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tracy_loo_whoCELEBRATORY FILTH TIME, Y/Y? \o/\o/\o/ I am so happy, you guys. So happy! FDSKL;AFKLJDSLFJKDSOMG. !!!
This one's even got warnings, which I'm strangely proud of, hahahahha. :))
Title: Missit Me Dominus
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Mention of past Alastair/Dean non con, rimming.
Word Count: ~2,500
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
big_heart_june, who's been wanting Latin fic for way too long. I hope you like it, bb! :">
Summary: In which Dean gets thoroughly molested by Castiel's voice.
It's a good thing Castiel is so badass, because Dean's unfortunately timed erection might get him killed, otherwise. Then again, if Castiel wasn't so badass, Dean probably wouldn't have such an unfortunately timed erection in the first place. Whatever, he doesn't have the time to think in fucking circles, there are demons to be killed and people to be saved. Except, the thing is, there aren't any demons to be killed or people to be saved, at least not by him. All thirteen demons are currently writhing on the floor with their hands over their ears or already starting to wretch black smoke, and there's no Devil's Trap but none of them are running because Castiel is holding them there with his mind, all thirteen of them, even as he chants in Latin over their wails.
His voice isn't unduly loud, and yet it's got this deep, overwhelming presence, like it's a force of its own or there are sound waves crashing in from unseen dimensions or something stupidly angelic like that, Dean doesn't know, but it's backed by the low, unearthly hum of Castiel's true voice and it fills the entire bar, drowning out everything else and making the very air vibrate around them.
And around his dick.
Or maybe that's just his imagination, translating "Vade, Satana, inventor et magister" into something rather more physical, something that curls around his thighs and caresses his hips and slides into his jeans. Dean isn't sure what it is about the way Castiel says it, but it's the sexiest fucking thing he's ever heard in his life.
Either way, Dean closes his eyes and almost wishes Castiel would raise his true voice, just enough to make it hurt, just enough to take his mind off how frighteningly delicious that raw, holy power emanating off the angel is. But Castiel doesn't raise his true voice, and the eyes-closing thing turns out to be a very fucking bad idea indeed because, well, you know what they say about the loss of eyesight enhancing other senses. Particularly hearing and touch, and sure, no one is touching Dean right now, but "omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis" is touching Dean, all over and down there, and his eyes snap open again.
He's breathing too hard, and it's a good thing they've been fighting off demons, because otherwise Sam might suspect something. Not that Sam is paying him any attention. Dean tries to focus on his little brother, and the wide-eyed, awed way Sam is staring at Castiel gives Dean the impression that maybe Sam thinks his own demonic mind-powers are a joke before the might of one of God's own. And, well, he's probably right, Dean thinks as he unwittingly follows his brother's gaze to soak in the sight of Castiel, angel of the Lord, dealing out divine justice with deadly efficiency.
Those blue eyes are narrowed and dark, his face is cold and hard, body leaning forward, and even his hair is standing taller, angrily messy. But Dean fixates on his mouth, on the way those thin, merciless lips form around the words "Humiliare sub potenti manu dei," and feels his knees go weak, just a bit. His mouth is dry, possibly even hanging open, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips in a subconscious attempt to remember what Castiel tastes like.
Dean got to find out, once, when he was drunk and Castiel was warm and for a moment, Dean could almost forget he wasn't human. He seemed human enough, that night, all hot breaths in Dean's mouth and sinuous arching against Dean's body and coming in pulses over Dean's hand. The memory is almost vivid enough to make Dean moan, and there's nothing remotely human about Castiel right now, but somehow that only makes him harder. He wants to know this side of Castiel too, the lethal warrior of God side, wants to touch him and taste him and lose himself to the waves of Latin in that voice, but he stays rooted to the spot because Castiel is really sort of fucking terrifying right now. Dean is pretty sure that trying to grope an angel who's busy exorcising demons falls under the category of Immediately Smiteable Offenses.
On the other hand, however, he feels like he might die anyway from brain damage caused by lack of blood flow up there. He's only got so much of the stuff, after all, and his dick is currently owning his brain in a tug of war contest for blood. It's heavy and tense in his too-tight jeans, and so sensitive that every word that comes spilling from Castiel's mouth makes it tingle. "Nobis sancto et terribili nomine," Castiel chants, and really, that's a lot of fucking words. It makes him want to writhe around on the floor with the demons.
Dean swallows with some difficulty and moves behind one of the bar stools. It's lousy cover, but no one is looking at him so he thinks it's probably safe to press his palm against his crotch. The pressure makes his dick twitch needily and he hisses a little as he gives it a squeeze. What's meant as momentary relief turns out to be too good, even through the thick, tough fabric, and Dean's eyes fall shut as it turns involuntarily into one long, slow stroke. It's humiliating, actually, here he is getting his ass saved by an angel and he's standing around with a fucking hand between his legs like a horny teenager instead of trying to help out, but he can't help it, he needs -- he just needs.
Something changes then, Castiel's voice gets just a touch thicker on the words "quem inferi tremunt," and Dean's eyes open to find dark blue ones boring into his. He snatches his hand away from his crotch, but the feral intensity of Castiel's stare almost makes him come anyway, inside his pants and in front of his brother and thirteen tortured demons. Dean's jaw clenches and he manages to hold it in, but only barely. Fuck, he thinks with feeling, because he's been caught and he doesn't know how much more of this he can take and the exorcism is only half over.
Or so he thinks. Apparently Castiel doesn't need to finish the ritual, isn't even trying to exorcise the demons. He's just weakened them enough so that even as he chants the next lines, his eyes slide away from Dean to focus on one demon at a time, to burn it out of its human vessel with his mind, before he moves on to the next.
Fuck, Dean thinks again, because his vocabulary consists of only one word right now and that's it, but it's a diverse word so he thinks that's probably okay. His whole body is vibrating with adrenaline and awe and desire, and when it's all over a few seconds later and the spell of angel-of-the-Lord-voice finally breaks, Castiel commands Sam to see to the victims beginning to wake. Then he crosses the room to Dean and his bar stool way faster and with way fewer strides than is humanly possible. The bar stool goes flying, and the next thing Dean knows, Castiel's hand is on his arm and they're in some empty motel room with one bed.
He blinks, and it takes a moment to process this because, remember, very little blood in the brain. Before he even makes up his mind to move, Castiel is pushing him backwards onto the bed and their mouths meet in an open, wet moan. Their bodies meet, too, not a second later, Castiel's bearing down on his and pressing him into the comforter. Dean bucks up into him, and the desperately-needed friction of crotch against crotch makes him whimper. God, he wants this so much, this dangerous, otherworldly thing that is Castiel, and every single push of his tongue into Castiel's mouth screams of it.
Their clothes just aren't there anymore, and Dean has no idea how that happened, only that it's immensely, blindingly glorious to have all that naked skin sliding against his own. But then Castiel turns him over onto his stomach, and that -- oh god, no no no no, it's too familiar, too wrong, and all of a sudden Dean is back on that rack with Alastair's faceless weight against his back, tearing him open on his way in. There are barbs covering his dick and they scrape Dean's insides raw, in and out, in and out, hours and hours at a time until everything inside him is one whole mess of mangled flesh and searing nerves, and even then Alastair still won't stop.
Dean chokes on his panic, and Castiel pulls back like he's been burned. It's enough to bring Dean back to the present, enough to let him remember that this is Castiel, not Alastair, and the relief is so great he could cry. He doesn't, of course, because he's not a fucking chick, but he does curl in on himself a tiny bit and whisper desperately, "I can't, Cas, not like that. I can't."
"Dean.." And Castiel just studies him intently for a few moments, eyes gone soft now, and Dean knows he's ruined the mood. But he also knows, through experience, that Castiel will understand, because that's what he does -- he understands Dean -- and that it'll be okay. He's gratified when Castiel proves him right by coming to curl around him, chest firm against Dean's back and arms warm around Dean's body. Dean can't see his face, but it's okay because there's something so fiercely protective about Castiel's touch that it drives Alastair from his mind. Nothing and no one can get him here; he's seen what Castiel can do. And it amazes him all over again that someone like Castiel could care about someone like him. They lie like that for awhile, and Dean relaxes slowly in Castiel's embrace, closing his eyes and simply reveling in this moment of safety and peace, in the knowledge that Castiel won't let him go until he's ready to be let go.
When he is ready, when his lips begin forming some half-embarrassed attempt at playing this whole incident off as a joke, Castiel hushes him with a kiss behind the ear, soft and warm. Then there are more kisses, just the dry press of lips against skin, down the line of Dean's neck and across one shoulder. It feels incredible for something so chaste, and Dean's body flexes in Castiel's arms, luxuriously. Castiel pulls away just enough to trail kisses down Dean's spine, next, while his hands move smoothly down Dean's sides. It's unhurried but getting lower and lower, and Dean has no idea where this is going but he shivers in anticipation anyway, trusting Castiel enough that he can feel his dick stirring again.
The first twinge of nervousness comes when Castiel presses his lips to Dean's tailbone and his tongue darts out to swirl around the skin there. "Cas--" he begins, uncertainly and trying to look back over his shoulder, but he never gets to finish because then Castiel's palms are on his ass, thumbs spreading him open, and Castiel swipes his tongue across him there. Dean jerks, more than a little alarmed, because that's disgusting, no one should -- no human, demon, or angel, especially angel -- no one should be doing that, not to him, it's wrong wrong wrong and impossibly, Dean feels like he's the one violating Castiel, here, with his dirtiness and filth. At the same time, it makes him feel horribly vulnerable and exposed, and he tries to squirm away.
"Relax, Dean," Castiel commands softly, and Dean can't not listen to that voice, so he stops squirming with a quiet whimper in his throat and lets Castiel's tongue tease him open. There's an unexpected jolt of pleasure the first time that tongue flicks into him, and Dean's whole body shudders once, suddenly hot and sensitive. Then Castiel does it again, and again and again and again, and it doesn't take much time at all for Dean to start squirming again, this time for a different reason entirely. He moans breathlessly and flattens himself on his stomach to press his dick into the soft comforter, writhing into it and back against Castiel's tongue helplessly.
Every flick claims a little bit more of Dean's focus, chips a little bit more away from memories of Alastair and everything else: this shame, this bed, this motel room, the world outside, the apocalypse. When there's finally nothing left, nothing in Dean's entire existence except for Castiel and his tongue and Dean's frayed, needy body, his voice, already hoarse from moaning, cracks on the plea, "Fuck me, Cas, please, fuck me now."
Instead of just moving up Dean's body and thrusting into him, however, Castiel lifts Dean bodily up off the bed with an unnatural ease that Dean is nevertheless grateful for because he doesn't think he can do anything himself right now. Then Castiel settles back against the headboard, legs open, and lowers Dean slowly onto his cock. There's a flash of nervousness at the first touch against Dean's entrance, but Castiel murmers "Totum tibi subdo me" by his ear, maybe to make sure Dean remembers it's him back there, maybe because he knows how well Dean's cock responds to his Latin, maybe both. Dean doesn't even know what it means, but it works, and he moans in bliss as Castiel slides into him, slick with lube that came from God knows where and full and hard.
It doesn't hurt at all -- in fact there's rubbing against a spot that's about the best fucking thing Dean has ever felt in his life -- especially when the quiet sound of displaced air is followed by feathers trailing up the underside of his cock, cool and soft. "Deo vindice, libera te tutemet ex inferis," Castiel says, low and insistent, and Dean is so lost in sensation that he can't even squirm and writhe anymore. All he can do is let his head fall back onto Castiel's shoulder and clutch at Castiel's feathers and moan and moan and moan as Castiel lifts him up and brings him back down, an endless, sensual rhythm of pleasurepleasurepleasure, inside and all around him.
Dean comes with Castiel's cock deep inside him, Castiel's wing stroking between his legs, and Castiel's voice whispering "Gaudeamus hodie, in lumine tuo videbimus lumen" into his ear. He arches back against Castiel's chest and it's too much, he's exploding and on fire and drowning and dying but it's Heaven, it's an angel showing him a glimpse of Heaven, and Dean is sobbing dryly through it all. It's his body's wild spasming that makes Castiel come inside him, and Dean can feel the angel everywhere, pulsing and trembling and wrapping Dean tightly in his arms and wings.
Castiel doesn't let go afterwards, even when the waves of pleasure have given way to sated exhaustion, and Dean is perfectly content to lean back against Castiel, rest his head on one shoulder, and close his eyes. Castiel's softening cock is still inside him, but it's oddly comfortable, and it feels good to be in the cocoon of enormous wings, invisible though they are. He turns his head to press a tired kiss to Castiel's neck. "I don't do this, you know. This whole cuddling-after-sex chick flick thing," he tells him.
Castiel's chest rumbles gently in a silent laugh, and Dean can feel it through his own body. It makes him smile. "I know, Dean," the angel says solemnly.
"Good." Dean nods, satisfied. "As long as you know."
fin.
ETA: I didn't originally include Latin translations since Dean didn't know what any of it meant either so I figured it didn't matter (and they're sort of silly phrases anyway), but apparently some of you guys care, which is actually pretty flattering. ♥ The exorcism bits are copied from Supernatural Wiki, so I won't bother with those.
Missit Me Dominus - The Lord Has Sent Me
totum tibi subdo me - I give myself to you totally
Deo vindice, libera te tutemet ex inferis - with God as protector, free yourself from Hell
gaudeamus hodie - let us rejoice today
in lumine tuo videbimus lumen - in your light we will see light
Randomly, I find it faintly amusing that three months ago I was sort of squeamish about writing porn, and now... Well. :)) Look what Dean/Castiel has done to me.
This one's even got warnings, which I'm strangely proud of, hahahahha. :))
Title: Missit Me Dominus
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Mention of past Alastair/Dean non con, rimming.
Word Count: ~2,500
Notes: For
big_heart_june, who's been wanting Latin fic for way too long. I hope you like it, bb! :">Summary: In which Dean gets thoroughly molested by Castiel's voice.
It's a good thing Castiel is so badass, because Dean's unfortunately timed erection might get him killed, otherwise. Then again, if Castiel wasn't so badass, Dean probably wouldn't have such an unfortunately timed erection in the first place. Whatever, he doesn't have the time to think in fucking circles, there are demons to be killed and people to be saved. Except, the thing is, there aren't any demons to be killed or people to be saved, at least not by him. All thirteen demons are currently writhing on the floor with their hands over their ears or already starting to wretch black smoke, and there's no Devil's Trap but none of them are running because Castiel is holding them there with his mind, all thirteen of them, even as he chants in Latin over their wails.
His voice isn't unduly loud, and yet it's got this deep, overwhelming presence, like it's a force of its own or there are sound waves crashing in from unseen dimensions or something stupidly angelic like that, Dean doesn't know, but it's backed by the low, unearthly hum of Castiel's true voice and it fills the entire bar, drowning out everything else and making the very air vibrate around them.
And around his dick.
Or maybe that's just his imagination, translating "Vade, Satana, inventor et magister" into something rather more physical, something that curls around his thighs and caresses his hips and slides into his jeans. Dean isn't sure what it is about the way Castiel says it, but it's the sexiest fucking thing he's ever heard in his life.
Either way, Dean closes his eyes and almost wishes Castiel would raise his true voice, just enough to make it hurt, just enough to take his mind off how frighteningly delicious that raw, holy power emanating off the angel is. But Castiel doesn't raise his true voice, and the eyes-closing thing turns out to be a very fucking bad idea indeed because, well, you know what they say about the loss of eyesight enhancing other senses. Particularly hearing and touch, and sure, no one is touching Dean right now, but "omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis" is touching Dean, all over and down there, and his eyes snap open again.
He's breathing too hard, and it's a good thing they've been fighting off demons, because otherwise Sam might suspect something. Not that Sam is paying him any attention. Dean tries to focus on his little brother, and the wide-eyed, awed way Sam is staring at Castiel gives Dean the impression that maybe Sam thinks his own demonic mind-powers are a joke before the might of one of God's own. And, well, he's probably right, Dean thinks as he unwittingly follows his brother's gaze to soak in the sight of Castiel, angel of the Lord, dealing out divine justice with deadly efficiency.
Those blue eyes are narrowed and dark, his face is cold and hard, body leaning forward, and even his hair is standing taller, angrily messy. But Dean fixates on his mouth, on the way those thin, merciless lips form around the words "Humiliare sub potenti manu dei," and feels his knees go weak, just a bit. His mouth is dry, possibly even hanging open, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips in a subconscious attempt to remember what Castiel tastes like.
Dean got to find out, once, when he was drunk and Castiel was warm and for a moment, Dean could almost forget he wasn't human. He seemed human enough, that night, all hot breaths in Dean's mouth and sinuous arching against Dean's body and coming in pulses over Dean's hand. The memory is almost vivid enough to make Dean moan, and there's nothing remotely human about Castiel right now, but somehow that only makes him harder. He wants to know this side of Castiel too, the lethal warrior of God side, wants to touch him and taste him and lose himself to the waves of Latin in that voice, but he stays rooted to the spot because Castiel is really sort of fucking terrifying right now. Dean is pretty sure that trying to grope an angel who's busy exorcising demons falls under the category of Immediately Smiteable Offenses.
On the other hand, however, he feels like he might die anyway from brain damage caused by lack of blood flow up there. He's only got so much of the stuff, after all, and his dick is currently owning his brain in a tug of war contest for blood. It's heavy and tense in his too-tight jeans, and so sensitive that every word that comes spilling from Castiel's mouth makes it tingle. "Nobis sancto et terribili nomine," Castiel chants, and really, that's a lot of fucking words. It makes him want to writhe around on the floor with the demons.
Dean swallows with some difficulty and moves behind one of the bar stools. It's lousy cover, but no one is looking at him so he thinks it's probably safe to press his palm against his crotch. The pressure makes his dick twitch needily and he hisses a little as he gives it a squeeze. What's meant as momentary relief turns out to be too good, even through the thick, tough fabric, and Dean's eyes fall shut as it turns involuntarily into one long, slow stroke. It's humiliating, actually, here he is getting his ass saved by an angel and he's standing around with a fucking hand between his legs like a horny teenager instead of trying to help out, but he can't help it, he needs -- he just needs.
Something changes then, Castiel's voice gets just a touch thicker on the words "quem inferi tremunt," and Dean's eyes open to find dark blue ones boring into his. He snatches his hand away from his crotch, but the feral intensity of Castiel's stare almost makes him come anyway, inside his pants and in front of his brother and thirteen tortured demons. Dean's jaw clenches and he manages to hold it in, but only barely. Fuck, he thinks with feeling, because he's been caught and he doesn't know how much more of this he can take and the exorcism is only half over.
Or so he thinks. Apparently Castiel doesn't need to finish the ritual, isn't even trying to exorcise the demons. He's just weakened them enough so that even as he chants the next lines, his eyes slide away from Dean to focus on one demon at a time, to burn it out of its human vessel with his mind, before he moves on to the next.
Fuck, Dean thinks again, because his vocabulary consists of only one word right now and that's it, but it's a diverse word so he thinks that's probably okay. His whole body is vibrating with adrenaline and awe and desire, and when it's all over a few seconds later and the spell of angel-of-the-Lord-voice finally breaks, Castiel commands Sam to see to the victims beginning to wake. Then he crosses the room to Dean and his bar stool way faster and with way fewer strides than is humanly possible. The bar stool goes flying, and the next thing Dean knows, Castiel's hand is on his arm and they're in some empty motel room with one bed.
He blinks, and it takes a moment to process this because, remember, very little blood in the brain. Before he even makes up his mind to move, Castiel is pushing him backwards onto the bed and their mouths meet in an open, wet moan. Their bodies meet, too, not a second later, Castiel's bearing down on his and pressing him into the comforter. Dean bucks up into him, and the desperately-needed friction of crotch against crotch makes him whimper. God, he wants this so much, this dangerous, otherworldly thing that is Castiel, and every single push of his tongue into Castiel's mouth screams of it.
Their clothes just aren't there anymore, and Dean has no idea how that happened, only that it's immensely, blindingly glorious to have all that naked skin sliding against his own. But then Castiel turns him over onto his stomach, and that -- oh god, no no no no, it's too familiar, too wrong, and all of a sudden Dean is back on that rack with Alastair's faceless weight against his back, tearing him open on his way in. There are barbs covering his dick and they scrape Dean's insides raw, in and out, in and out, hours and hours at a time until everything inside him is one whole mess of mangled flesh and searing nerves, and even then Alastair still won't stop.
Dean chokes on his panic, and Castiel pulls back like he's been burned. It's enough to bring Dean back to the present, enough to let him remember that this is Castiel, not Alastair, and the relief is so great he could cry. He doesn't, of course, because he's not a fucking chick, but he does curl in on himself a tiny bit and whisper desperately, "I can't, Cas, not like that. I can't."
"Dean.." And Castiel just studies him intently for a few moments, eyes gone soft now, and Dean knows he's ruined the mood. But he also knows, through experience, that Castiel will understand, because that's what he does -- he understands Dean -- and that it'll be okay. He's gratified when Castiel proves him right by coming to curl around him, chest firm against Dean's back and arms warm around Dean's body. Dean can't see his face, but it's okay because there's something so fiercely protective about Castiel's touch that it drives Alastair from his mind. Nothing and no one can get him here; he's seen what Castiel can do. And it amazes him all over again that someone like Castiel could care about someone like him. They lie like that for awhile, and Dean relaxes slowly in Castiel's embrace, closing his eyes and simply reveling in this moment of safety and peace, in the knowledge that Castiel won't let him go until he's ready to be let go.
When he is ready, when his lips begin forming some half-embarrassed attempt at playing this whole incident off as a joke, Castiel hushes him with a kiss behind the ear, soft and warm. Then there are more kisses, just the dry press of lips against skin, down the line of Dean's neck and across one shoulder. It feels incredible for something so chaste, and Dean's body flexes in Castiel's arms, luxuriously. Castiel pulls away just enough to trail kisses down Dean's spine, next, while his hands move smoothly down Dean's sides. It's unhurried but getting lower and lower, and Dean has no idea where this is going but he shivers in anticipation anyway, trusting Castiel enough that he can feel his dick stirring again.
The first twinge of nervousness comes when Castiel presses his lips to Dean's tailbone and his tongue darts out to swirl around the skin there. "Cas--" he begins, uncertainly and trying to look back over his shoulder, but he never gets to finish because then Castiel's palms are on his ass, thumbs spreading him open, and Castiel swipes his tongue across him there. Dean jerks, more than a little alarmed, because that's disgusting, no one should -- no human, demon, or angel, especially angel -- no one should be doing that, not to him, it's wrong wrong wrong and impossibly, Dean feels like he's the one violating Castiel, here, with his dirtiness and filth. At the same time, it makes him feel horribly vulnerable and exposed, and he tries to squirm away.
"Relax, Dean," Castiel commands softly, and Dean can't not listen to that voice, so he stops squirming with a quiet whimper in his throat and lets Castiel's tongue tease him open. There's an unexpected jolt of pleasure the first time that tongue flicks into him, and Dean's whole body shudders once, suddenly hot and sensitive. Then Castiel does it again, and again and again and again, and it doesn't take much time at all for Dean to start squirming again, this time for a different reason entirely. He moans breathlessly and flattens himself on his stomach to press his dick into the soft comforter, writhing into it and back against Castiel's tongue helplessly.
Every flick claims a little bit more of Dean's focus, chips a little bit more away from memories of Alastair and everything else: this shame, this bed, this motel room, the world outside, the apocalypse. When there's finally nothing left, nothing in Dean's entire existence except for Castiel and his tongue and Dean's frayed, needy body, his voice, already hoarse from moaning, cracks on the plea, "Fuck me, Cas, please, fuck me now."
Instead of just moving up Dean's body and thrusting into him, however, Castiel lifts Dean bodily up off the bed with an unnatural ease that Dean is nevertheless grateful for because he doesn't think he can do anything himself right now. Then Castiel settles back against the headboard, legs open, and lowers Dean slowly onto his cock. There's a flash of nervousness at the first touch against Dean's entrance, but Castiel murmers "Totum tibi subdo me" by his ear, maybe to make sure Dean remembers it's him back there, maybe because he knows how well Dean's cock responds to his Latin, maybe both. Dean doesn't even know what it means, but it works, and he moans in bliss as Castiel slides into him, slick with lube that came from God knows where and full and hard.
It doesn't hurt at all -- in fact there's rubbing against a spot that's about the best fucking thing Dean has ever felt in his life -- especially when the quiet sound of displaced air is followed by feathers trailing up the underside of his cock, cool and soft. "Deo vindice, libera te tutemet ex inferis," Castiel says, low and insistent, and Dean is so lost in sensation that he can't even squirm and writhe anymore. All he can do is let his head fall back onto Castiel's shoulder and clutch at Castiel's feathers and moan and moan and moan as Castiel lifts him up and brings him back down, an endless, sensual rhythm of pleasurepleasurepleasure, inside and all around him.
Dean comes with Castiel's cock deep inside him, Castiel's wing stroking between his legs, and Castiel's voice whispering "Gaudeamus hodie, in lumine tuo videbimus lumen" into his ear. He arches back against Castiel's chest and it's too much, he's exploding and on fire and drowning and dying but it's Heaven, it's an angel showing him a glimpse of Heaven, and Dean is sobbing dryly through it all. It's his body's wild spasming that makes Castiel come inside him, and Dean can feel the angel everywhere, pulsing and trembling and wrapping Dean tightly in his arms and wings.
Castiel doesn't let go afterwards, even when the waves of pleasure have given way to sated exhaustion, and Dean is perfectly content to lean back against Castiel, rest his head on one shoulder, and close his eyes. Castiel's softening cock is still inside him, but it's oddly comfortable, and it feels good to be in the cocoon of enormous wings, invisible though they are. He turns his head to press a tired kiss to Castiel's neck. "I don't do this, you know. This whole cuddling-after-sex chick flick thing," he tells him.
Castiel's chest rumbles gently in a silent laugh, and Dean can feel it through his own body. It makes him smile. "I know, Dean," the angel says solemnly.
"Good." Dean nods, satisfied. "As long as you know."
fin.
ETA: I didn't originally include Latin translations since Dean didn't know what any of it meant either so I figured it didn't matter (and they're sort of silly phrases anyway), but apparently some of you guys care, which is actually pretty flattering. ♥ The exorcism bits are copied from Supernatural Wiki, so I won't bother with those.
Missit Me Dominus - The Lord Has Sent Me
totum tibi subdo me - I give myself to you totally
Deo vindice, libera te tutemet ex inferis - with God as protector, free yourself from Hell
gaudeamus hodie - let us rejoice today
in lumine tuo videbimus lumen - in your light we will see light
Randomly, I find it faintly amusing that three months ago I was sort of squeamish about writing porn, and now... Well. :)) Look what Dean/Castiel has done to me.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Re: SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! <3<3<3<3
Date: 2009-02-27 12:39 am (UTC)ILU2, BB, SO MUCH!