivings about being noisy in the bedroom but makes a point to draw every last gasp and moan from his lips anyway, intent on breaking down his walls with such tender, patient baby steps. “I can just imagine how tight you are, how warm... Go ahead and finger yourself open for me.”

          “Fuck...” His knuckle drags against his inner walls, lube soothing the mild burn as the taut muscle stretches and gives. Slowly, he slide his finger deeper, then withdraws. In and out, tugging and pulling against his rim as it goes, loosening himself up, and it doesn't take long before he’s pliant and aching for the second one. “I’m… shit, I’m ready for more.”

          “You can add another.”

          Within minutes he's rocking down against his hand, nudging against his prostate on every third or fourth stroke, the head of his cock rubbing ruthlessly between his lower abdomen and lace with each shift of tense thighs, up, down, up. He begs for more, and Cas, thank fuck, allows a third, but it's simultaneously too much and not enough.


          “Good boy. You may put in the plug, now.”

          He scrambles to grab it and slick it up, eagerly aligning the plug with his stretched and needy hole. It slides in with just enough resistance to elicit a hiss, and being slightly thicker in girth than his fingers alone, nestles directly against his prostate when he sits back on his heels again. He shudders, an electric tingle lighting along his spine.

          Cas allows him a moment to catch his breath, then asks, “How are you feeling?”

          “‘M good, Cas. Real good.”

          “Turn it on. Keep it at the lowest level.”

          He reaches behind himself, thumbing awkwardly at the flat, round base for the little button, and when it kicks on— “Ah,” he hisses, “fuckfuckfuck...

          “That’s it, my love,” Cas says, making soft, shushing noises of comfort. “You’re doing so well.”

          Drawing a shaky breath, Dean steels himself before whispering, “Thank you.” He's got this.

          “Close your eyes. I want you to imagine your hands are my hands, alright? Imagine I’m there with you, making you feel good."

          “Okay,” he breathes out, another full-body shiver rolling through him.

          “Take one hand and grip your hair. Gently, though; no pulling. Not yet.”

          Dean's skin tingles with the shock of that promise and he moans as his fingers card through his soft, short locks.

          “You love to be petted like this, don't you?”

          “Yes,” he all but whines.

          “I know you do, sweetheart,” Cas says, voice thick with lust. “Now take the fore and middle fingers of your other hand and tease your lips. Imagine my fingers there, prodding for entry. Slide them slowly inside. Lick them, Dean. Get them nice and wet.” Spit dribbles down Dean’s chin, trailing through his five-o-clock shadow and he moans, lapping at his thick fingers, sloppy and sinful, already so impatient for more. “Take those fingers and trace them over your jaw. Down the length of your neck. Across your collarbone.”

          Dean tightens his grip and forces his head to one side, baring his neck just as Cas would and following his angel’s instructions to the letter. It’s a delicious torment, each soft caress ramping up his heart rate that much more, bringing a heaviness to each breath that makes his chest ache.

          “Tease your right nipple. Rub and circle and pinch. That's my mouth, Dean, licking and sucking and biting your beautiful freckled skin. I bet it's flushed such a pretty pink for me right now, isn't it?”

          A surprisingly soft sound of agreement bubbles from his throat. “Mmm… Feels so good.”

          “You're doing wonderfully, Dean,” Cas says. Dean’s heart is already thundering beneath his ribs in rhythm to the relentless pulses against his prostate, blood rushing in his ears, but the praise? That’s on another level. It does things to him not even touch can, and Cas knows it. Sweat trickles from Dean’s brow and, tossing his head skyward, he flicks it away from his closed eyes. “Now slick those fingers up again and move on to the left nipple. Make it hard and sore for me.”

          How can Cas sound so fucking composed, his voice coming out even and methodical like he's reading aloud from a lore manual or spell book? Dean's practically writhing on the sheets, nipples perky and tender, cool air settling upon his warm saliva in a contrast that sends shivers down his spine. Trapped between satin, lace, and the coarse hair of his treasure trail, his cock pulses desperately with each jolt of friction as he shifts his pelvis forward and back. And there Cas is with his gravelly voice comin' out like whiskey and velvet, smooth and steady even as it burns going down. He's a bastard, and the snarky, rebellious part of Dean itches to let him know it.

          What comes out instead is a winded, “Cas, please…”

          Son of a bitch, he's so whipped.

          But then Cas groans, rough and lascivious, and oh, maybe he's not so unaffected after all. A sly thought crosses Dean's mind. Cas did say he wanted to hear him beg, and he enjoys cracking the angel’s stoic façade just as much as Cas loves turning Dean into a damn puddle. Which he’s definitely succeeding at right now, because Dean’s starving for it. He wants more.

          “Please, please Cas, I want you, I need you, need your fat cock splitting me open so fuckin' bad.”

          “Fuck,” Cas growls, and finally, there it is—the loud, wet slap of flesh against flesh—and the image of Cas beating his dick as he listens to Dean teasing himself, filling his own tight hole, panting and whining for more, sends such a strong bolt of arousal through him that his cock spurts a huge glob of precome all over his lower belly. “Pull your hair now Dean. Make it hurt.”

          Without hesitation, his fingers thread between the strands and shit—he yelps as the pain reverberates through him, a million tiny nerves blaring warning signals at once, shooting from his crown down his spine and making his toes curl. His grip strengthens as Cas groans his approval, nails scraping against sensitive skin.

          “Such a good boy for me,” Cas tells him, and goddamn if that doesn’t do all kinds of things to his insides, and Dean knows right there and then that whatever Cas asks, whatever he demands, Dean will do. He’ll fucking kneel and grovel and beg and plead as much as Cas wants, whenever he wants, because he’s perfect, so goddamn perfect and so fucking sweet, and he loves him so much, he’s literally shaking with how badly he wants to taste and smell and touch—

          “Only for you, Cas,” he pants. “I’m yours, your good boy, please, baby, I’ll do anything, I—”

          “I know you will, my love,” Cas says, pausing for breath. His angel is waiting for something, purposefully dangling Dean over the edge of that tantalizing, agonizing precipice as he crests upon the endless waves of pleasure, mind growing hazy with arousal as every synapse fires like ricocheting shotgun shrapnel, muscles growing sore and stiff from the position though his body feels almost weightless, and just as he’s about to give in and really beg for it, Cas finally commands, “Take out the plug now. Are you ready?”

          Dean was ready fucking yesterday. “Yeah, yeah, okay.” His fingers slip and slide as they twist and tug the base of the plug. After a brief struggle and frustrated grunt, he pulls it free, his gaping, wet hole clenching and pulsing around empty space, and pleads, “Need you.”

          “So greedy for it.”

          “Yeah," Dean agrees. “Need it, baby, please... But—”

          “But what?”

          “Can I... move?”

          “I know it’s uncomfortable, sweetheart, but I want you kneeling for this.”

          Knees protesting and legs tingling from the lack of circulation, he whimpers but complies with a breathy, “Okay,” eager to play out Cas’ fantasy in whatever way he demands.

          “What’s your color, Dean?”

          “Green,” he says quickly, “still green, scout’s honor.” No way in hell is he gonna let Cas stop, not when he’s already so close. And honestly, his knees have been through way the hell worse.

          “Then you’re going to stay just like this and ride that cock as if it were mine. Understand?”

          Jesus Christ. “Yeah. Yeah, I got you. I’m ready.”

          “Good. Do it now. I want to hear every sound.”

          He lubes up the dildo and, holding the panties once again to the side, presses the slippery-smooth head to his rim. Pushes it in slowly though he wants so damn badly to go faster, letting out a moan of Cas’ name as it pops through the tight ring of muscle and he begins to pump his hips down against it. Thrust, stretch, gasp, thrust. By the time he finally works down to the flared base, the blood in his veins is lighting him up from within, his skin burning hot with want, thighs shaking, chest heaving, pretty panties soaked with lube and precome and sweat.

          “Fuck,” he moans weakly. “It’s-it’s so big.”

          “Tell me how it feels, Dean.”

          “Good, so good. I feel so full, I’m—oh shit, baby, I’m close—please, please Cas, can I touch my dick?”

          Cas huffs a breathy laugh, speeding up the pace of his own hand. “Not yet. Want to see you like this.” Desperate now, Dean whines again only to be met with, “Show me, Dean.”

          Wiping a spit and lube-covered hand on the blanket (he really shoulda put down a towel. Oh well, too late now), he thumbs open the camera and does his best to angle it so Cas gets a good view. After several tries he thinks, screw it. He takes a short video instead, first putting his stretched and puffy pink hole on full display, ass and legs taut and trembling. Then brings the phone around to his front so Cas can see his entire body’s flushed and gleaming, hair an outright mess, cock red and pulsing and leaking all over his panties. His irises are overtaken by black, cheeks tinged dark pink and stained with tears he didn’t even know he’d been crying. He looks positively debauched already and he fucking loves it.

          “Yes,” Cas groans, husky and deep. “Yes, just like that. You’re beautiful, Dean, so beautiful, and all mine...”

          The knowledge that he’s getting Cas off like this, just with his image and voice, leaves him teetering on that cliff, so ready to fall that it hurts.

         “Yeah, yours…” He ruts against the dildo and fuck it’s right on his prostate like this and every upward shift rubs his cockhead against the satin and lace and his legs are on fire, he’s not gonna make it, he’s too close— “Gonna… gonna come, Cas,” he begs, voice rough and fucked-out, “please, please can I come?”

          “Such a needy boy. Touch your cock through the panties.” Cas sounds close too, his composure fracturing more with each passing second. “Want to make you come in them, get them all wet and filthy.” Dean immediately goes to work, rubbing roughly at the smooth satin and lace as he rises and falls, bouncing between the toy and the brutal tease of his fingers, rambling in near gibberish while Cas spouts filth through the phone. “When I get home… I want to fuck your pretty mouth, Dean… gonna paint your freckles with my come. Then I’m gonna blindfold you, shove my tongue in your tight little hole, tease you till you cry and beg for my cock—”

          “Yeah, yeah Cas. Please. I want it, I want it so bad. Fucking come all over me, baby, mark me up and make me yours—”

          “Nngg, fuck, Dean...

          “Tell me, Cas… please, please, please, I can’t—”

          “Now, Dean,” Cas rasps thickly. “Come for me.

          The pitiful, guttural cry that rips from him should be utterly humiliating, but Dean’s too blissed-out to care as his mind blanks and body shudders and thick, hot come spills over his hand and stomach. He collapses then, the dildo slipping out as he falls to the mattress trembling and crying and utterly wrecked.

          Seconds later, Cas follows groaning his name and Dean hums, sated and content, muffled where his mouth is smashed into the blanket right beside the phone. They remain like that for minutes, hours, he can’t tell, just listening to each other breathing. Warmth unfurls within his chest. He feels light, so light, body weightless and numb, drifting upon clouds when he realizes Cas has been repeating a question.

          “Mmmm?” he mumbles in response.

          “Are you alright?”

          “‘M awesome… that… you’re awesome.”

          Cas chuckles sleepily. “As are you. Thank you, Dean. You did very well. I’m so proud of you.”

          His mouth attempts a smile but his muscles are far too loose to manage much more than a half-hearted twitch. “‘M tired.”

          “I understand. Can you still clean yourself up?”

          Dean grumbles. He doesn’t know if he can move or that he wants to but is alert enough to surmise Cas isn’t asking so much as telling. “‘Kay...”

          “Drink some water or juice for me, too. Will you do that?”

          “Yeah. Promise, babe. Come home soon.”

          “I will. Goodnight, Dean." A little pause, a soft gust of air. Then, "I love you.”

          That does make him smile, however lazily, because he knows it to be true. “Love you, too. So damn much.”

          Always has, always will.