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Sand In Your Pockets And Nothing On Your Mind

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The bedroom window is flung wide as if to harness the breeze, but the air outside is as still and sea-humid as it is indoors, not even a breath of wind rolling in off the ocean. The sun floods in instead, painting a blazing square of yellow on the bedsheets, and Dean stretches in it like a cat, muscles shifting under the smooth skin of his back. Even as Castiel watches, he turns his head, throws a hot green glance over his shoulder, and Castiel feels it catch in his stomach like a shard of glass, sudden and sharp.

"Cas," Dean murmurs, shifting his hips. His voice is an invitation, and the sheen on his skin even more so, salt water still drying in the dip of his spine and at the nape of his neck. If Cas were to kiss him, he'd taste like summer, sweated-out coconut oil and the ocean, and Castiel takes a step toward him without thinking, mouth quirking into a smile.

"Tease," he accuses, dark, and Dean grins back at him, pushes a hand through his damp hair.

"Nah," he says, "I follow through."

It's true, Dean does. Castiel knows this from experience, from every morning, afternoon, and evening that Dean has appeared on his porch, the sun limning his limbs like it's in love with him, worshipping him. Castiel understands the feeling. Whenever Dean appears -- all white smile and green eyes, broadening shoulders and slim hips -- he wants nothing more than to drop to his knees himself.

He watches Dean on his bed now, the way his muscles shift and flex, and takes a step forward, then another. The sunlight pouring in through the open windows caresses Dean like a lover, turns him to gold waiting for Castiel's touch to work opposite Midas magic on him, change him back into a real boy.

Castiel's fingers twitch, his palms aching to feel Dean beneath him.

He takes another step and pulls his shirt -- only half-buttoned -- up and over his head, tossing it on the floor. Dean watches him the whole time, lifting up on his elbows and twisting his head. His eyes are bright and Castiel's blood feels molten. With Dean he can be golden, too.

"C'mere," Dean says, and Castiel feels his lips curving up into something coy and playful he'd never have ventured two weeks ago, before Dean broke down the barriers he'd built up around himself. Still, as he skims his thumbs down his stomach, a parry before he reaches his fly, there's self-consciousness lurking at the back of his throat. Isn't he ridiculous, playing like this with a boy like Dean, ten years his junior and more perfect than any artist could have rendered him? But then Dean's eyes meet his, heated and dark for a second before they dart away to track the path of Castiel's fingers, and Castiel can no longer be uncertain. Dean wants him, drinks in the sight of his indoor-pale limbs and runner's muscles as if Castiel, too, were beautiful. The why is still a mystery to him, but on the point itself, he is clear.

"Cas," Dean wheedles, and Castiel jerks out of his reverie to catch him rolling his hips down into the bed, exaggerated, back and ass flexing with the motion. It doesn't exactly dissuade Castiel from his course of action, if this is what he'll get for it, but the sinuous pull of Dean's muscles and the urgency in his voice demand more than impartial observation. Dean's hard already, Castiel knows, dick trapped between his body and the sheets, and the thought makes his own cock fatten further in his pants, wanting Dean trapped instead between the sheets and Castiel.

"Pushy, aren't you?" he chides, voice low, and shucks pants and shorts together over his hips, kicks them aside. Dean laughs his pleasure and grinds down hard into the mattress, one smooth roll of his pelvis. The motion is almost childish, accompanied by a swift stroke of Dean's foot to the mattress that makes it bounce, but the expression on his face is entirely adult.

Naturally, Castiel simply has to ruin the tableau by leaping onto the bed. Dean invited it, after all, with his pouting insistence, and the way he yelps and laughs when Castiel lands astride his thighs encourages him to take hold of Dean's shoulders and pin them, grinning against the back of his neck. His dick is pressed to the small of Dean's back, hot wet kiss of the head to smooth skin, and his heart is pounding in his throat, exhilarated. He growls, "Dean," and Dean muffles his laughter in the pillow, then deliberately pushes his ass up and back so Castiel hisses.

"Cas," Dean says, and his voice is sultry and self-satisfied. "Fuck me."

The words go straight to Castiel’s cock, zinging through him like the summer lightning that’s graced the shore. They’ve watched storms together through the open windows, fucked while the wind roared and the waves tossed and Dean trembled in Castiel’s hands like a sapling. Castiel had felt like God in that moment, powerful and consuming, consumed, Dean clinging to him, clenching around him.

He presses Dean into the mattress with his hips, admiring the way Dean’s shoulders flex beneath his fingers, enjoying the contrast of his own pale skin against Dean’s golden tan and freckles. Leaning in, he licks at the line of Dean’s neck, coming away with the taste of salt and sun in his mouth. “You have to ask more nicely than that,” he says, voice rumbling low. “Show your elders some respect.” He doesn’t know where the authority comes from; usually he feels awkward around Dean, every one of the years between them weighing on his shoulders until he wonders if there’s something fundamentally wrong with Dean’s vision or his taste or something because why, why --

There’s something about Dean when they’re together, though, something about him when they’re in bed -- or in the kitchen against the counter or in the shower or...well -- that makes Castiel feel alive. He wants to play and he wants to play with Dean.

“Some respect, huh?” Dean’s voice comes out slurred, his face turned, only half of it visible. He’s got a good profile, one that Castiel imagines will only improve as he gets older. He pushes back into Castiel’s palms, muscles shifting. “What’re you going to do if I don’t?”

Castiel pins him harder, fingertips digging into Dean’s shoulders, hips grinding. Dean groans beneath him and Castiel shudders; it’s the best sound he’s ever heard. He leans close, his lips brushing the perfect shell of Dean’s ear.

“Nothing you’ll like.”

Who are you? he asks himself. Where did you come from? But Dean groans again and his hands twist in the sheets and he’s nodding, nodding.

"Do we have a deal?" Castiel pushes, and he pushes down with his hips, too, working his dick in a rough, firm circle against the base of Dean's back, the lush swell of his ass. He feels dirty, pornographic, powerful like some long-forgotten god whose worship is sex. It's an unaccustomed feeling, one that rushes up his throat like seawater, suffocates gloriously. His fingers clench, nails pressing into Dean's skin, and he breathes, "Dean."

"Nnnn." The sound Dean makes is only that, a sound, and he rubs his face restless against the pillows, panting suddenly in a way that makes Castiel's blood skip. "God -- yeah, okay. Cas, c'mon, I'll be good, I'll --" and he shoves up and back, spreading his knees until he can anchor himself to push up into a better position. "Please, Cas, want it."

"Yeah?" Castiel's throat is bone-dry, suddenly, tongue sticking. He slides backward, the hands on Dean's shoulders smoothing down his back, either side of his spine, until they find the dimples at the rise of his ass. Freed of Castiel's weight on his hips, Dean can push up more easily, now, and he does, arching his back so his shoulders are flat to the mattress and his backside is lifted, presented. Castiel's cock jerks, pulses out a smear of precome, and he struggles to swallow as he draws his hands lower still, thumbs following the cleft of Dean's ass.

"Cas." Dean's voice is a low plea, groaning, and he pushes back against the slow tease of Cas's touch, craning for it. "Yes. Please. Sir." Dean laughs, but it's half a whimper. "That enough respect for you?"

"Christ." If Castiel were really the smooth operator he should be, fucking a boy like Dean, he would never have let the word slip out and given Dean the satisfaction. But Castiel is just Castiel, and he's trembling with how insane this makes him, Dean wanting him, begging him. He wants to reach down, cradle his cock just to feel it jump in his hand, but Dean is being so very good, and more than anything, Castiel wants to reward that, reward them both. He bites his lip, draws his thumbs lower and then, when he hears Dean's breath catch, he urges Dean gently open, exposing him to Castiel's gaze.

"All right," Castiel says, and then, mouth twisting. "Uh. Lube?"

Dean bursts out a laugh at that, muffled in the pillows, but he's reaching for the tube, tossing it back between his own legs to Castiel, who catches it deftly. It isn't exactly dignified, Castiel supposes, pausing like this, Dean laughing as he flips open the top and drizzles slick over his fingers, but that's one of the things he loves about Dean. About this, how easy it is, how comfortable Castiel feels with this boy who is both an unattainable beauty and the kid who successfully goaded Castiel into trying to drink a beer with no hands. Castiel was utterly useless at that game, but this -- circling the furl of Dean's entrance with two fingers; pushing one wetly inside until Dean bites his lip on his laughter and gasps instead, shoves back for more -- Castiel is good at this.

"That's it," he breathes, finger sliding in smoothly until it's fully sheathed in Dean, the heat of his body. Dean's grown used to this, and it's easy enough for Castiel to pull out again, bring a second finger to join the first and thrust carefully back in. His other hand cups the curve of Dean's backside, thumb holding him open, and he leans in briefly to brush a kiss against the skin, feel it tremble against his mouth. "Sshhh, that's it. I've got you."

Dean’s throat clicks as he swallows, his mouth falling open. “I -- I know,” he says. He pushes back into Castiel’s hands like he wants more, like he wants Castiel to fuck him harder, faster. Like this isn’t enough for him. Castiel knows how he feels, but he wants to take his time. He’ll fuck Dean the way he wants to, the way Castiel likes best. He’ll fuck him hard, yes, but he’s going to go at his own pace. There’s no rush.

He sucks at Dean’s skin, tasting the sea and the fresher salt of sweat. “Easy.”

“Easy for you to say,” Dean breathes. “You’re not the one with fingers in your -- fuck.”

Castiel grins against his skin, lets Dean feel his teeth. He presses forward, against Dean’s prostate. “You were saying?”

Dean groans, a sound broken and full of need. “Please,” he says. “Cas, would you just fucking --”

"What?" Castiel turns his wrist, pushes with his two slick fingers until Dean is twitching reflexively, then draws them backward till the pads of them are catching at the stretched pink rim and Dean's breath stops in his throat. "Just fucking fuck you, right?" Without warning, the two fingers thrust back in, smooth hard slide and Dean torques under it, crying out into the pillow.

"Yeah, but -- Jesus -- with your --"

"What?" Now he's just being a tease, but Castiel rather likes this, the sense of power like whisky at the back of his throat, a pleased burn as he fucks his fingers in deep, steady jabs, Dean's body jolting at the crest of each one. His perfect body, put together by whatever sublime intelligence, and here is Castiel alone taking it so swiftly apart with only two fingers from the inside out. The thought makes his breath catch in his throat and he pushes in closer, drags his parted lips across the smooth curve of Dean's backside till they're pressed to the back of his hand. The tendons and delicate bones in his wrist flex rhythmically, flush against his lips as he works his fingers, and Dean is clawing at the sheets, now, moaning in a way that almost makes Castiel want to cease this immediately, fuck him open -- almost. There's just enough that's delicious in this powerplay to hold him off, though his own breath is coming fast now, Dean's skin goosepimpling under it. "What, Dean?" He pushes deep, stills. "Tell me."

"Christ." Dean's voice snaps at that, head and shoulders rearing up off the bed, the curve of his back like impossible artistry and Castiel is undone even before Dean says, "With your dick, Cas. Please, I want -- want it in me. Want to feel you, need it. Please."

The words go through Castiel like a lance. He curses under his breath, fumbling backward, and then his fingers are slipping free, Dean slick and ready in their wake. Dean lets out a rough gasp at the loss, but he'll barely have time to feel it if Castiel can be as quick as his body urges, pulling himself up onto his knees and spreading Dean's thighs further with his palms, with his hips. When his own fingers curl around his cock, the touch flares through him dangerously, but it's nothing to the way it feels when he touches the tip of himself to Dean where he's wet and empty, where Dean wants him.

"Fuck," Castiel gasps, and beneath him, Dean whimpers, pathetic, and hitches back.

"Do it," he urges, and it would take a stronger man than Castiel to refuse him. Castiel no longer desires to be that man. He pushes forward, the head of his cock breaching the tight ring of muscle that is Dean’s ass. Against the sheets, Dean’s voice is muffled in a groan, long and drawn out. It makes Castiel’s balls ache, makes every nerve stand at attention. He wants to take it slow, drawing this out and making Dean whimper and whine, gasp and groan until he’s nothing but limp limbs, sweat-slick skin shining in the afternoon sun.

He can’t wait any longer, though, his cock already pressed inside the tight heat of Dean’s body. He has to fuck. Dean’s mewling beneath him, his fingers scrabbling at the sheets, clenching and unclenching. He tries to work his hips backwards, to fuck himself farther onto Castiel’s cock and Castiel’s caught by the visual, the sudden flash of next time. Next time, when there’s more room for heat to simmer between them. He’ll make Dean do all the work then, give him that much control. Lie back and watch as Dean rises above him like the sun coming up over the horizon, warming Castiel from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He’ll hold on to Dean’s hips and let him ride and then when the heat within him is too much, he’ll roll them over, savor the look of surprise on Dean’s face as he pins him to the bed and wrests control back from him. Fucks him until he’s keening and the quiet house is filled with the sound of him.

Castiel’s hips snap forward at the thought and Dean gasps, his back arching. He’s a perfect combination of lithe and strong. Castiel likes watching him twist beneath him. If he were a mathematician, he’d graph the exact curvature of Dean’s ribs, discover the circumference of his wrists, then the angle of his thighs. He’d put him down on paper in immortalizing equations, proofs to document that, yes, Dean was here in his bed.

Math was never his forte. Instead, Castiel has his words. He has pen and paper and the satisfying click and clack of keys on his computer. His fingers knew that Dean’s presence was something to be remarked upon before Castiel had time to think. Dean had slipped into the pages of his book as easily as he slipped, later, between the sheets of his bed.

Dean pulls at the sheets now, fingers tugging until one corner slides free. Castiel will have to remake the whole thing later. Probably for the best, anyway, considering.

Fuck.” Dean’s head drops forward onto the rumpled bed, lolling there as Castiel fucks him, thrusting in hard and pulling out slow, ensuring Dean feels every inch. He wants Dean to remember this when he returns home. He wants to know that when Dean’s gone, he’ll still remember that Castiel was here.

Pausing only to lean down, he nips at the exposed curve of Dean’s neck, licks a stripe up his sweaty skin. If it’s sea salt or Dean he tastes, Castiel doesn’t know anymore. He likes it, though. He even likes not knowing for sure, like Dean really did rise from the ocean one morning, handcrafted by Poseidon himself for Castiel’s inspiration and pleasure. He sucks briefly at the skin there, Dean’s hair damp against his nose. He’s careful not to leave a mark, aware that Dean has to go home after this, that Dean has a parent who could question. One day he’ll mark him up good, though, leave bruises the shape of his fingertips and mouth on his skin like the dotted lines of a treasure map. Let Dean deal with the fallout. He’s a smart boy; he’ll figure something out.

The new angle changes the depth of Castiel’s thrusts and Dean’s lungs work like a bellows, forcing air in and out of his body in loud gusts. Castiel's grip is bruise-hard on Dean's waist, low down where the marks will go unnoticed. His thumbs will leave indentations either side of Dean's tailbone, his fingers splayed upward and out to encompass the nebulous crux of waist and hip and thigh. Dean is heaving beneath him, undulating like a wave, and it's all Castiel can do to hang on as his hips drag back, snap forward again, body beginning to seize with the joy of it.

"God, Dean," he rasps, and Dean makes a low sound at the touch of the words to his nape, twists when Castiel pulls back to kiss a messy line down between his shoulder blades. "Gorgeous. So damn good at this, so good for me, aren't you?" The words are barely more than whispers, mindless and hoarse, but they make Dean cry out and shiver and Castiel feels him clench, whole body trembling, lurching toward some invisible precipice.

"Fuck, fuck, Cas," Dean whimpers, and his voice is desperate, fragmentary, the inchoate whine of an animal. His hips are shifting spasmodically, now, and Castiel feels his rhythm breaking with Dean's, despite his best efforts. He groans, clutches at Dean's sweaty skin, but his fingers are beginning to numb from the tips and his belly is heating, whole lower body licked with flame, wanting -- wanting --

"C'mon," Castiel pleads, low and rough. His thrusts are faster, now, gone ragged with the rush of it, of Dean so close around him and beneath him and because of him, of his own climax creeping up his spine. "Come on, let me -- let me feel you, I want -- want you to come from this, Dean, from my cock."

The words taste shameful in his mouth even now, with his whole body moving to the pounding of the blood in his dick, but the rush of heat that should be embarrassment turns into something else as it flashes through him, makes him pant and fuck in harder. Beneath him, the sound Dean makes is nothing less than a sob, loud and dark and sweet as his hips judder in Castiel's hands, muscles seizing reflexively around Castiel's cock where it's pistoning in and out of him.

"God," Dean's moaning, "God, yeah, please, Cas, harder -- fuck me harder, fuck me -- oh --"

Castiel feels the moment it hits, sudden and fierce and unmistakable as a tsunami. Dean rears up, immobilized, whole body twisted into a rictus of pleasure. For a long second, he holds it, while Castiel gasps and shivers and fucks him through it because he can't stop, jackhammer snap of his hips like a tarantella gaining time. Then, abruptly, the tableau breaks and Dean is collapsing, come pumping out of him over the bedsheets, soft blunt sounds of it hitting the mattress audible through the roar of Castiel's own breathing in his ears.

"Oh, God, Dean," he murmurs, "Dean."

A sound rises from the vicinity of Dean’s head where he’s collapsed against the sheets. It could be anything -- a moan, a groan, nonsensical syllables strung together -- but it sounds like Castiel’s name, the soft click and slide of consonants and vowel.

Castiel shivers, pausing in his movement to revel in the aftershocks that shake through Dean. He wants to savor this moment between Dean’s orgasm and his own. He can’t, though; physically, he can’t. Not when Dean’s still breathing heavy and fast beneath him, when his ass still clenches and releases around Castiel’s cock. No, Castiel’s only human. He’s only human and Dean is enough temptation to make an angel fall.

Shifting on his knees, he resettles his grip on Dean’s hips, keeps him snug and close and steady as he pulls out and thrusts in. He reestablishes a rhythm, muscles working faster and faster until he’s fucking Dean the way he used to fantasize about, back before. Dean’s pliant against the sheets, taking him with soft grunts, body welcoming, and then he squeezes around Castiel, the fit of their bodies changing subtly, and Castiel’s coming, Dean’s name spilling out of him along with everything else. The feeling wraps around his ribs, squeezes his gut, and coming feels like falling apart, spilling into Dean as if Castiel could lose himself that way.

It isn't until he's caught his breath, pushed himself up onto his elbows and pulled out that it hits him -- not until he sees the wet shine of his own release between Dean's legs, tracing a slick line down his inner thigh. He isn't in the practice of fucking without a condom; hasn't ever, he realizes dully, fucked anyone bare. This is the effect Dean has on him, making him forget the habits of a lifetime. Castiel has always been a stickler for safety, but somehow the idea of being in Dean, coming in Dean, shattered right through those walls of caution. He draws in a deep breath as he sits back shakily on his haunches, touching a thumb to Dean where he's stretched, splayed open. "Dean --"

A dribble of come trails wetly across the pad of his thumb, and Dean shivers, rolls over slowly. His eyes, when they find Castiel's, are wide and dark. "Yeah."

"We forgot," Castiel says, his voice almost contrite, and Dean's answering smile is contrite, too, almost demure, a crippling contrast to the languid sprawl of his sweat-sheened body, the loose, open fall of his legs.

"Nah," Dean says, soft. "I let you." His hand gropes for Castiel's. "I wanted it, Cas. You, like that." He pauses, squeezing a little. "In me."

Castiel is spent, but Dean's words still make his stomach clench hotly, cock twitching in reaction. "How did you --" He breaks off, wets his lips nervously. He wants to spread Dean's thighs with his palms, shoulder in between his legs. Lick the taste of himself back out of Dean's body. Instead, he fights the wave of heat threatening to rise up and through him, swallows instead. "You shouldn't let anyone, Dean."

But Dean has a ready answer, smart-mouthed Dean with his long limbs and his newly-broad shoulders. "I don't let anyone." The hand on Castiel's wrist tugs, pulling him in, into the loose embrace of Dean's arms and sex-weak legs. "I let you." He lifts his face, and Castiel moves unthinkingly to kiss Dean's mouth, parted on a breath. After, Dean smiles and says, "Not about to go fuck anyone else, are you?"

The absurdity of it -- of the idea that Castiel would abandon this boy in his arms for anything else, when every other creature on earth is inferior -- makes Castiel choke a laugh, and he shifts in the cradle of Dean's limbs. "No," he says, firm. "Not as long as you'll have me." He hasn't dared let himself think on this before, but he knows as he says the words that he means them. Knows the summer will bleed into fall soon, but his own desires will not bleed with it into coolness and inclement mornings.

The summer will end, and so will Castiel's lease. The calm waves of late August will turn into something rougher, rockier, something brisk and gray. But the lease, he realizes, could be extended. The idyll can be extended, and even if that is all it can be, Castiel wants to hold onto it as long as Dean will let him. And when Dean leans up to catch Castiel's mouth in a kiss and tells him, "I'm not lettin' you go anywhere," Castiel is actually convinced. It may not make any sense, but Dean wants this -- wants him. Castiel isn't so much of a masochist that he'd let that go when he could cling onto it.

Outside, the sound of the sea is low and steady, the rhythm of it soothing, like the beat of Dean's heart. Castiel lays his head on Dean's chest, splays a hand across his stomach. "Then I won't go," he says, and smiles. The words are a promise.

Above him, Dean laughs, and his fingers curl in Castiel's hair, sleepy and pleased. It's answer enough.