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spn fic: Snow Day
Title: Snow Day
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,200
Summary: It snows their third day in Muncie, heavily.
Notes: This is shameless hunting husbands fic. I regret nothing.
[AO3]
Snow Day
It snows their third day in Muncie, heavily, the sky clouding over all at once, the air turning crisp and cold as everything suddenly bleaches white. Cas flips up his collar as he trudges across the graveyard, his shoulders hunched against the wind and his hands stuffed in the pocket of his new green coat, and Dean paces a narrow circle between the headstones, shivering, his breath taking shape in front of his face as he listens to the names and dates of death Sam left on his voicemail. The last two probably aren't the spirit they're looking for, haven't been dead long enough to be haunting a school that closed in 1973, but this case has been a mess from the start -- no witnesses, no clear motive, no local legends to put things into perspective.
Cas' nose and cheeks are pink. He slides his hand into Dean's, tugging a little as he cocks his head toward the car.
Their motel is on the other side of town, crouched on its haunches beside US 35, and they barely make it back before the weather closes the roads. They pile their gear on the bed closest to the door, then curl up together on the other one, watching awful afternoon television until Dean is dozing against Cas' collarbone, his hand resting at Cas' hip and his mouth open against Cas' skin. He blinks himself awake to what feels like early evening; the television is off, and the heater has finally taken the chill off the room, and Cas has slipped down the bed, sleeping now, his arm wrapped around Dean's waist and his hair tickling Dean's nose.
Dean presses a kiss to Cas' forehead, then strokes his fingers over Cas' face, up the curve of his cheek and down the line of his jaw, pausing at his chin to thumb the corner of his mouth, to tease the soft swell of his lower lip. Cas makes a slow, bleary noise and shifts a little closer, worming his foot between Dean's ankles, sliding his arm away from Dean's waist to tuck his hand underneath his own chin. It's a simple gesture, completely human, and Dean leans in to brush a kiss against Cas' sleepy mouth. Cas released his borrowed grace when heaven reopened and the other angels went back upstairs; Dean never wanted that, too worried it would make Cas vulnerable, that Cas would have regrets, but now that it's happened he can't make himself feel sorry, not after months of Cas laughing and hunting and eating cheeseburgers and snoring in Dean's ear as he falls asleep.
He kisses Cas again, first threading his fingers in Cas' hair, then skimming his hand down to the warm hollow of Cas' throat, lingering just long enough that Cas mumbles his name and sort of kisses back. They're both more or less dressed, Cas shirtless but still in his jeans and Dean wearing everything but his boots; Dean sits up enough to shuck his flannel, then nudges Cas onto his back and slides down the bed, knuckling the hard line of Cas' dick a few times before unbuttoning his fly and flicking his tongue over the head. Cas mumbles again, stretching, his hips restless and his bare foot brushing against Dean's side, and Dean tugs Cas' jeans down to his knees and runs his hands over Cas' thighs, dragging a wet kiss up the length of Cas' dick before sucking it into his mouth.
Dean loves doing this to Cas, loves the slow burn in his jaw and the sweat-salt taste of it, the weight of Cas' dick against his tongue, the way Cas always twists and shakes underneath him, the noises Cas makes, caught in his throat, needy and desperate. He's more awake than asleep now, his knees drawing up and his toes curling in the sheets; Dean pulls up slow and wet, then slides back down quickly, taking Cas in deep, moaning around it, his own dick harder than a rock and rubbing against the fly of his jeans. Cas breathes out Dean's name, yawning but completely awake; the bed creaks as he leans up on his elbow, as he shifts closer to Dean, brushing his hand over Dean's jaw, then curving it around the back of Dean's neck, holding Dean still as he thrusts up, shaky and shallow and slow, just enough that Dean can feel it, closing his eyes as he relaxes into it.
They find an easy rhythm, the roll of Cas' hips and the dip of Dean's mouth, all heat and spit and slick, greedy sounds, a tremor building in Cas' thighs as Dean hollows his cheeks and curls his tongue. He tucks his hand under Cas' balls, pressing his thumb to the skin just behind them, and Cas comes, choking out a filthy, beautiful noise and twisting his fingers in the collar of Dean's shirt. He pulls Dean up before his dick is finished twitching, some of the mess catching on Dean's chin, but Cas just licks it up on the way to Dean's mouth, kissing Dean slow and hard and deep, one hand pressed to the stretch between Dean's shoulders, the other unbuttoning Dean's fly and wrapping around Dean's dick.
Dean is desperate for it, cursing and digging bruises into Cas' arms, half-done from rutting against the bed and listening to Cas get off, but Cas just plays him, his thumb along the vein and two fingers up the length, his palm over the head and a loose fist at the base. He just kisses Dean when Dean starts to complain, rolling them over when Dean tries to rub himself against Cas' thigh, working his arm under Dean's back so he can cradle Dean's head, so he can stretch over Dean and pin him to the bed, sucking wet kisses into Dean's neck and throat as he teases Dean's dick with the heel of his hand. When he finally comes -- when Cas finally lets him come -- he nearly bites through his lip, his vision whiting out as his cock spurts over Cas' fist.
It's another half hour before he can move again, and even then his legs ache as he putters around the room -- grabbing a washcloth and a glass of water, stripping off his sweaty t-shirt, checking the messages on his phone. He has a voicemail from Sam, sounding tired and impatient as he names three more stiffs who could be the spirit haunting the abandoned school. He pushes the curtain aside, just enough to see the motel's parking lot is a solid wall of white; they won't finish this hunt tonight, might not even finish it tomorrow.
Dean stands at the window for a minute, feeling anxious and rubbed raw, the way he always does when a job is unfinished, but then Cas is behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and kissing the back of his neck.
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,200
Summary: It snows their third day in Muncie, heavily.
Notes: This is shameless hunting husbands fic. I regret nothing.
[AO3]
It snows their third day in Muncie, heavily, the sky clouding over all at once, the air turning crisp and cold as everything suddenly bleaches white. Cas flips up his collar as he trudges across the graveyard, his shoulders hunched against the wind and his hands stuffed in the pocket of his new green coat, and Dean paces a narrow circle between the headstones, shivering, his breath taking shape in front of his face as he listens to the names and dates of death Sam left on his voicemail. The last two probably aren't the spirit they're looking for, haven't been dead long enough to be haunting a school that closed in 1973, but this case has been a mess from the start -- no witnesses, no clear motive, no local legends to put things into perspective.
Cas' nose and cheeks are pink. He slides his hand into Dean's, tugging a little as he cocks his head toward the car.
Their motel is on the other side of town, crouched on its haunches beside US 35, and they barely make it back before the weather closes the roads. They pile their gear on the bed closest to the door, then curl up together on the other one, watching awful afternoon television until Dean is dozing against Cas' collarbone, his hand resting at Cas' hip and his mouth open against Cas' skin. He blinks himself awake to what feels like early evening; the television is off, and the heater has finally taken the chill off the room, and Cas has slipped down the bed, sleeping now, his arm wrapped around Dean's waist and his hair tickling Dean's nose.
Dean presses a kiss to Cas' forehead, then strokes his fingers over Cas' face, up the curve of his cheek and down the line of his jaw, pausing at his chin to thumb the corner of his mouth, to tease the soft swell of his lower lip. Cas makes a slow, bleary noise and shifts a little closer, worming his foot between Dean's ankles, sliding his arm away from Dean's waist to tuck his hand underneath his own chin. It's a simple gesture, completely human, and Dean leans in to brush a kiss against Cas' sleepy mouth. Cas released his borrowed grace when heaven reopened and the other angels went back upstairs; Dean never wanted that, too worried it would make Cas vulnerable, that Cas would have regrets, but now that it's happened he can't make himself feel sorry, not after months of Cas laughing and hunting and eating cheeseburgers and snoring in Dean's ear as he falls asleep.
He kisses Cas again, first threading his fingers in Cas' hair, then skimming his hand down to the warm hollow of Cas' throat, lingering just long enough that Cas mumbles his name and sort of kisses back. They're both more or less dressed, Cas shirtless but still in his jeans and Dean wearing everything but his boots; Dean sits up enough to shuck his flannel, then nudges Cas onto his back and slides down the bed, knuckling the hard line of Cas' dick a few times before unbuttoning his fly and flicking his tongue over the head. Cas mumbles again, stretching, his hips restless and his bare foot brushing against Dean's side, and Dean tugs Cas' jeans down to his knees and runs his hands over Cas' thighs, dragging a wet kiss up the length of Cas' dick before sucking it into his mouth.
Dean loves doing this to Cas, loves the slow burn in his jaw and the sweat-salt taste of it, the weight of Cas' dick against his tongue, the way Cas always twists and shakes underneath him, the noises Cas makes, caught in his throat, needy and desperate. He's more awake than asleep now, his knees drawing up and his toes curling in the sheets; Dean pulls up slow and wet, then slides back down quickly, taking Cas in deep, moaning around it, his own dick harder than a rock and rubbing against the fly of his jeans. Cas breathes out Dean's name, yawning but completely awake; the bed creaks as he leans up on his elbow, as he shifts closer to Dean, brushing his hand over Dean's jaw, then curving it around the back of Dean's neck, holding Dean still as he thrusts up, shaky and shallow and slow, just enough that Dean can feel it, closing his eyes as he relaxes into it.
They find an easy rhythm, the roll of Cas' hips and the dip of Dean's mouth, all heat and spit and slick, greedy sounds, a tremor building in Cas' thighs as Dean hollows his cheeks and curls his tongue. He tucks his hand under Cas' balls, pressing his thumb to the skin just behind them, and Cas comes, choking out a filthy, beautiful noise and twisting his fingers in the collar of Dean's shirt. He pulls Dean up before his dick is finished twitching, some of the mess catching on Dean's chin, but Cas just licks it up on the way to Dean's mouth, kissing Dean slow and hard and deep, one hand pressed to the stretch between Dean's shoulders, the other unbuttoning Dean's fly and wrapping around Dean's dick.
Dean is desperate for it, cursing and digging bruises into Cas' arms, half-done from rutting against the bed and listening to Cas get off, but Cas just plays him, his thumb along the vein and two fingers up the length, his palm over the head and a loose fist at the base. He just kisses Dean when Dean starts to complain, rolling them over when Dean tries to rub himself against Cas' thigh, working his arm under Dean's back so he can cradle Dean's head, so he can stretch over Dean and pin him to the bed, sucking wet kisses into Dean's neck and throat as he teases Dean's dick with the heel of his hand. When he finally comes -- when Cas finally lets him come -- he nearly bites through his lip, his vision whiting out as his cock spurts over Cas' fist.
It's another half hour before he can move again, and even then his legs ache as he putters around the room -- grabbing a washcloth and a glass of water, stripping off his sweaty t-shirt, checking the messages on his phone. He has a voicemail from Sam, sounding tired and impatient as he names three more stiffs who could be the spirit haunting the abandoned school. He pushes the curtain aside, just enough to see the motel's parking lot is a solid wall of white; they won't finish this hunt tonight, might not even finish it tomorrow.
Dean stands at the window for a minute, feeling anxious and rubbed raw, the way he always does when a job is unfinished, but then Cas is behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and kissing the back of his neck.