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spn fic: One More Year
Title: One More Year
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,500
Summary: Dean hasn't given his birthday more than a passing thought in years.
Notes: Written for Dean's birthday. Low on nutritional value, high on blow jobs. Set in an unspecified future where nothing hurts.
[AO3]
One More Year
Dean is sorting through a pile of shirts in the bunker's industrial-sized laundry room when Cas comes up behind him, moving in close. He slides his hands over Dean's shoulders and noses at the back of Dean's neck, and he hides a smile in Dean's hair when Dean startles slightly before relaxing back against him. Heaven is still more or less broken, enough that angels still can't zap themselves around wherever they want, but Cas has gotten annoyingly good at walking without making any sounds.
"What's up?"
"I finished translating that ancient scroll you found in the storage boxes."
Dean turns his head a little, brushing his lips against Cas' temple. "That was fast."
"My Sumerian was not as rusty as I feared."
"What's it say?"
"It's instructions on how to kill a shedu."
"I don't even know what that is."
"You don't want to." Cas leans in closer, his hands settling at Dean's hips. "Now that I'm finished, I thought I'd come see what you're doing."
"Laundry," Dean says, tossing one of Sam's gigantic flannels into the 'darks' machine.
Cas makes a slow, thoughtful noise against Dean's neck, then bites a kiss into the skin behind Dean's ear. "It's your birthday, today."
"Yeah," Dean says, his voice curling up a bit at the edges, almost a question itself. He hasn't given his birthday more than a passing thought in years, aside from the fact that he's getting older in a way he can sometimes feel in his joints, has lived longer than he ever expected; it always happens on the road, usually when Dean is hunting.
He'd spent his eleventh standing in the pouring rain with a shotgun, keeping an eye out for ghosts while his dad looked for an unmarked grave in the middle of a sheep field, his fourteenth driving the Impala to the closest hospital, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, Sam crying in the front seat and his dad unconscious in the back, his seventeenth chasing a ghoul through an abandoned factory, his mouth bloody and his broken wrist throbbing so badly it felt like his whole arm was on fire, his twenty-third on a payphone in Enid, Oklahoma, calling Sam's Stanford apartment and kicking a crack in the booth when Sam's machine picked up and the phone ate Dean's last handful of change. Sam had given him a handmade card every year, until Sam turned nine or ten and started thinking that kind of stuff was dumb. His father had brought him home presents on the years they could afford it, but always useful, practical stuff -- underwear, socks, new boots, ammo.
Cas makes that noise again, nudging at Dean's hip until Dean puts the laundry down and turns around to face him, crowding in until his thigh is working between Dean's legs and the washing machine is digging a bruise into Dean's ass. He presses a wet kiss to the corner of Dean's jaw, and another to the point of Dean's chin, then drags his lips up until he catches Dean's mouth, all stubble and heat, his hands pushing under Dean's shirt, skimming up Dean's sides. Dean curls his fingers into the hair behind Cas' ears, kissing back slow and dirty, letting his teeth catch Cas' lower lip the way he knows Cas likes, sliding his other hand into the open collar of Cas' shirt, his thumb brushing the hollow of Cas' throat. They're both half-hard and breathless by the time Cas finally pulls away, and Dean has to stop himself from leaning after him and chasing his mouth. He's ready to drag Cas upstairs to their bedroom and leave the laundry for Sam, even though they fucked in the showers after breakfast, loud enough and long enough that Sam shouted at them from the doorway about being gross in the bunker's communal living areas.
Cas smiles, hooking his fingers into Dean's belt, then tilts his head to the side and gives Dean that scrunched, squinty-eyed look that Dean secretly thinks is adorable.
"What?" Dean asks. This thing between him and Cas is still pretty new, new enough that he's sometimes surprised first thing in the morning when he wakes up and finds Cas stretched out beside him on the bed, but he recognizes that look as something vaguely sneaky.
"It's your birthday," Cas says again, his voice rough in a way that itches at something underneath Dean's skin. He leans in for another kiss; this one's a little harder, a little dirtier, like he's after something more than a high school make-out session in the laundry room. He pins Dean back against the washing machine, moaning quietly into Dean's mouth and rubbing his cock against Dean's hip, and Dean fists his hand in the front of Cas' shirt, wanting Cas even closer, his breath hitching when Cas tugs open his belt and zipper, when Cas pushes his jeans down past his hips and slides to his knees, dragging a wet kiss up the length of Dean's cock before taking it into his mouth.
Cas is frightfully good at this, everything slick and sloppy and slow, moaning around Dean's cock like he can't get enough of it, sucking until they're both wet with precome and spit, until Dean's thighs are shaking and he's nearly crawling out of his skin, pulling on Cas' hair and desperate to come. Dean has always enjoyed sex, but something about Cas has turned the whole thing on its head; he can't seem to kiss Cas enough, wants to touch him all the time, can't stop himself right now from slipping his hand to the back of Cas' head, holding Cas steady as he works his hips a little, thrusting into Cas' mouth. Cas just takes it, his hands sliding to Dean's ass, encouraging Dean to give him more, to do it harder, faster. Cas' eyes are open and incredibly blue, and Dean chokes on a noise so needy it's embarrassing, so close to coming he can feel it everywhere, heat twisting in the pit of his gut, at the base of his spine.
"Oh, fuck. I -- fuck."
Cas pulls his mouth up, his lips red and wet and his tongue absolutely everywhere, swirling under the head, and then over it, teasing the slit before he swallows Dean back down, taking him in deep, too deep. Dean comes hissing Cas' name and unable to breathe, his eyes closed and his heart hammering in his chest and the heel of his boot squeaking against the washing machine. Cas sucks him through it, keeping his mouth and tongue easy and soft; he pulls back just before Dean starts to feel twitchy and overwhelmed and tucks his face into the crease of Dean's hip.
"Was that my present?"
"Some of it."
Dean slides his hand over Cas' jaw; the corner of Cas' mouth is shiny with spit or come and Dean rubs it with his thumb. "Some?"
Cas opens his mouth, then closes it and frowns slightly, the way he does when he's using his freaky angel hearing to eavesdrop on someone seventeen and a half rooms away. "I believe your brother is back."
"Back? I didn't even know he'd left."
"He went to buy you lunch," Cas says, getting to his feet. "From that Mexican place you like in Smith City."
Dean smiles, warmed by a weird wave of nostalgia. On some of his birthdays, when pool and poker had left them flush, his dad had come home with something special for dinner, double bacon cheeseburgers wrapped in greasy pieces of wax paper, fried rice made with giant prawns instead of tiny, button shrimp. He pulls Cas in for a kiss, both hands cradling Cas' face; Cas returns it for a moment, then pulls away and mojos Dean back into his jeans.
"We should go upstairs."
"What about this?" Dean asks, rubbing Cas' cock through his pants.
Cas pushes against Dean's hand a little, making a dark, encouraging noise in the back of his throat, but he stops Dean from opening his zipper, his fingers curling around Dean's wrist, his thumb tapping over Dean's pulse. "After. Come on, I want to give you the rest of your present."
He herds Dean back upstairs and into their bedroom. Dean doesn't see it at first -- he's looking for something wrapped, something sitting on the bed or the dresser -- but Cas points at something on the wall and Dean turns around and nearly swallows his tongue. It's the photograph of him and his mother, the one he keeps on his nightstand, blown up large and framed, the kind of thing he's never owned because he's lived out of a car for as long as he can remember. It's been retouched, in full color instead of the washed out tones of an eighties photograph, and his mother is happy, happy and so beautiful, her cheeks pink and her hair bright.
"Cas, I -- um." It's perfect, and he loves it, but he can't get the words out. "Cas."
Cas just wraps him up in a hug, his hand solid and warm at the back of Dean's neck, keeps him there until Sam starts shouting that the enchiladas are getting cold.
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,500
Summary: Dean hasn't given his birthday more than a passing thought in years.
Notes: Written for Dean's birthday. Low on nutritional value, high on blow jobs. Set in an unspecified future where nothing hurts.
[AO3]
Dean is sorting through a pile of shirts in the bunker's industrial-sized laundry room when Cas comes up behind him, moving in close. He slides his hands over Dean's shoulders and noses at the back of Dean's neck, and he hides a smile in Dean's hair when Dean startles slightly before relaxing back against him. Heaven is still more or less broken, enough that angels still can't zap themselves around wherever they want, but Cas has gotten annoyingly good at walking without making any sounds.
"What's up?"
"I finished translating that ancient scroll you found in the storage boxes."
Dean turns his head a little, brushing his lips against Cas' temple. "That was fast."
"My Sumerian was not as rusty as I feared."
"What's it say?"
"It's instructions on how to kill a shedu."
"I don't even know what that is."
"You don't want to." Cas leans in closer, his hands settling at Dean's hips. "Now that I'm finished, I thought I'd come see what you're doing."
"Laundry," Dean says, tossing one of Sam's gigantic flannels into the 'darks' machine.
Cas makes a slow, thoughtful noise against Dean's neck, then bites a kiss into the skin behind Dean's ear. "It's your birthday, today."
"Yeah," Dean says, his voice curling up a bit at the edges, almost a question itself. He hasn't given his birthday more than a passing thought in years, aside from the fact that he's getting older in a way he can sometimes feel in his joints, has lived longer than he ever expected; it always happens on the road, usually when Dean is hunting.
He'd spent his eleventh standing in the pouring rain with a shotgun, keeping an eye out for ghosts while his dad looked for an unmarked grave in the middle of a sheep field, his fourteenth driving the Impala to the closest hospital, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, Sam crying in the front seat and his dad unconscious in the back, his seventeenth chasing a ghoul through an abandoned factory, his mouth bloody and his broken wrist throbbing so badly it felt like his whole arm was on fire, his twenty-third on a payphone in Enid, Oklahoma, calling Sam's Stanford apartment and kicking a crack in the booth when Sam's machine picked up and the phone ate Dean's last handful of change. Sam had given him a handmade card every year, until Sam turned nine or ten and started thinking that kind of stuff was dumb. His father had brought him home presents on the years they could afford it, but always useful, practical stuff -- underwear, socks, new boots, ammo.
Cas makes that noise again, nudging at Dean's hip until Dean puts the laundry down and turns around to face him, crowding in until his thigh is working between Dean's legs and the washing machine is digging a bruise into Dean's ass. He presses a wet kiss to the corner of Dean's jaw, and another to the point of Dean's chin, then drags his lips up until he catches Dean's mouth, all stubble and heat, his hands pushing under Dean's shirt, skimming up Dean's sides. Dean curls his fingers into the hair behind Cas' ears, kissing back slow and dirty, letting his teeth catch Cas' lower lip the way he knows Cas likes, sliding his other hand into the open collar of Cas' shirt, his thumb brushing the hollow of Cas' throat. They're both half-hard and breathless by the time Cas finally pulls away, and Dean has to stop himself from leaning after him and chasing his mouth. He's ready to drag Cas upstairs to their bedroom and leave the laundry for Sam, even though they fucked in the showers after breakfast, loud enough and long enough that Sam shouted at them from the doorway about being gross in the bunker's communal living areas.
Cas smiles, hooking his fingers into Dean's belt, then tilts his head to the side and gives Dean that scrunched, squinty-eyed look that Dean secretly thinks is adorable.
"What?" Dean asks. This thing between him and Cas is still pretty new, new enough that he's sometimes surprised first thing in the morning when he wakes up and finds Cas stretched out beside him on the bed, but he recognizes that look as something vaguely sneaky.
"It's your birthday," Cas says again, his voice rough in a way that itches at something underneath Dean's skin. He leans in for another kiss; this one's a little harder, a little dirtier, like he's after something more than a high school make-out session in the laundry room. He pins Dean back against the washing machine, moaning quietly into Dean's mouth and rubbing his cock against Dean's hip, and Dean fists his hand in the front of Cas' shirt, wanting Cas even closer, his breath hitching when Cas tugs open his belt and zipper, when Cas pushes his jeans down past his hips and slides to his knees, dragging a wet kiss up the length of Dean's cock before taking it into his mouth.
Cas is frightfully good at this, everything slick and sloppy and slow, moaning around Dean's cock like he can't get enough of it, sucking until they're both wet with precome and spit, until Dean's thighs are shaking and he's nearly crawling out of his skin, pulling on Cas' hair and desperate to come. Dean has always enjoyed sex, but something about Cas has turned the whole thing on its head; he can't seem to kiss Cas enough, wants to touch him all the time, can't stop himself right now from slipping his hand to the back of Cas' head, holding Cas steady as he works his hips a little, thrusting into Cas' mouth. Cas just takes it, his hands sliding to Dean's ass, encouraging Dean to give him more, to do it harder, faster. Cas' eyes are open and incredibly blue, and Dean chokes on a noise so needy it's embarrassing, so close to coming he can feel it everywhere, heat twisting in the pit of his gut, at the base of his spine.
"Oh, fuck. I -- fuck."
Cas pulls his mouth up, his lips red and wet and his tongue absolutely everywhere, swirling under the head, and then over it, teasing the slit before he swallows Dean back down, taking him in deep, too deep. Dean comes hissing Cas' name and unable to breathe, his eyes closed and his heart hammering in his chest and the heel of his boot squeaking against the washing machine. Cas sucks him through it, keeping his mouth and tongue easy and soft; he pulls back just before Dean starts to feel twitchy and overwhelmed and tucks his face into the crease of Dean's hip.
"Was that my present?"
"Some of it."
Dean slides his hand over Cas' jaw; the corner of Cas' mouth is shiny with spit or come and Dean rubs it with his thumb. "Some?"
Cas opens his mouth, then closes it and frowns slightly, the way he does when he's using his freaky angel hearing to eavesdrop on someone seventeen and a half rooms away. "I believe your brother is back."
"Back? I didn't even know he'd left."
"He went to buy you lunch," Cas says, getting to his feet. "From that Mexican place you like in Smith City."
Dean smiles, warmed by a weird wave of nostalgia. On some of his birthdays, when pool and poker had left them flush, his dad had come home with something special for dinner, double bacon cheeseburgers wrapped in greasy pieces of wax paper, fried rice made with giant prawns instead of tiny, button shrimp. He pulls Cas in for a kiss, both hands cradling Cas' face; Cas returns it for a moment, then pulls away and mojos Dean back into his jeans.
"We should go upstairs."
"What about this?" Dean asks, rubbing Cas' cock through his pants.
Cas pushes against Dean's hand a little, making a dark, encouraging noise in the back of his throat, but he stops Dean from opening his zipper, his fingers curling around Dean's wrist, his thumb tapping over Dean's pulse. "After. Come on, I want to give you the rest of your present."
He herds Dean back upstairs and into their bedroom. Dean doesn't see it at first -- he's looking for something wrapped, something sitting on the bed or the dresser -- but Cas points at something on the wall and Dean turns around and nearly swallows his tongue. It's the photograph of him and his mother, the one he keeps on his nightstand, blown up large and framed, the kind of thing he's never owned because he's lived out of a car for as long as he can remember. It's been retouched, in full color instead of the washed out tones of an eighties photograph, and his mother is happy, happy and so beautiful, her cheeks pink and her hair bright.
"Cas, I -- um." It's perfect, and he loves it, but he can't get the words out. "Cas."
Cas just wraps him up in a hug, his hand solid and warm at the back of Dean's neck, keeps him there until Sam starts shouting that the enchiladas are getting cold.