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victorious secret

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Dean didn't realize until after Sam had left the motel to grab to-go burgers that Cas had procured a little something….uh, extra. At the mall. When they'd been shopping earlier for Claire.

Apparently, Cas is explaining to him right before Dean's glazed eyes—fixed on the hot-pink striped Victoria's Secret bag in Cas, Castiel angel of the Lord's, hand—while Dean had been exploring a menswear store for a new suit, Cas had picked up Dean a few in-store products.

"Cas," Dean croaks, his face hotter than hell. "What's in the bag."

"I just picked ones that I thought you'd like based on your past history," Cas explains, all casual like he's regifting a fucking umbrella and not women's lacy lingerie, which is what Dean has to assume is waiting for him when he opens the bag. If he opens the bag.

Shit. Shit, shit. Dean's head is swimming with heat.

"Dean?" Cas asks, for the first time seeming uncertain. "It was simply a gesture, you don't have to accept if you don't like it."

"I mean, what the hell, Cas," Dean says to the floor, cupping both hands over his face. His skin feels like sweaty and stuffy, like he's running a fever. "What the hell would lead you to think….think, that I….."

There's a horrific awkward silence in which neither of them say anything for several moments—Dean's still stewing in mortification, Cas is maybe catching up on what is and isn't appropriate human friendship behavior. Or maybe-more-than-friends behavior. Whatever the hell he and Cas are.

"I'm….sorry," Cas says carefully. "I see I've overstepped my bounds. It wasn't my intention to make you embarrassed or uncomfortable."

"Bang-up job," Dean chokes, his face still covered.

"You can just return them," Cas says quietly, swinging the bag and placing it in the chair. "Again, I'm sorry."

"Dude, no way in hell am I stepping foot in a Victoria's Secret," Dean protests, peeking out from between his fingers to glare at Cas balefully. "Only creeps or guys who are getting seriously lucky go in there."

"Okay," Cas says, his expression blank, and when he heads out, he drops the bag in the trashcan. "I'm going to find Sam." And he leaves.

Dean spends several moments focusing on his breathing, his eyes stinging with embarrassment that Cas—again, Castiel—had picked up on some cue that it was okay to buy Dean lady's underwear. That Dean would want it. That Dean would enjoy it.

Dean stares at the trashcan, where the hem of the hot-pink bag stands out, mocking him. Then at the door, where Cas had left.

Okay, he thinks, once the blood in his face has resettled into the appropriate limbs of his body. He's…curious. It is kind of funny, at a second glance: Cas picking out panties for him. He almost cracks a rueful grin at the image of Cas stoic-faced, frowny and deathly solemn, thumbing through lacy panties, thinking about….

Dean's throat goes dry and the sweeping feeling of heat is back. Thinking of what they'd look like on Dean. Which ones Dean would like. Based on…past history.

"Fuck, Cas," Dean says under his breath, and once his morbid curiosity gets the best of him, he heads over to the trashcan. He peeks out the window and does a guilty sweep to make sure Sam and Cas aren't nearby—the only mercy in this situation is that Sam hadn't been around to witness this shitshow. Dean downright cringes at the thought.

Dean opens the trashcan and paws his way into the bag, his fingers tightening around soft lace and pulling out a handful. He checks the window again before he heads over to the motel table, laying out what Cas had picked out.

The first one's a little more modest, carnation-pink lace that's pretty standard but still simple enough to be what Dean supposes is cute. The second is a black thong and a lot raunchier, still lace, V-shaped to shape around ass-cheeks. Christ. The last is another thong, basically just a small scrap of green lace fabric with a bow on the crotch.

Dean kind of wants to have an aneurysm. Dean kind of definitely wants to jerk off.

This is so wrong, he thinks dizzily to himself but he can't stop thinking about Cas holding these, Cas picturing Dean in these, Cas wearing these—Jesus, had he tried them on? To make sure they fit? Dean's about to combust.

He tells himself very calmly, very rationally, to stop thinking about what Cas would look in one of these, the way his dick would strain just slightly against the front of the pink ones—

Cold shower. STAT.

Dean scoops up the panties and stumbles to the trash-can to pitch them, but pauses last minute. He pivots on his heel, torn, before he crosses to his duffel, shoves the panties deep to the bottom, and heads for the shower.


Dean forgets about the panties for a week.

That's a total lie. He thinks about the panties at the bottom of his duffel every single day for a week, paranoid that they're gonna burn a hole through the bottom and tumble out in plain sight where Sam or Cas can see them. He'd had a close call with the pink pair—he'd been reaching for some boxers pre-shower and they'd gotten tangled up somehow, and he'd yelped and grappled to shove them back down while Sam had asked in the background, "What now?"

But Sam and Cas are gone right now. Sam had needed help on research for a local case, what Cas suspects is a rampant rugaru, and Dean had opted to stay behind.

He sits on the bed, hands between his knees, and watches the TV without processing what's actually going on onscreen. His thoughts are on his duffel bag, although he resolutely tells himself his thoughts are anywhere else.

His cock jerks in his jeans in interest, and he squirms and tries to refocus on the show—an old rerun of Friends.

Dean can still remember the soft, satiny feeling of the pink lace ones, the rougher, coarse fabric of the black thong and fuck. Fuck.

Fuck Cas, really, for doing this to him. And being all doe-eyed and innocent about it like he didn't know the implications of handing Dean a handful of lingerie.

Dean flicks off the TV and stands uncertainly for a moment, eyeing his duffel bag, before he crosses over and kneels, rustling his way through his other clothes until he reaches the underwear at the bottom. The first one he fishes out is the green thong—it's kind of a sage green, and the lace is nearly transparent. Dean swallows dryly and stands to unbuckle his belt, where he can feel his cock already tenting his jeans.

He shucks off his jeans, then his boxers, and for a moment, he's terrified to try them on, even though it's just underwear, for Christ's sake. Just slightly scantier, girlier underwear than what he's used to. Whatever.

Dean picks up one foot and slides it through the leg-hole, then the other, until the front of the panties roll up to encase his cock and fuck—he's already bulging out from them, already turned on as hell as the back of the thong slips into his ass-crack. There's no way in hell panties should feel this soft or good, and for a second, Dean's kinda jealous because, seriously—chicks get to do this all the time?

Dean takes another deep breath and peels off his shirt so that goosebumps ripple all up his skin—he's standing in the middle of a motel room wearing nothing but the tiniest pair of panties that Cas, of all people on planet earth or beyond, had picked out for him, and he's….so going to hell. He loves it.

He takes a deep breath, watches it fill his chest, and pads barefoot to the bathroom, where there's a full-length mirror behind the door. For a moment, as he shuts the door, he's kinda nervous about seeing his reflection, but hey, Dean thinks, checking himself out. He looks….really good.

His cock is still half-flagged, definitely interested but not totally on board yet, the green lace stretched taut, bright and vibrant against his hips. He turns and stares at himself from the side, the way the top bit of lace spreads out obscenely over the top of his ass, and after a moment of hesitation, he closes his eyes and slips a finger in his mouth, sucking it until it prunes.

With a shaking hand, he drags his fingers down and pulls aside the strap of the thong, rubbing with the barest amount of pressure over his hole, and the sensation is electric—he sucks in a sharp breath and jerks, his cock jumping. Definitely all hands on deck.

Dean closes his eyes again, feeling a hot flush creeping up his chest, and strokes the pad of his finger over his hole again. Except it's not his fingers now, it's….

Cas is the first person his brain supplies—not Lisa, not Cassie, not anyone from porn or past hook-ups, who all would've been perfectly suitable, but Cas. His face is hot with shame at the sheer wrongness of it, but he can't help but imagine it's Cas rubbing his fingers over his ass, along his balls, kissing down the back of his neck, his back, dragging his stubble along the back of Dean's jaw, whispering in that asphalt-gravel voice, "Dean"—

"Oh," Dean says out loud, startled by the electrifying reaction that has, and he's rock-hard now, his cock straining almost uncomfortably against the front of the green lace. His cheeks and lips are dark and flushed in the mirror, his irises reduced to a thin, hazy ring of green, and he wonders, wildly for a moment, what he'd do if Cas walked in right now.

He tries out the name, mouths "Cas" just to taste the syllable on his lips, and wets his finger again. This time, he's a little braver, nudging his finger in up to the knuckle so that he arches onto his toes, panting. Close, but no cigar, and goddamn, this should not be as hot as it is. He stretches a little bit further, his finger brushing against something that makes sirens go off in his head and he sags against the door in shock, panting heavily, his loud, ragged breaths filling the bathroom.

The sirens are still going off. It's…

His cell phone. Ringing off the hook.

"Shit," Dean growls, scrambling out of the bathroom and grabbing his illuminated, buzzing phone off the desk. "Yeah?"

"Dean," Cas says gravely, rumbling through the line, and fuck him over if that doesn't go straight to his cock. Goddammit. "What are you doing?"

"I'm just…." Dean's voice comes out a little squeaky, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Just watching TV back at the motel. Where are you guys?"

"We need you to get out here now," Cas says, and he hears Sam shout something in the background. Suddenly, arousal's at the far back of his mind. "We think we found the rugaru—"

"Fuck," Dean snaps, already halfway into his jeans. "You guys took this thing on without me?"

"You weren't exactly nearby," Cas replies, just as testily. "And we discovered it mostly by accident. Just get here, alright?"

"Wait, where are you?" The line cuts into static for a moment, and Dean stills where he's fastening his belt buckle. "Cas!"

"—45 Jackson Street," Cas' voice crackles back in. "2045 Jackson Street, near the barn. Just hurry, Dean—" And the line goes dead.

"Shit," Dean hisses, throwing on a shirt and digging in his duffel for his gun before he's out the door, Impala keys in hand.


Sam's already unconscious by the time gets there, which. Fantastic, that's exactly what he needs. Cas is in the process of getting thrown into a barnside, crashing through the old wood and disappearing in a cloud of splinters and dust when Dean throws himself out the Impala's front door, barely pausing to put it in park.

"Hey, ugly!" Dean shouts, and the rugaru turns with a snarl, fresh blood smeared across its face. Dean lights the torch and misses the switch, cursing, and the rugaru comes at him with all the force of a freight train, bowling him over in a hot, rancid sweep of blood and decaying flesh.

Dean fumbles with the blowtorch as the rugaru scrabbles over his skin, searching for purchase to sink his teeth into, and he manages to dig a foot into a ribcage to propel the thing off him—which promptly sends it sailing into the side of the barn where Cas is most likely laying knocked out.

"Son of a bitch," Dean says, sprinting toward the barn, and in the back of his mind, he notes that wearing a thong on the job is an unwise choice for the future, given the way it's riding his asscrack like no other.

Cas is conscious but weak, struggling with both hands and no weapon to fend the thing off, his dress-shirt caked in blood and his legs struggling to keep from getting pinned.

Dean lights the blowtorch, feels the spark of satisfaction as it flashes and lights up in his hand, and yells, "Cas, move!" and Dean's gotta hand it to him—the dude moves, digging both feet into the rugaru's stomach to kick him off, and Dean chucks the torch and dives to the floor for cover, where there's a heated blast and a hideous scream.

For a moment, there's just the sound of sizzling flesh, crackling flames, and heavy breathing. Dean's still stretched out on his stomach, his head ducked under the shield of his arms, even as he hears Cas get to his feet behind him.

"Dean," Cas says, the crunch of his shoes moving toward him. "I checked Sam's vitals and he's fine. Are you—"

There's a moment of silence, which never means anything good with Cas, and Dean checks over his shoulder to see the hold-up, and Cas is staring at him—well, no, not quite. Staring fixedly at his ass, where naturally the green lace had ridden up over the waistband of his jeans when he'd taken a fall.

"Shit," Dean breathes out, dropping his head back onto his forearms. "It's not…."

"You're wearing them," Cas says, his tone neutral, almost blank. Dean's ears heat up, prickling along his neck. "Why are you wearing them? I thought you threw them out."

"I don't know," Dean bites out, too embarrassed to say anything else, and Cas takes a knee next to him, still drenched in someone else's blood, his red-soaked tie hanging lopsidedly from his neck. There's a smudge of dry blood along his cheekbone.

"It's okay that you're wearing them," Cas says quietly, and there's something like a glint in his eyes. Dean would call it near-predatory, if he didn't know Cas better. "It's okay if you like them."

"Fuck you, Cas," Dean sighs out, burying his hot face in his arms again. "I love them, you know I do."

"Why didn't you just say so?"

"Because it's not—" Dean begins heatedly, then drops his voice, eyes flicking to where Sam's still unconscious. "It's not a thing that guys like me are really allowed to do, okay?"

"So?" Cas says.

Dean closes his eyes. "Why did you get these for me?"

"Because I thought you'd look good in them," Cas says, plain as anything, and a flood of the arousal that had gotten rudely interrupted earlier pours right back through him, despite the fact that his brother is asleep not five feet from him and the fact that there's the flaming remains of a monster corpse even nearer.

"Goddammit, Cas," he says, and his voice sounds low even to him.

"You should enjoy the things you enjoy, Dean," Cas says, reaching over near-playfully to snap the strap of the thong, and that's fucking it. He grabs Cas by the tie, soaked in blood and sweaty as he is, and rolls to pin him to the floor of the barn. Cas' eyes are dark and wild now, like an incoming storm; his hands fasten to either of Dean's hips, fingers spreading, and if there were any doubt in Dean's mind that Cas didn't want this, it burns up into ash.

"You like this, huh?" Dean says, grinding his ass slowly against Cas' crotch, and Cas hisses out between his teeth, his hands fleeting to cup Dean's ass through his jeans. "You thought about me wearing these, Cas?"

There's a shift in Cas' expression, and Dean knows he's in for it before the world tumbles and it's Dean who's flat on his back, completely winded as Cas nips at his mouth, tongue sliding between Dean's teeth, his knee slotting between Dean's thighs. Dean's helpless to it, just whines and shamelessly rubs his hard dick against Cas' leg like a dog in heat when Cas bites along his jaw, lightly against the tendon of his neck, a collarbone where one of his shirt buttons had gotten ripped off.

"Shouldn't we do this someplace more hygienic?" Dean chokes out with his upstairs brain, because his downstairs brain is completely fucking on board, and Cas ignores him, just goes straight for his fly and unzips him. Dean gasps when some of the pressure on his cock lets up, and Cas says, darkly, "Lift," and Dean does, lifts his ass straight off the barn-floor on command so Cas can tug his jeans all the way off, and Cas is back on him again, hot wet mouth, a clash of teeth.

Cas is still completely dressed, still crusted in blood, and there's no fucking way that should be as hot as it is, but Dean's ready to go off like a rocket, just lets himself be manhandled when Cas runs his hands down the back of Dean's bare thighs.

"Cas," Dean chokes out, gripping Cas by the hair like a horse by the reins in an attempt at control over this tornado of a creature. "Cas."

Cas rumbles out this low hum and kisses his way up Dean's thighs and Dean is just shaking, every nerve ending lit on fire. His cock is so hard that the head is poking out the top of the panties and leaking all over his stomach, all the pent-up blue balls precome from earlier, basically, and Cas wastes no time when he gets there—just sucks the head of Dean's cock between his lips with rabid enthusiasm, his breath hot through the lace of the panties.

"Ohmygod," is all Dean can get out, his hips rolling. "Jesus Christ—"

Cas moves lower, nosing at Dean's dick through the panties, and Dean could outright sob—Cas can be one of the gentlest people he knows for sure but goddamn, this guy's a tiger in the sack. Who fucking knew. All of Dean's fantasies—not that he'd had that many—of Cas being some blushing virgin have been completely wiped from the memory bank. This dude's an animal.

And Dean cannot get enough of it. Shit.

"Turn over," Cas growls out, and Dean's putty in his hands at this point; he just rolls over, his whole body shaking with stimulation, his dick pressing hard against the concrete of the floor, and spreads his legs.

For a long, stretched, agonizing moment, Cas pauses.

"Cas," Dean groans, ducking his forehead into the barn-floor in embarrassment. "Please."

"Please what?" Cas asks curiously, trailing a thumb down the curve of Dean's ass.

"You fucker," Dean growls, and he hears the soft huff of Cas' laugh behind him. Smug bastard. "You know what."

"I don't know what."

"Fuck me right now, Cas, I swear to God."

"You swear to God?" Cas' thumb comes to a halt in its path down his ass, and Dean squirms, desperate to alleviate the throbbing pressure on his dick.

"Please," Dean chants, eyes closed. "Pleasepleaseplease."

"We don't have the proper materials needed for that," Cas says, sounding like he's frowning, and Dean nearly outright sobs.

"Use spit or something, Jesus, I don't care, just get inside me or something—"

"That won't work," Cas says, still in that slow, pensive way, like they're discussing the fucking stock market, and Dean whines shamelessly because he needed Cas in him yesterday and didn't even realize how badly, didn't even know how much he wanted—

"I guess we'll have to improvise," Cas says, and Dean swallows a gasp when Cas' thumbs spread the cheeks of his ass, his pinky hooking the strap of the thong to the side. There's a rush of cool air, a stabbing moment wild uncertainty on Dean's end, before Cas leans forward and licks a stripe straight over Dean's hole.

"Fucking—" The shout's torn from him, so loud that some birds fly up from the coop like twenty feet over. "Cas!"

This is filthy, what it is, filthier than anything Dean could've possibly even fathomed, this fully dressed angel eating his ass out all content and happy as the livelong day, and Dean knows, right then, that this is going to ruin him. Cas is going to wreck him for sex for the rest of his fucking life.

Dean full-on dry-sobs when he feels Cas' tongue slip inside, and he cants his ass backwards, begging. "Cas, please."

"You're truly incredible, do you know that?" Cas asks, and Dean groans.

"Dude, you're eating my ass. Please don't do that right now." Dean's on edge, ready to blow, a familiar tingle working its way down his spine, through his toes, in his gut, on the edge of something incredible but mostly right now fucking miserable.

Cas hums fondly, which Dean should not be able to feel all the way up his body, and swipes his tongue over Dean's hole again, his knuckles stroking downward quickly over the stretch behind Dean's balls, and that's it—Dean comes instantly, on the spot, crying out and shaking his way through the sensations before he goes boneless as a rag doll against the barn floor, gasping for breath.

For a moment, the barn is completely silent, and Dean's still trembling—with shock, yeah, but mostly overstimulation from pleasure, and for a moment, he's too afraid to turn around and look Cas in the eye after that, after that.

But then Cas gently rolls his hands into Dean's shoulder blades, planting a gentle kiss to the small of his back, and Dean twists over onto his back to gaze wide-eyed at Cas, who's staring at him with the most incredible expression—slightly dazed, like he's the one who'd had his world rocked, his mouth wet and red, his hair fucked up beyond repair.

"Did I do that right?" Cas asks, and Dean just says, "Holy shit," and pulls him down, kissing him deep enough to taste. He can feel Cas' dress-shirt rubbing against the wet-spot on his stomach, where his panties are completely ruined, and Dean feels dirty and filthy but completely sated and blissed, like he could lay on this barn-floor here with Cas until the end of the world—

—until Cas shifts briefly, uncomfortably, and grimaces, and a look down tells Dean that Cas is still all systems go.

"Shit," Dean says, appalled by his manners. "I'm the worst lay."

"Dean," Cas begins, but Dean's already fumbling with Cas' belt buckle, hooking his thumbs around the waistband and yanking them down. Cas makes this curious noise, a cross between a groan and a whimper when Dean frees his cock from the confines of his pants, and Dean gathers up the precome at the head and jacks it down the shaft, where Cas jerks into it eagerly.

Cas lets out this punched-out little wheezing noise of surprise, his blue eyes wide and dazed, his tie swinging with Dean's hand motions—and Dean's frankly amazed by the contrast of Cas' two sex selves, the wild thing that had rimmed him into next Sunday and this soft, gentle, floppy creature that pistons into Dean sweet and slow, eyes closed, eyebrows scrunched with sensation.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean breathes, and Cas' shoulders jerk at the sound of his name. "I wanna see you."

Cas' breathing picks up at that, and it strikes Dean, ridiculously, that Cas is still fully dressed, which is all manners of unfair. Next time, Dean thinks determinedly as he stares down at Cas' cock, reappearing and disappearing into his closed fist, they'll do this right. On a bed, fully naked, full nine.

"C'mon, babe," Dean coaxes, the pet-name falling from his lips easy as anything, and Cas groans and arches his neck, full-on panting. "C'mon, Cas."

Cas ducks his head and lets loose with a soft hiss, coming all over Dean's hand, chest, stomach in a warm rush, and Dean's instantly addicted to it; in front of Cas' wide, glazed eyes, he raises the hand to his mouth to lick the come clean from it, maintaining eye contact.

"Dean," Cas whispers, his eyes huge and amazed, and Cas, Dean can't help but think, is one honestly beautiful creature.

"Did I do that right?" Dean mocks playfully, pulling Cas down on top of him so they're pressed chest-to-chest. "You fucking tease."

Cas chuckles, a small snuffling noise into the hollow between Dean's neck and collarbone.

"This is so gross," Dean says, to no one in particular. "We're literally soaked in blood, come, sweat, bodily….fluids…."

"We could take a shower once we get back," Cas suggests, poking his head up in interest. "Although I think the panties are beyond, uh, repair."

"Hey," Dean says with a soft smirk, pulling him back down. "I've got two more back in the room with your name on them."

"Okay," Cas breathes out, and relaxes against Dean.