Dean looks beautiful like this, Castiel muses, running a single finger down Dean’s chest, pausing to gently sweep over a peaked nipple; he’s sweating and flushed red down to his navel, sucking in air like it’s all he can do, his hands carefully cupping Castiel’s knees to spread him wide. With every thrust Dean gives, Castiel arches his back and moans low in his throat, occasionally tugging Dean down to kiss him, but more often than not just opting to watch, to feel Dean fucking into him recklessly, chasing an orgasm that won’t come.
“C’mon,” Dean pants, sweat dripping from his brow to his nose. Tenderly, he chews at his lower lip, red and swollen from absent attentions, too sore to even kiss with; Castiel longs to feel them against his own, feel how slick and flushed they are just to drink in Dean’s continued whimpers. “C’mon, let me…”
“I told you,” Castiel says, breath caught when Dean brushes against his prostate, Castiel’s body shuddering when he does it again, again. Weakly, he reaches to fist his own cock, wet and purple in his grasp, his fingers coming away soaked in precome; Dean sucks them down when offered, his eyes rolling back. “You can come whenever you want.”
That earns a pathetic groan from Dean, almost petulant. In truth, Dean could come if he wanted, if he really wanted it. But if it weren’t for the vibrating plug Castiel slipped inside him twenty minutes earlier, along with the connected silicon rings strapped around his cock and balls, he would’ve been able to. As of now, his orgasm is in Castiel’s hands, at least until he can control himself to do what he’s been told. “You’re holding yourself back,” Castiel chides, slipping his fingers free from Dean’s mouth, once again trailing his fingers down Dean’s pec. He stops to pinch his nipple, twisting it hard enough for Dean to let out an over-sensitized shout, his hips jerking abortively until he’s forced to stop with the strain. “You’re thinking about it too much.”
“Shut up,” Dean whines, winded, and drops Castiel’s legs to encircle his waist again. Shifting, he surges up to kiss Castiel, a hand lost in his hair, the other gripping the bedding of Castiel’s mattress beneath his head as he thrusts, lost in it. Castiel opens his mouth to him, revels in the softness of his tongue, how plush Dean’s lips are when they tease his own, honey sweet. Despite the unrelenting pressure to his prostate, Dean continues to fuck him, his breaths growing more haggard, body a livewire under Castiel’s fingertips. “Fuckin’—Killin’ me,” he whispers close to Castiel’s ear, swallowing thick.
“Let yourself go,” Castiel soothes. Slowly, he trails a hand down Dean’s spine to feel him move, the way his exerted muscles work under too tight skin, from the first knot of his spine to his coccyx and back up again. If anything, Dean only moans louder, a constant litany of ‘fuck’ and ‘please’ falling from his lips, all on deaf ears. Ignoring Dean only works for so long, as Castiel has learned, especially in the bedroom—it only makes Dean antsier, his entire existence boiling down to a need to be seen and heard, to be felt from every angle, and more importantly, to let him feel the reciprocation of another.
Just from one touch, one single finger, Castiel has him in his grasp. “Come,” Castiel murmurs, soft and low, smoothing his other hand through Dean’s hair for a long, slow second. Just enough to calm Dean before he tugs, and Dean positively howls into the fragile skin of Castiel’s neck, body gone taut over him. Despite that, Dean still won’t come, his body strumming, begging for any sort of touch, scalding hot. “I told you,” Castiel reminds him, sliding his hand from Dean’s hip to the cleft of his ass, tapping on the base of the plug before making to pull it out, only to shove it back in, hard, “I’m not stopping you.”
“Please,” Dean begs. Tears form at the corner of his eyes, and Castiel licks them away, lets them rest on his tongue when he pulls Dean into another stuttered kiss, this one lacking in any finesse. Dean’s still thrusting, now shallower, hitting Castiel just where he wants it, forcing his cock to spurt precome onto his stomach into the ever growing puddle already formed. His orgasm can wait—Dean is more important. Dean just has to learn to let himself go, let his mind ease and feel. “Cas, ‘M close…”
“Let me feel it,” Castiel breathes against Dean’s ear, nipping lightly at the lobe and pulling between his teeth. “You’re doing so well, you’re so close…”
Again, Dean calls out his name, slurred and disjointed. He’s there, Castiel can feel it, his cock thick and pulsing, right on the edge. A few more thrusts, and Castiel might be there as well, his hips beginning to meet Dean’s, ass clenching around the length buried deep within him. “More,” Castiel mutters, caught in a gasp when Dean manages to wrangle away the hand teasing his back and pins it to the bed. There’s fire in Dean’s eyes now, mingling with exhaustion and lust, scarlet lips dripping with sin; Castiel kisses him before he can speak, drinking in the sweet, rough moan he emits. “More, Dean,” he breathes, “more, more—”
“Cas.” Dean sputters, and he’s there, Castiel can feel it, Dean’s hips flexing against him, harder, his moans almost shouts. “Cas,” he repeats, breaths quick, eyes pinched shut. There, there…
“Beautiful,” Castiel manages just as he begins to fist his own cock, this time with intent. Gone are the seconds of skill and finesse; now, desire takes hold, and his back arches when he meets Dean in euphoria, Dean’s mouth slack against his throat and Castiel mouthing unintelligible words to the humid air of his bedroom, come painting his fist all the way up to his collar, a few flecks landing on the underside of Dean’s chin. Even in the midst of orgasm, Dean still fucks him, formerly rough thrusts slowing as he empties himself inside, tension leaving his bones in waves.
Castiel comes back with Dean mouthing lazily at his throat, his cock still buried to the root, attempting to soften but not quite there. “Do you want me to take it out?” Castiel asks; sluggish, Dean nods against him, and only by pure force of will is he able to roll Dean onto his back and slide off his cock, come spilling from his rim and down his thigh. Later, he’ll take notice of it and clean them both up; for now, he busies himself with shutting off the vibrator and carefully pulling it free from Dean’s ass, afterwards slipping his balls and now half-hard cock from the rings connected to the plug, now fully softening.
In the afterglow, Dean’s flush begins to dissipate, but he’s still as remarkable as ever, freckles standing out on sweating skin, gleaming in the light pouring from the one bedside lamp. He breathes through his mouth, swallowing air in an attempt to still his heart, pounding under Castiel’s palm when he splays a hand there, just to feel him breathe. “God,” Dean remarks after a while, Castiel now lying at his side, one leg slung over Dean’s thigh. He sighs through his nose and reaches over to the abandoned toy, dangling it in front of his face. “Think I owe you blowjobs for a month.”
“I’d be amenable to that,” Castiel replies, mirthful; reaching up, he palms Dean’s cheek until he turns to face him, Dean’s eye already half lidded, forest green in the lamplight. “I didn’t think you would last that long.”
Dean moans into their kiss, softer than before, his body loose and pliant, and Castiel wants him like this always, relaxed and free to be himself, to feel everything offered. “Tried to hold out,” Dean admits, “Just… felt good.” Noiselessly, he turns over and drapes an arm over Castiel’s waist, letting the toy slip from his lax fingers onto the tile floor where it rattles, untouched. Castiel just smiles at him, and presses a kiss to Dean’s forehead, afterwards letting him tuck his face beneath Castiel’s chin. “We’re a mess,” he complains a short breath later, laughing to himself. “Seriously, we’re filthy.”
“You enjoyed it, though,” Castiel reminds him, tugging Dean closer; there, he can feel Dean’s heart beat against his chest, feel the rise and fall of his chest, and the uncomfortable drying slickness coating Castiel’s stomach. Maybe they do need a shower, or a bath, if he can get Dean on his feet without him falling asleep. “You’re perfect,” Castiel whispers, secretive, barely audible in the scant space between them. “Perfect, lovely—”
“Big sap,” Dean rumbles, chuckling to himself. “Gonna make me blush.”
“I can continue,” Castiel says and tucks his leg between Dean’s, one hand resting on the curve of his hip. “Only if you’d let me, though.”
It takes a long second, but Dean finally speaks, quiet and almost terrified. “…Tell me,” he asks, almost a plea, “please?”
With a flick of his Grace, Castiel extinguishes the lamp at his back and tucks Dean closer, his mouth pressed to Dean’s sweat-soaked hair. “Beloved,” he breathes, and feels Dean soften. “Beloved, adored," and he goes on.