bloodsalteds

[bloodsalteds]

a devilish grin appears on otherwise occupied lips as he feels abaddon stir. he hadn't expected to stick around. til, well, he did and then the idea came--first and foremost as the wee hours of dawn only began to seep through the crack in the hotel room's curtains. that if he was going to stick around. he was going to make it both their while. settled between her legs, his mouth devouring her--the hunter groans thick when her breath picks up. realization. she feels him there. tongue curled against the nub of nerves that he appears to be starved for the taste of...

the weight of her leg hitching over his shoulder once knees parted giving him more space to move and settle in. an arm loops around the back of her thigh. fingers spread over her skin. blunt nails dig in--the grip firm. while the other...opens her to his mouth as she pulls his head in and he eagerly picks up the pace allowing the hand to slip lower. she's so wet for him sliding two digits into the soft heat of her core is easy. but she grips around them so tight that his eyes roll behind their lids. lashes flutter and a heavy moan echoes how her fingernails dig into his scalp and how she feels clenching around his middle and pointer fingers. a slow pace--indulgent--starts to thrust inside of her.

exploring. touching. memorizing. all over again. as if the liquor he swallowed last night might've erased the memory. never. there isn't enough alcohol in the world to get rid of last night.. any part of it.

oh fuck.... a slight nod. his fingers on her thigh pull a long, pale leg further to the side. and his tongue flattens against her clit. licking a stripe up her center before his lips close around it and he begins to suck. soon? his tongue joins in. flicking against her each time she rocks up into his mouth. a scissoring of fingers and his tongue explores between them, the tip dips inside of her, before they close--trust, stay buried as palm grinds against her--and he longingly picks up against her clit where he left off, hungry and craving any sound he can draw out of her. any taste he can swallow.

she could become is becoming an even bigger problem than she already is...

sunday themed prompts: mornings, for the sender to intimately wake the receiver up　//　 @bloodsalted & abaddon.

the last thing the demon was expecting, was for the hunter to hang around. the previous night had been nothing short of sin fuelled...

the things she and dean had done the previous night would make satan blush. and yet, as her eyes open, she finds herself surprised with the realisation that the hunter wasn't gone. abaddon lets out a low chuckle, her hand shooting down beneath the sheets to grab a fistful of his hair, her legs spreading a little further apart to welcome him between them. she bit her lower, holding back a moan for now.

couldn't let dean get too excited about his skills, could she?

abaddon was already going out of her way, here. sleeping wasn't a thing she ever did, let alone with a human, but somehow, she had not found it in herself to want to get out of bed once they had made their way to it; it had not been where they started. and now, dean was here between her legs, his tongue working over her clit, and how could she think that this was not, the perfect place to be? it was quite a way to be woken up in the morning. she grinned up at the ceiling. hips arched towards him, a leg hitching up over his shoulder, as both of her hands now grabbed the sides of his head and all but forced his head down. ❝ if you're going to do it, you're going to do it right, lover. don't worry. i'll teach you. ❞ her nails bite the back of his head, leaving her mark on his skin as she starts moving her hips to encourage him.

[bloodsalteds]

dean would argue about the idea that the mark will beat him. of course he would. even if it's quickly becoming one of his biggest fears and, other times, his want---when the darkness takes over. that fear twists into need. one he disavows the existence of. because. he's got this. right? oh he wishes he did. and denial? dean and denial are very familiar bedmates. have been since he could barely remember. easy to get taht way when it becomes a way of life. a way of existing from day to day. from practically toddler bed to grave and back from. the list of lies he can tell himself is endless. even if his soul seeping through his body from the scar upon his arm isn't... don't tell him that. DENIAL. remember?

long lashes flutter when fingers run along his jawline. causes lips to part. a soft breath drawn through them. dean hums as though he has no care in the world. could've been right fucked out of him. probably was. who could give a shit about anything at the moment? other than this bed and the other figure in it? dean can't. any time. crowley promises. any time. dean grins. nodding as the tip of his nose nudges against stubble and skin.

gaze caught, he burrows his brows at crowley's voice. mean what? is on the edge of his tongue. dean doesn't have to ask. crowley answers without the need. his head presses further against the pillow. a small tilt as he digests the confession. his hand slips up along the others side.. to his arm. then fingers come to rest and graze over a cheekbone. even that soft little patch of velvety skin underneath a dark eye receives a flutter of attention. "..i'd say i'm sorry. but i'm not." a brief pause, dean's expression turns serious. hesitant but serious. because, even if he's sinking into the dark, there's a spark in him that refuses to die out completely. that same spark that has him murmuring. "..in spite of everything. how much i tried to ignore it. pass it off? you...," a breath escapes him--a smile wide enough to show teeth chases after. "you snuck up on me with how much i've come to care for you. you know that right? that you'd make me want to be yours.. didn't see that coming. but here it is.."

THE AFTERGLOW EBBING AWAY TAKES ALL HEAT WITH IT. Demons don't freeze, not easily anyways, but the brush of air against bare skin feels almost uncomfortably cold. Crowley has half the mind to just pull up the blankets. But Dean distracts him in a beat; it's ridiculous how a little bit of scooting closer suffices to keep his attention pinned to that handsome face. The smile summoned by Dean's response lacks joy. And once again Crowley curses the time he consumed human blood which got him all emotional— seems like some of those effects never left.

Because why else does this actually perfect, splendid, happy moment make him low-key sad? With this gnawing inkling that it won't last forever. That the mark sooner or later will turn Dean into something unrecognizable, devoid of affection, completely out of his mind. It's a fact Crowley can't ignore. No matter how much he wants to. He rolls onto the side, facing the hunter turned fellow demon. Soaks up those affections like a sponge does water, once again reaching for that stubbly jaw to run his fingertips along its firm contours.

Luckily, this greedy thing snuggled up to him proposes a next time— " Any time ", he hums into the meager inch between their faces. The warmth of Dean's breath flitting over his skin nearly makes up for the cool brush of the room's air. " I meant it, you know. " What seems pulled out of context accompanies a flutter of lids, his gaze roaming the fellow demon's features. " You ruined me. Three hundred years, give or take some, and I haven't felt... well, felt a damn thing. " Give him some credit for repeating the magic three words in a more creative way.

[bloodsalteds]

Meg walks in on Dean like that ? … he’s gonna bite down harder on the pillow that’s for sure

in response to this very u.sfw post right here. not family friendly!

// missed this one before. then it was buried but.. you know what? this answer is the best answer. 😜 i freaking adore you, lady. and meg. ya both are a VIBE! also, i agree with meg. 1000000%. 😏

[bloodsalteds]

@murderdeals || das a spicy inbox || spiiiiiiiicy!

They're playing pool, again. And while Dean focuses on his next shot, bent over the table's edge, Crowley stands behind him. Checks him out. That ass? To die for. Daringest devil you know, he's feeling bold and soon closes the distance. Firm the grip on loverboy's hips. Not even a hair fits between them when Crowley leans over to whisper in Dean's ear: " Spoiler alert; you're not going to make it. " Sink that ball? Win the game? Maintain composure? Talk about vague, followed by a tender bite to an earlobe.

bent over the pool table, dean's eyes narrow precisely on a shot that's going to set him up--on the next round--to take crowley down and end the game as the WINNER. tongue stuck between his teeth--he lines up the cue and--television record scratch noise in his head!!! crowley's gripping his hips--leaning in until he's close enough that dean can feel him press against every spot that draws quick attention to the heat that spread across his abdomen soon as those hands were on him. eyes close. dean breaths in...hips arching towards that grip (on purpose). brushes the curve of his ass right over the front of crowley's pants.

that breath is blown out. goosebumps dance along his throat nearest crowley's mouth. he seems to pull himself together enough--white knuckled grip on the stick says so--to clear his throat. "wanna..bet..oh fuck," he grumbles low as teeth find his earlobe. makes his spine shake. cue drops to the table and he snaps his eyes open scrambling to pick it up. "nah.. still.. gonna kick your ass." and yet? he hasn't done a damn thing to take the shot.

[bloodsalteds]

lips part to say something--that is shut down immediately when teeth meet his skin. hard. dean's back arches and any comment he might've had about pillow princess goes right out the window taking his conviction along for the ride. the hunter-turned-demon feels the bed moving as crowley inches back up. lips press against his and he lifts his head to chase it... one small returned peck meets the other's jawline but then...with a sinking into the mattress..crowley comes into view beside him.

dean turns to face him slightly, nudging into the hand that's cupping his chin. lust-hazed green eyes dart an appreciative gaze over crowley's darker stare. a content grin, lazy and happy, curls the corners of his mouth. makes him look. ya know? back to the way he was before he bit it and ended up joining the dark side. warm. inviting. apparently he likes being told he's being kept. held onto. a hum sounds against pressed together lips.

scooting close enough that their legs can tangle together, dean's hand reaches out--feathers over the hair stuck against crowley's forehead. their noses brush against one another's. dean's doing. "good.. don't. think i could spend just about every damn night like that and never get bored.." his forehead meets crowley's cheekbone and dean inhales. the scent of both of them mingled together fills his nose. and it sends a chill along his spine. licking his lips, he murmurs quietly--"so.. when do we get to do that again?" and, wow, the grin that can be heard in his voice! stretches from ear to ear.

flashback to his hips being gripped. to how it felt with crowley thrusting inside? lips part and he feels a flutter in his belly. that's gonna be a hard image to shake. he clears his throat after a toe curl or two. "fuck," he breathes, "aftershocks.." damn memories ricocheting through his body like wildfire? crowley's not allowed to be that fucking good. and YET? here we are...

IF CROWLEY WOULDN'T KNOW BETTER, HE'D SWEAR WHAT'S LEFT OF DEAN'S SOUL JUST EXITED HIS BODY. And this is exactly what he went for, still goes for by overstimulating him with such pointed touches. Yet deprives him of more than those tiny strokes across anticipating, heated skin. There's nothing more than an affirming hum in response to Dean's question; but that sudden shout? Or rather, breathless attempt at it? Rewarding! Suffices to conjure a smug smile ere he lifts his head again to blink up, his ministrations coming to a halt altogether when desperate pleas slip into damp air.

Going for another round seems very damn tempting, if only the afterglow's haze wasn't so welcoming. Yes, almost like an embrace.

" You truly are a natural born pillow princess ", he nearly coos, those trembling hands caressing his own skin failing to distract him from biting into the sensible flesh of an inner thigh. Not hard enough to draw blood, of course. Enough to leave a glaring red bruise? Absolutely. It's with Dean's fingernails teasing the underside of his chin that he couldn't suppress a pleased purr even if he wanted to; leans into the touch a tad, before deciding to move back up. Crowley soon hovers above Dean again, one last peck to that mouth he really can't get enough of...

And finally, he sinks into the sheets beside him with a content sigh exhaled. Then reaches out with one hand to loosely cup his lover's chin, glean his handsome face as though it'd be for the last time. " Not to be sentimental on main, but I don't think I'll let you go. Ever. "

[bloodsalteds]

defiance. boiling over in his gaze, the need to stand taller--tighten his knees against the wall--force another swallow even if the grip on his throat makes it damn near impossible without pressing it tighter against the inside of cas's palm. his hands press harder against cas's wrist as if he has control over the situation. over this moment. right here. where they're staring into one another's eyes and he can see the gears in cas's brain working in overdrive when that stare bounces from him to the hole in the wall and back. tightening jaw muscles--it's instinct. to tense up. to ready himself for whatever comes next. decades upon decades of his fucked up life make that stance, that waiting against the wall for something to happen so he can react, as simple as breathing...

..it never should've been this way. how he can hold his breath and feel his body filling with adrenaline. how his heart, once thundering in his ears, continues to beat just as hard but now the world's gone silent. just his breathing and castiel's. and dean listens to that. as if judging his next move. in the back of his mind--he can't fathom how his admission would've brought them to this. brought him to a point where he's on the brink of fight or flight and choosing fight because he's left with nothing else.

but it isn't the first time an i love you has gone wrong. only it's the first i love you with the person he loves the most--and it's gone to shit. dean doesn't relax when he's let go. the opposite. there's a single moment where he flinches. then twitches his nose as if he's instantly recognized what he did. bowing his head and taking in a deep breath, he exhales through his nose. gaze locked on the floor. covering up his knee jerk reaction. dean listens. lips form a thin line. "we both could've done things different but---." green eyes offer a watery stare. "--that goes for a lot of things." he needs a minute. takes it the second cas walks away from him. by sitting on the floor and putting his head back against the plaster. kicks the other shoe off cause it makes no fucking sense to have one on and one lost somewhere.

i love you, too. his features crumple. head turned, he looks over at cas. sees the mess he's in---that's how it works, isn't it? that's what loving him does to people. ruins them to their bones. or gets them dead. sometimes both. he gives him such a look of love. soft eyes. adoration making lines formed by years of ache and the fight melt away. he's not a battle hardened commander he never wanted to be but fate forced him to. or the hunter he was raised to become. just dean. "then don't leave me, too. not you, cas.." shoulders hitch and he rubs the tears out of his eyes with the palm of his hand, wiping them on a bent knee.

                                CASTIEL'S EYES DART FROM HIS HAND AROUND DEAN'S THROAT to the hole punched in the drywall. Suddenly, he feels sick. Peeling his fingers away, the angel takes a wobbly step back, pressing his hands to his head. He wanted to hurt Dean, yes, but did it help? Is he feeling better now? Simply put: no. Dean's pain doesn't lessen his own, doesn't even satisfy the ugly beast, which sometimes pokes its head up and demands chaos and misery because Castiel doesn't know how to deal with a world-ending apocalypse while falling from grace at the same time.

                                 "It's never been just here," he states plainly. The venom has left his voice, and he rubs at his face to get rid of the tears. Disgusting human bodies are leaking secretions left and right. He hates it. "You kept it hidden. You never said a thing." He barks a mirthless laugh. "But then again: so did I, didn't I?" Maybe Castiel is a coward, too. Sure, in the beginning, he didn't even know that what he was feeling was love because he'd never felt anything like that before, and the realization came slowly, but it did come, and then the world turned upside down and inside out, and he figured it wouldn't really matter since they'd be dead soon enough. That was at least 3 years ago.

                                 Giving Dean one last look, Castiel turns and walks back to the sofa, dragging his feet and picking the bottle of absinthe up on his way there. His face is still blotchy, eyes red-rimmed from tears, and his shaking hands get worse as he sits down. "I love you, too," he murmurs before taking a hearty pull, spilling some of the alcohol on his chin. He doesn't think it makes a difference saying it now, but it should be said at some point, and why not right this moment? Castiel doesn't expect anything, anyway. 

[bloodsalteds]

mine.. dean's soul (whatever's left of it after becoming what he's become and now in the state he's been left in..a wreck..a completely happy and content wreck) melts. a nod and he searches those dark eyes. so deep that he sinks into the hues. can nearly see his own reflection in them. he imagines. from how they're drinking him in. brows pinch together as crowley's hand drifts low. sinfully deft fingers trace the outline of his cock. those should be illegal. still feeling him inside, keeping him open. warm and full. along with that touch? dean's back curves and his lips part, a quiet groan bobs the sharp point of the adam's apple in his throat. oh that's heaven. even if they're anything but close to that place. it's heaven right there.

"yeah--i--," but his voice is cut off by the press of lips against his and the empty feeling that comes from crowley slipping out of him. it's a sharp contrast. that sensation. of not having him buried deep. dean's close to asking what he's gotta do to get it back when kisses start to pepper down his chest. "oh fuck," his voice is a low murmur--some might call it a purr--as he draws up onto one elbow and watches the demon sink down. gooseflesh ripples across his ribs. his abdomen right before a rush of color dots across freckled cheeks and nose. heat and cold dance through his body.. a rush of chills that burn and make every muscle twitch. forest hued eyes flare wide when he sees a tongue dip out into the mess he made.

crowley begins to lick the taste of him up and the visual of that alone caves his stomach in tight and his head rolls back. mouth open as a moan's aimed towards the ceiling. long and drawn out before he forces his head forward again as to not miss a single more second of that tongue moving through pearly white and over it. "..do you like it..," he asks in a voice that's breathy until it dies off in a whimper as that touch dips between his legs. thighs instinctively part wider, offering more of himself to the touch that presses against a sensitive and damp rim of skin. "crowley!" his shout's shoved out by collapsing lungs that heave in a breath right after.

toes dig into expensive sheets and he buckles as his free hand moves to caress over a bearded cheek, across the back of a warm neck. hips roll against the touch that slides along his skin. "please.. please.." dean barely knows what he's begging for. something. anything. more! and, oh yes, there are whimpers. plenty of those as his nails lightly scrape against the underside of the demon's jawline.

RIDING THAT WAVE TOGETHER, THEIR MOANS REDUCED TO LITTLE GASPS NOW BLOWN INTO STICKY AIR; PURE BLISS. The marks nails and teeth dug into flesh already start to heal, only the memory of bittersweet pain stays. Pain, an every torturer's best friend. Crowley releases the leg now heavier on atop his shoulder where tension abates. Lets it sink into the sheets. Doesn't pull out of his lover just yet while that incessantly clenching heat squeezes every last drop out of him. Dean's little confession? Balm to his rotten soul. And he cracks a grin against red-kissed lips, exhaling a voiceless " Mine " in return.

Fingers in his hair, the hunger for more affections in those green eyes he could lose himself in. Yes, that's his. All his. The hand previously holding lover's thigh in place now drags its fingertips along his slick, twitching cock, feather-light, then travels up to that rapidly heaving stomach. Through the milky-white stains dotting sweaty skin and back down.

" You made quite the mess, darling ", he drawls ere planting one final peck to Dean's lips. Slowly, although with a heavy heart really, pulls out and moves down on him sans rush. Drags open-mouthed kisses along lover's chest, tasting salty sweat, every now and then blinking up through dark lashes to garner whichever reactions Dean might grant him. Farther down, his tongue darts out to collect the warm drops; taste him, can't let that flavor go to waste. And what's a demon if not a cheeky little shit?

So he reaches between his lover's legs once more to tease his still relaxed, leaking rim with a wet fingertip. One small thumb-stroke to his perineum for extra chills. Maybe he'll get rewarded with another one of those sweet little whimpers?

[bloodsalteds]

dean's features flatten. grow darker as he's called a coward. fingers twitch at his sides and rows of white teeth sinch together. "i'm not a fucking coward," he hisses back. low and dangerous. tired. but dangerous. a switch flipped in his gut at the hint of being spineless. of being afraid. he's not a coward. he just doesn't know how much more of the people he loves turning against him he can take. before something HAPPENS. something in him snaps. and a stupid thing. or a mistake he can't take back is made. sorta like confessing he's in love with the man, angel, whatever looking at him like he'd like nothing more than to rip him in two. not budging as cas approaches, dean steadies himself on one booted and one bare foot. wouldn't be going far in the state of dress he's in, but that's besides the point. he just wanted away.

away.. that desire is stuffed in the dumpster as cas's fingers dig into his skin and his back hits the wall. his tongue gets bit as back teeth bite down against it. a hand wraps around his throat. the hole punched into the wall is dangerously close. cas might not have his heavenly strength anymore but dean knows he could pack one hell of a wallop still and a physical fight between the two? he's already lost one of those. burning green eyes jerk towards crumbling drywall that's seen plenty of better days. the burn in his shoulder doesn't match the verbal onslaught of punches that cas keeps swinging.

"with your---," both hands wrap around the wrist attached to the hand on his throat. fingernails bite into flesh. "--fuck you, cas! maybe because i needed to get it out. maybe because i needed you to know! maybe because I FUCKING FELT----nevermind." safe. to say it. safe enough that his walls cracked wide enough to let it out. there's a heat in his stomach. an anger that's bubbling up through the pain. dean can feel it tightening his captive neck. pushing his pulse up. coloring his ears and the bridge of his nose. his cheekbones. staring into castiel's eyes--the hunter swallows hard as he can to clear the wobble in his voice. "how the fuck am i supposed to be anything else but sorry? look at this! look at what you're doing! look at what happened soon as i fucking said it! how the HELL do i say and feel anything but fucking SORRY? years.. you wanted it for years? it's been right FUCKING HERE."

                             UNLIKE DEAN, Castiel does not care about his nudity. His clothes are strewn on the floor, but the angel pays them no attention as he grabs another pillow and throws it toward Dean, who's slowly backing away, clearly trying to get out of the room. "What, now you're running away?" Castiel snarls. The next pillow hits the door, though it won't do much to stop Dean from leaving. Leaving! When before, they, at least, could properly fight. But now he's got his tail between his legs, and it only fuels Castiel's anger to see him like that. "Stop being a goddamn coward!" he demands as he goes after Dean. His steps are wobbly, but rage keeps him on his feet. He knocks into Dean, and they slam into the wall next to the door. Since Dean isn't wearing a shirt yet, Castiel's hands dig into his skin, keeping him pressed to the wall by his throat.

                              "Sorry? Sorry is all you got to say?!" Castiel punches the wall. His face is white except for the blotchy red spots on his cheeks and around his eyes. His pupils are blown from too many drugs. The fingers on Dean's throat are shaking. For the sake of all that's holy, Castiel can't deal with this. He doesn't know how. He desperately wishes he could turn back time — to the moment before Dean came into his room. Castiel could lock the door and enjoy his heroin in peace instead of having to listen to what a damn disgrace he is to everyone by trying to escape reality like that. He would have never had to listen to Dean loving him.

                              "What are you sorry for? Loving me? Or for telling me you love me? For saying it like that, with my goddamn dick in your mouth?!" Even if Castiel hadn't had Dean by the throat, his choice of words would have made it clear how furious he is; he usually doesn't use this sort of crude language. "What, Dean, what? And why now?! After years — years!" Tears spill down his cheeks — angry tears full of sorrow and despair, and Castiel hates himself for being unable to keep them in. "All I ever wanted—and now you're sorry."

[bloodsalteds]

the sudden burn against his scalp as his head's ripped backwards causes dean to suck in a breath, spit glistening on his bottom lip as it jerks open for a sharp inhale. pain. it registers on his face with gritted teeth and a rush of color over his cheekbones. not the good kind of pain either. that hurt. thrown off, he's easily kicked away and left dazed for a moment wondering what the fuck he did wrong. wild eyes focus on cas as he pushes himself up to stand and starts going OFF. while clutching a damn table.

shocked--dean stares at him, mind-boggled. "because--i--because," but he's cut off by being cursed at. called an asshole. not exactly the reaction he was hoping for when those words subconsciously came flowing across his lips. he catches the pillow and sets it down. starts scrambling to get to his feet--his worn jeans are coming up for the ride, too. so are his briefs. he's mid-buckling them when cas is stumbling towards the couch. fucking hates seeing him like that. not as much as he hates how this whole fucking night just started going.

all thanks to his mouth.

all thanks for a confession born out of an overwhelmed ache that'd been sated. that was building again just to have another taste of before it was stolen away. a weakness of a moment where his guard was down and he didn't hold it in. swallow it back. run in fear of it. cas's questions immediately cause all the confusion, all the befuddlement to fade and twist. his eyes go round. before his gaze drifts down. there's nothing to say. nothing he can string together to make that question okay. to make those thoughts about him in castiel's head turn into something else. something MEANINGFUL.

one fucking UNBREAKABLE thing that he might dredge out of a whisper that never shoulda seen the light of day. shoulda taken that to his grave. sooner or later. that's what this is telling him. his lips part like he might, might say something before they press together and his shoulders hitch up. a shrug. like he doesn't know the answer. what to say. how to FIX THIS and make it go away. wet eyes glisten, reddened in their whites, when they lift up and meet cas's again. he sees him near another projectile pillow. a quirk of his mouth before he takes the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth.

palms swing from his hips. the left keeps going and cups the back of his head. "m'sorry, cas..." he doesn't bother looking for his shirt. or finding the boot that got kicked off. before he starts backing away towards the hall that'd lead to door. voice low, hurt. "i shoulda.. it--. i--. sorry."

                                 DEAN FINALLY GETS TO THE MAIN EVENT, and Castiel sucks in his lower lip when anticipation turns into sweet little thrills of pleasure that roll up his spine. Not as heated and desperate as before, but softer, more sustainable, and it takes his sluggish mind a couple of seconds to work through what Dean said before taking him in his mouth because his brain has been too busy to focus on the imminent pleasure, not some sweet nothingness uttered in the heat of the moment. But it hasn't been nothing, has it? Everything else Castiel might have made fun of later — their big, fearless leader suddenly growing sweet and adorable — but this? This?

                                  "No," he says sharply and then yanks Dean's head back by the hair, heedless of potential teeth on very tender skin. He unlocks his ankles behind Dean's back and pushes him away, off of himself, before getting to his feet. Alcohol and rage make him dizzy, and Castiel needs to grab a nearby table to regain his balance. "No, what did you — you love m— why did you say that?!" Why did this fucker use today of all days? After spilling Castiel's heroine? After their fight and aggressive sex? Now he chooses to get all lovey-dovey? When all Castiel ever wanted (in fact, since the moment he discovered what want even is) was for Dean to love him?

                                  "You fucking asshole," he spits, throwing a pillow at Dean's head. Damn, Castiel feels like crying. He can't, mustn't, not now, not in front of Dean. Rubbing a hand over his face rather aggressively, Castiel stumbles to the couch for another pillow to throw. "What, all I have to do is fuck your brains out, and you tell me you love me? Is that all it takes?"

[bloodsalteds]

oh the way his stomach deliciously flips as castiel's hand guides him along. half-lidded eyes take in the view between the angel's legs. spent but twitching. only for him. only for him. he puts that mantra on repeat in his head. like a prayer. one that.. not so long ago would've been easily heard by the other. dean's tongue laps at the fresh splashes of liquor that roll down pale, but flushed skin towards his mouth. starved for every flavor he can reach, the forced-to-be leader swallows greedily. like he was made solely for this purpose, craves only this flavor and can only be sated by having it. right here. spread out for him to devour.

so, he does. groaning thick as raspy breaths and a gravelly voice fill his ears. fingertips dig into the flesh of cas's thighs and he lets his eyes roam up a bent torso as his mouth is positioned right where cas wants him. over his softened length that, no doubt, wants to be buried into the warm damp wet of his mouth. "i love you," he murmurs--thick lashes dropping down right after to cut off his view of blue eyes. doesn't want to see what might OR MIGHT NOT be inside them once he's realized he said that OUT LOUD. instead, he looks at him one more time before opening his lips and taking him into the warmth cas craves.

dean can swallow all of him like this. suck against him and moan heatedly. puffs of air escape his nose. ghost along the still damp marks that he's left behind. a few suction points still remain pink. those feel his exhale the hardest. his tongue happily swirls against soft, velvet skin that tastes of the downfall of plenty of poets in liquid form and a scent and palate that is all cas. dean's cheeks cave in. his fingertips spread out. fluttering over skin. a lover's touch. meant to bring pleasure and offer devotion.

                           CASTIEL PANTS. That tongue is devilishly good, licking down to his hip, then back up again, and he has half a mind to ask if Lucifer really got the correct brother, but he swallows it down in time. No. Sometimes, he wants to hurt Dean with words as much as with fists, but this would be one step too far. He knows what saying Yes to Lucifer did to Dean; Castiel can see it daily when Dean thinks nobody is looking. The broken shell of a man that is held together by booze and stubbornness. His anxiety and depression bleeds through the cracks whenever he thinks he's alone. But he never is, not in a camp like this. Why does he believe Castiel longs to leave now and then? Because the angel needs solitude to let his guard down, too. That slightly mean, always high hippie guy who grows veggies and marijuana behind his hut — that's all facade, too. Well, at least a little. The disgusting, overly emotional feelings like despair and depression only come out when he can slip out of the camp and hide in a rundown motel room with a bottle of absinthe and a healthy dose of amphetamines.

                            His belly jumps when Dean moves down, down, down, leaving a wet trail of spit behind. Castiel feels hot all over as he tugs at Dean's hair, his fingernails digging into Dean's scalp. He wants to watch, so he gets up on his elbows and peers down, mouth open, eyes glassy. His legs move easily, ankles crossing on Dean's back as he loops his arms around Castiel's thighs and spreads him open, his mouth kissing and licking at everything but the really important part down there. But that's fine; Castiel can feel himself twitch in interest, but he'll need a bit more time until he's ready to go again.

                            "Yes," he pants, petting Dean's head. "You're a pro at that, hu?" One hand reaches for the discarded bottle; Castiel takes a sip, then splashes a few droplets on his thighs, his lower belly. "You forgot something, though," he drawls with a grin, his hand on Dean's head directing him to where Castiel wants him — including his shaft, once his skin is licked clean once more. Just because he can't get hard yet doesn't mean it won't feel good to have Dean's pretty lips wrapped around his flesh.

[bloodsalteds]

the noise that crowley makes against his mouth sends a rush of chills over dean's skin. prickling it up and blazing a hue of crimson down over freckled shoulders and biceps. dean's throat immediately exposes itself to the assault of teeth aimed towards it. the shrill sound that's ripped out of him is from a man shattered into the most blissful pieces of himself that he could possibly break apart into. yielding to the white teeth sinking into his flesh until they're buried there. harsh and clamping down sending a shock of pain that radiates through his body as guiltless delight. he revels in the merciless thrusts that have crowley buried in him completely. no withdrawing. no emptiness to fill. over and over. only the two of them joined together. deeper and deeper until dean can't take it anymore and falls.

his release hits him white and red and everywhere all at once. mouth gaping open, he chokes on the sound that's guttered out as he hones in on the command the second time it's said. look at me. brilliantly forest hued eyes snap aware from the dazed, far off look he broke apart into as the swell began to crest. the first splash of white hits his stomach, his hand. it's only crowley and him and this sensation that swallows him whole. good boy. there's a vibration inside his body he can't contain. a craving to hear those words again and again. and he feels the warmth begin to fill him as he rides out his own high. wave after wave that causes muscles to clench and grip at the thick drag emptying inside of him. good boy and dean can, finally, let a whimper escape. eyes wide framed in thick lashes that do not dare to close. devotion. fascination. something so, so much more...

..his back arches and his brows pinch together, hips and hand jarring with uneven, untimed thrusts as he grinds down against crowley's hips--stroking himself until there's nothing left. until he's slowing down to a stop and falling into a melted pool of gasps for air he didn't realize he'd stopped breathing. bruised flesh will heal too quickly but he relishes the stinging that radiates up his throat. over his arms. surely, he's caused close to the same amount of damage on crowley. doesn't look. doesn't see any proof. it's not possible when crowley kisses him. this time it's soft. no rush. no hurry. loving, even. trembling fingers push through the dark hair atop the demon's head. gently.

he waits for crowley to break away first before murmuring against his mouth, "yours..," his calf relaxes against crowley's shoulder. slides off to fall limp upon the bed. another kiss to the corner of his mouth. one even to his chest that dean has to lean up to give before a jellied arm gives out and he falls back again grinning contentedly.. looking, for all the world, thoroughly (and very happily) taken? fucked? made love to? how about just combine all three..

YEARS OF PINING HIDDEN BEHIND A MASK OF SMUGNESS AND SHALLOW SWEET-TALK. All that for so long contained want mounts in this soon to be forgotten hotel room and finally to unload. It feels like bursting. To be this vulnerable, quivering, not thinking ten steps ahead but living in the moment— he's not felt so emotionally loaded, so human in forever. And all just because of the handsome devil whimpering beneath him, scratching, biting, squeezing as if his dear life depends on Crowley. Stinging bruises mark flesh that recovers all too quickly, subconscious confession bleed into moans growing louder, drawn longer where breath runs shorter.

Messy kisses alone silence them for just the duration of beats until the next surge of pleasure tears through their bodies. 'Make me yours' falls dull against his ears, nearly drowned out by the guttural groan released against Dean's swollen lips. Ere he drags his own mouth past that firm jawline to sink his teeth into that craned neck. Hard, yet with love. Always with love. Even each jerk of his hips deep into that damp, clenching heat; back arching, fingernails clawing relentlessly into flesh. Crowley leaves a glaring red bite mark, plants a kiss to the assaulted spot before seeking eye contact again.

" Look at me ", comes a breathless demand, feather-light the brush of mouths panting in unison to the rhythm of the bed shaking beneath them. " Look at me. " Don’t close your eyes. He wants to see Dean come undone. See that ungodly beautiful face twist with unbridled lust. Jump together, become one, knowing it's with each other. A moment forever to be scorched into their memories. Straining to crack a smile, he rasps: " Good boy. " Before hitting that sweet spot one last time with a hoarse, loud moan and drift into the current of pure bliss. Remains buried inside, tension falling off all limbs at once so he almost collapses onto Dean.

Those final spasms of hips provide enough friction to drag their shared climax out with more, although weaker waves of tingling heat. And this time tenderly, he seals his lover's gaping mouth. A kiss devoid of raw want, slow, no bruising teeth.

[bloodsalteds]

"fuck," he breathes in a shuddering breath as nails drag up his thigh that's been hooked over crowley's shoulder allowing the demon to push deeper. harder against him. body jolting against the bed as he yields himself over to every harsh thrust that he craves more and more and more of. the contrast of such a soft touch sends chills rippling down his calf muscle. curls his toes. forms a wrinkle of want and need that only doubles in intensity between his brows. the way crowley thrusts into him nearly has him fucking the hand he's got curled around himself. rough thrusts upwards into a palm that's tightening, a thumb that's erratically toying with the slick crown as rivulets of pearl colored wet runs from his tip.

chest heaving as he pants for air that doesn't seem to want to come, dean rolls his tongue over crowley's bottom lip before their mouths meet again. only a peck. and then hears a muttered set of words that have him caving. dean's expression softens from lustful abandon to something softer. gentler. emotions that run deep flicker over his expression. he searches that face--one heart beat, then another. and then he's rammed into so harsh that his broken shout comes out raw and tattered. green eyes clench shut then swing open damn near blindly towards crowley's mouth as if he's stamping into memory, how those lips looked right after his confession. and crowley stays there. buried. claiming him and not pulling out. the sensation ripples through his entire frame. sends him at breakneck speed towards the edge as he's rocked against and dug into so deep that his flesh tears and begins to bleed underneath crowley's fingernails. oh, he'd bleed out for him right now if it meant this didn't end!

the intensity's too much! he feels like his fucking heart's about to burst in his chest. stomach in the most delicious knots that've ever made their claim in insides. and the stretch. how deep he can feel him reach. it's like the demon doesn't end inside of him. that every piece of him is being taken. lips roll between his teeth as he lifts his head, looks down between them and then up into a set of dark eyes watching him as crowley strokes and strokes against the bud inside of him. relentless. "make me yours," he pleads without a shred of hesitation adds, "i'm gonna... oh my---! i'm gonna come! please don't stop. right--right there!"

his hand speeds up, watery eyes lock with crowley's as his leg locks on his shoulder--dean's hanging on by a thread. holding it in just a moment longer. just to let this drag inside of him last until his release is ripped out with no other option but falling, head first, into bliss.

THIS MAN, ALMOST COME UNDONE, IS A SIGHT TO DIE FOR. Panting, writhing, brimming with so much desperate need that his limbs quiver, Crowley couldn't possibly ask for more. Closest to heaven a demon gets. One of Dean's legs caught and draped over a shoulder, he sinks back into that twitching heat instantly clenching around him. The groan rumbling in the depths of his chest bleeds into another kiss. A caress so tender in contrast to unforgiving thrusts, rewarded by those muffled whines he didn't even know Dean could produce. Tempts him nearly to grin against red-kissed lips when teasing sayings pop up in his head that will never be uttered; soon to vanish from his mind anyway.

With one hand planted into the sheets for support, its free counterpart drags its short nails along that thigh hooked over his shoulder. Enough to be felt, maybe leave faint pink marks. Not enough to break skin. Their mouths part with mingled groans and through half-lidded eyes he savors the view of Dean rolling his head back into the pillow. Throat exposed, adam's apple bobbing. Crowley can't resist the lure of stubbly skin to drag his lips along that craned neck, tease it with a bite, hot breath flitting across soft flesh in the rhythm of his own moans. They border whimpers, unbridled lust mounting and mounting with each harsh thrust, every brush against that bud of nerves deep within.

He's nearing the edge. Mind blank, all senses drinking up the scent, taste, sounds, everything that's just Dean. Nothing else exists. Raspy groans once more chase those sinful lips ere he seals them with his own again. Briefly so, just a peck, ere he hears himself somehow breathlessly mutter: " I love you. " Might regret it later. Not now. Rams the entirety of his length into him sans pulling back, hips jerking as if with desperation to thrust even deeper. God, he wants to crawl into him whole! Devour him. Make him his forever. Subconsciously, he digs his nails into lover's thigh hard enough, this time, to draw blood, while his knees threaten to give in. Let him have another taste of that whiskey-laced tongue before they're going to jump.

[bloodsalteds]

eyes roll white behind partially closed lids as the thrusts pick up and he's reaching needfully towards his cock. anything for relief. anything to fuck himself into. even if it's his own hand. the pleasure of crowley hitting against the heated spot inside, words of praise of how good he feels. how good he is. teeth dig into his bottom lip. he clenches tight around him indulging in the sensation of every slamming snap of hips that drive crowley deeper, deeper.

the demon behind him expertly shoves him further into abandon. into not giving a shit how needy he looks as he nearly has himself in his hand when he hears the word no and.. surprisingly.. (or not) stops with a whine that breaks away into a guttural groan when his hips crash against crowley's and grind there as if trying to convince him of the opposite. between his legs, his shaft hangs heavy and neglected--dripping against the fingers so very close.

and then--he's empty and that won't do at all. the slap earns a sharp suck in of air that expands dean's chest quicker than a snap of fingers. turn around, handsome. i want to see you. when his back hits the silken sheets, he stares up at crowley--knees open. toes curled against sheets. and he's filled damn near instantly. the small of dean's back arches against the bed as thighs open wider--his yell is captured by crowley's mouth covering his. a taste-starved tongue slips between crowley's lips and dean's moaning in perfect time with every thrust as he kisses him.

but his attentions drawn between his own legs again as he feels that brush of crowley's tip over the perfect hardened shape inside. over and over at this angle? perfection. utterly sinful. perfection. tearing his mouth away to murmur a please as he moves his hand between their bodies and tentatively curls his fingers around a flushed hard-on. right knee bent against the demon's side seems to offer more of whatever crowley wants to take (oh and he can have him. every bit of him. he feels possessed. owned. and it feels so fucking good. the world's gone. everything that exists is RIGHT HERE.). a subconscious compromise as he squeezes himself, stroking slowly and throws his head back into the pillows--lips hanging open and eyes wide. pleading. and full of utter decadent pleasure (a mirror of captivation, entrancement, devotion) that he doesn't want to end.

FOR SOMEONE SO READY AND CAPABLE OF BEATING ENTIRE GANGS UNCONSCIOUS, DEAN MELTS SO EASILY. It's not even challenging. But Crowley won't complain. Ever. Having him beneath him, spreading his legs and begging to get the ever-living hell fucked out of him? All the violence and concerns forgotten; they just poof. From a mind clouded by those burning surges ripping through his meat suit with each. Pointed. Thrust. He furls his fingers that hook between Dean's own, short nails leaving crescent marks in the webbing between them— too bad they'll heal almost instantly, now that Romeo's a demon. You can't have it all, right?

Dean, however, gets it all, every inch rammed into him to kick off more of those guttural groans. Drives Crowley near insane when his lover arching his back lets him glide in deeper, hit that sweet spot and lure that whimper out. Somewhere in between the medley of moans hurling through the room and the quiet rhythm of skin slapping onto skin. He can hear himself growl something into his lover's ear, too, wouldn't remember what it even was. Praise, most likely. Dean loves to hear what a good boy he is, even while he's the filthiest demon in the sheets that you can imagine. Sweet nothings to wrap around the hot breaths exhaled against reddened skin.

Briefly trapped inside that clenching, damp heat, the only thing worth chasing is that small bud of pure nerve just poked, to stroke it again. Again. Again. Make that moaning mess fuck itself on his cock the way he pushes back to meet each thrust. Isn't Dean a greedy little thing? It's the latter's attempt to pull one hand away which has Crowley react, somewhat subconsciously, by letting go of it, that now unoccupied palm of his planted into the sheets instead. But the slightly sidetracking action causes a vestige of clarity, in which he suddenly rasps: " No. " Dean doesn't get to jerk off like this.

Withdrawing, Crowley's panted breaths betide what silence trails after his decided negation. And he pulls out, gives that perfect ass a single slap. " Turn around, handsome. I want to see you. " See the pleasure wash over this blushing face, see those beautiful green eyes roll back when he, once Crowley is done with him, jumps over the edge. Good whore that he is, the hunter turned demon surely obeys sans complaint. Only then gets filled again, only then gets to touch his own throbbing length, only then gets to taste his king again. Breath? Overrated.

[bloodsalteds]

the initial burn the stretch sent through his body is long gone. by the time he's begging to be fucked, pure pleasure overrides his senses. turns him into nothing but breathless groans chasing after the plea. goosebumps dance over reddened, freckled skin as his head's released and crowley's deft fingertips glide a feathery touch between his shoulder blades. oh that's a spot that has dean's toes curling and calves tightening before he melts underneath it in spite of the fingers thrusting, curling inside of him to the point where he calls crowley's name at the deepest thrust. dean feels so wide open when they pull out that his cheekbones and bridge of his nose match the dusting of color over his back.

hips held in place, he turns his head against the pillow--glances back over his shoulder from the corner of one eye and connects the sight of those fingers that were just inside of him gripping his hips. crowley settling between his knees (there's so much fucking anticipation in this that he feels his chest burn and then realizes he isn't breathing!) and dean sees the look on the other demon's face as he begins to push himself inside. til the tip slipping in makes his eyes roll back before the lids squeeze. gasping for air that leaves him in a shudder, he drags his knees further apart. opening himself more as his spine arches towards the bed. every inch that sinks in tears another sharp suck of air into his lungs. he bites into his bottom lip as the last few slip inside and crowley bottoms out. hip to hip. no space between them. crowley's buried himself, took every inch of him he can offer. they're connected. wholly. and dean shudders--clenching around the shaft so deep inside that as soon as those walls tighten--the width of him makes him feel so full he can barely stand it. "crowley...," he murmurs as he's told how good he feels. mumbles back a so do you that's barely audible.

his body jerks with the kick of crowley's hips back to his. the first thrust has his head lifting, faced forward and mouth yanked open wide enough to let out a howl of pleasure. the second earns a whimper. and the third? a grunt that starts to match the noises he hears coming from behind him. fists clench the sheets underneath gentle hands. rip at them as hips bounce back eagerly once he's used to the feeling of being taken. being fucked. dean forgets his fucking name by the time he's indulging himself in countering each push. bucking back with a growing desperation to feel more, more, more! there's a rub deep inside against the hardened gland that makes him stiffen more, achingly so. a thin line of evidence runs over the head of his cock. his right hand soon attempts to slip free from the hand covering it so he can touch himself. "m'so hard.. i need---," his voice cuts off in a loud moan as his hips misjudge the timing and he pushes himself backwards meeting that thrust halfway causing a loud slap of flesh against flesh. oh fuck that felt so good.. he could lose an entire night like this and not give a single damn.

ALL OF HIS ANCESTORS WOULD TURN THEIR HEADS AWAY IN SHAME. This quivering, whimpering, desperate mess begging to get nailed into those fine sheets like the slut that he is. Crowley can't deny this excites him even more than the initial plan to make sweet love to him. Through half-lidded eyes absorbs this enrapturing sight while incessantly teasing Dean's ass, no pause, slipping his fingers in a tad deeper to feel his inner walls clench around them. The other hand keeps his lover's head pushed into the pillows until he hears this pathetic little please. Music in his ears.

Crowley grins to himself, loosening his grip to drag that same hand between Dean's shoulder blades. Fingers slightly crooking to stroke freckled skin with their tips. " As you wish, love ", he purrs in between panted breaths. One last thrust of slick fingers into this twitching heat later, he pulls out. Next thing the hunter turned demon feels? The center of any demon's wet dreams! Pushing the tip in first, Crowley brings both hands to his lover's hips to hold them in place. Fails to stifle the groan clambering up his throat.

Inch by inch he sinks deeper— deliberately slow. A perineal tear isn't on his list of things he wants to give Dean tonight. When finally hip meets hip, his hands withdraw and he leans forward anew, plants both palms onto those fists gripping at silken sheets. Almost tender the touch to match the kisses he drags along the side of his lover's neck, up to his ear. " You feel... so... damn... good ", he breathes hotly against caressed skin. It lacks voice. Oh yes, they're obviously made for each other.

Enough time to get used to his size has been granted. It's without warning that he pulls out some, just to thrust back in next second; hard, ungentle. Enough for a surge of pure heat to rip through his meat suit. Their groans near synchronously knock out of their lungs. The rhythm soon picks up, too much teasing made even Crowley too desperate to keep it slow and tame. If Dean's corrupted soul isn't going to leave his body, then what's the point?

[bloodsalteds]

as his name starts to roll over castiel's bottom lip, his own tighten their suction against the piece of skin that's stiff and warm inside his mouth. eyelids flutter when fingers push through his hair, holding him there. cas arching into his face only gives him more to taste. more to lick and suck against. his hands tremble as they hold onto the angel's hips letting him ride his length as his pleasure demands it. because every grind. every thrust. sends absolutely pure, unadulterated bliss through his entire frame. everything is tight and warm and so so so slick by the lubrication. he's so glad he sent him home for it.

sliding into his heat at cas's pace feels beyond any words he could use to describe how fucking amazing it feels. his hips ache to thrust. the insides of his thighs burn for an impending release and he can't help but jerk up into him as cas wraps his entire arm around his head. moans--muffled and deep--and the sound of eager sucking blends seamlessly with the noise of two bodies hitting. the entire car's filled with the sounds of them. and he senses every one. every smack of flesh on flesh. and then it happens. and when it does----? CASTIEL'S hand slams against dean's arm and the scar immediately reacts to it. his brows pinch together at the shock that overrides his frame. his brain. his soul if he's got one left.

every piece of him is devoured and swallowed up by the white heat and light that flash in front of slammed together eyelids. he rips his mouth off cas's chest. having to turn his head to do so since it's trapped so tight. and cries out. over and over. pitched and wailing the angel's name as he comes inside of him. thrusting, rolling his hips wildly when his own and cas's orgasm crash through his veins, bones. everywhere all at once. warmth fills the angel as he empties himself. coming for what feels like forever. he's forgotten to breathe. to think. and it's evident as he gasps and chokes on air riding higher and higher to the point he's overwhelmed by it and can't stop yielding to the pleasure until it releases it's grip on him and he sucks in a breath so deep, his chest swells. "oh god," is the first mumble from wobbly lips. arms wrap around cas's middle and he stays hard (at least for now) inside of him as the grace bleeds through his body. wet fingers grip him gently now, stroking slower than the jerks of fingers that met each of cas's thrusts with a counter. now it's gentle and with an ease. over his tip, down his shaft. up and down as he rocks his hips against the seat..shuddering as the ripples begin to fade.. "i could stay inside you all night.." his confession is quiet..breathless..blissed out.

                                 HOT AIR LEAVES HIM IN BIG PUFFS. His eyes, almost feverish, drop to Dean's face, suck in his sight, the pleasure edged upon his features. Sweat forms on Castiel's forehead, runs down his temple. Oh, this is glorious. He doesn't want it to ever stop; just the two of them here, alone, united in a way that's impossible otherwise. Castiel's knees dig into the soft black leather of the car bench as he drives himself down on Dean's length over and over again, panting, gasping, relishing the slowly building pressure in his testicles and the pit of his stomach. Then Dean's hand sneaks between them and wraps around Castiel's length — a sharp yelp of Dean's name spills over his lips, and another lightning illuminates the inside of the car and the fogged-up windows.

                                  There's no way Castiel will last longer than a minute like this, but maybe that's Dean's plan, maybe he feels the same. Castiel squeezes his eyes shut, mouth opened in an almost perfect little O as he throws his head back and pushes his chest into Dean's face and his waiting mouth. He doesn't know what to focus on first: the sharp thrill shooting up his spine whenever he sinks down on Dean's hard length, the prickling heat Dean's skilled fingers pull over Castiel's erection, or the wet warmth wrapped around his nipple. "Dean, Dean, Dean," he pants, trying to hold on to the sweet edge he's tiptoeing, but it's to no avail: from one moment to the next, his orgasm slams into him.

                                  With a choked-off noise, he wraps his arm around Dean's head, squeezing his face to his chest, and then it's either instinct or half a brain cell is still working: his right hand slams down on Dean's shoulder, a perfect match for the scar carved into the hunter's skin, the connection burning hot and almost painful as Castiel shoots the fireworks of his climax into Dean. Something outside breaks; an almighty thunder shakes the insides of the car as Castiel spills warmly over Dean's fingers and squeezes around his length.

[bloodsalteds]

dean doesn't answer the question. seems like it went right past his ears. he doesn't really have hook-ups anymore. not when there's a war to fight and every day is about him and the people who rely on him SURVIVING. most of the stress relief he gets from getting off is self-inflicted. there's a vulnerability in letting go, giving into his wants. and it's something he's not comfortable with yielding to quite that often. not with where his life's headed. not with the threat of death lurking around every corner. not with his brother out there.. being.. well. the enemy. he's closed most of the softer parts about himself off. drowned them in bottles of liquor and sex at first, sure. but then? the sex tapered off and the liquor picked up. an even trade for keeping himself SAFE. and distant. closed off to those he protects in the ways of intimacy. the last thing he needs are rumors. or someone thinking they've become his weakness.

..because that person is right here. underneath his tongue as it laps at the spilled liquor inside cas's bellybutton. every second of sharing any sort of softer part of himself belongs to someone who...well. he's not gonna let himself go down that trail of thought, because he hates how it feels. weak. it feels like he's weak. even if he knows, for castiel, he is. down to his bones. he is. letting that part see the light of day, though? that's another story. well-guarded. thanks to circumstances, booze, cocaine and a whole lot of fucked up history. that got so god damn twisted, dean doesn't know how to untwist it anymore. so he just gets MEAN.

fingers cup the back of his head. there it is. that weakness reserved for one coiling in his belly. turning it to a mush that splashes warm and creeps up his spine in a chill. fluttering lashes and a lost breath. it's unfair the ways he aches to fall into this man. let his senses be as swept up as he wants to be, though? that's part's easy. so? he indulges in the physical because if he can have one EASY thing between them? he'll take it. greedily. a groan rattles out of him as lips part and his tongue obeys the command. flat and sweeping down the length of the first trail the absinthe left behind--dean movees all the way to his hip. sucks a mark there where a tiny pooled droplet was starting to dry. then licks back up it. only to follow the one down cas's side.

back up. sucking and licking at the flavor of anise, sweat and skin. as he follows a trail down from the center of cas's belly towards his hip and into the crease of thigh meeting pelvis---the bottle's let go beside cas's free hand and he settles in between his legs meticulously licking at each trail that's wound up there of all places. so so close..and tasting of the last traces of where cas spent himself blended with sweet alcohol. arms loop around the back of cas's thighs and hands grip them open. can't miss a spot. can he?

                            CASTIEL DOES NOT CARE ABOUT THE SOCKS (he isn't wearing any because he usually walks barefoot in his hut), but he appreciates that the jeans are gone and he gets an eye full of prime knee estate. Knees are funny and kinda pretty. They can be knobby or thin or bony. There's no meat, only taut skin over bone. With Dean's bow legs, his knees are especially interesting. Castiel could look at them for hours, but unfortunately, Dean almost never wears anything shorter than pants that go down to his ankles. It's a shame. Now, though, he gets an unhindered view of them, and Castiel takes his sweet time to watch them kick the pants and underwear off. Fascinating.

                             "Aww, are you always sweet-talking your hook-ups after intercourse?" Castiel smiles again, the mean edge still playing around the corners of his mouth. He hasn't forgotten about the coke that's now fine dust clinging to the fibers of his ugly carpet. One orgasm isn't enough to forgive that. "Just say thank you, Dean. It isn't so hard."

                             But: He accepts the almost kiss, licking his lips to get the taste of absinthe since Dean doesn't deem inclined to hand the bottle back over anytime soon. (See? Alkie.) It's fine — there's more where that was coming from. Castiel has a whole stash of absinthe under a loose floorboard under the sofa because, contrary to the other men of Camp Chiquita, he took the time to walk the aisle of the liquor stores they've been raiding to get the good stuff, not the cheap crap right at the front of the shop.

                             A tired, slow blink of eyes follows Dean first sitting up and then scooting down. If he plans on performing fellatio — well, Castiel wouldn't say no. He'd need about half an hour to get hard again, though. Instead, he feels lukewarm liquid splash his body; lifting his head, he watches Dean lick absinthe off his skin, tongue dipping into his bellybutton where it has pooled. Castiel's eyes go a little cross-eyed, and his breathing picks up immediately. One hand darts out and cups the back of Dean's head, keeping him down and close to alcohol-sticky skin. "Well, you made it dirty," he drawls breathlessly, "you better clean it up good."

[bloodsalteds]

the glimpse of skin he catches before eyelids fall shut sends shivers down his spine. makes his mouth water with the thought of tracing his tongue along the curve of a collarbone. or down the length of his stomach. so many images that pop into his mind with only a small peek that he has no idea what he'd do if he was given the proper time to sit and admire him like this. but there is none given in his current state. cool air of the room ghosting over newly exposed skin. the sound of a silken purr telling him that he is doing exactly as requested. dean lets out a deep, quiet moan that comes from the pit of his gut and parts his lips on the way out.

green eyes open in a haze as taut body jerks with the touch of warm wet running along the inside of his rear. his tongue slips out, glides over drying lips to instantly moisten them in anticipation--that's soon sated with the brush of fingertips over the extremely sensitive bundle of nerves surrounding that ring of flesh that a bit of the lube pools against. the rest gliding down lower over his skin causes it to glisten in the flickering light of the room. his gaze rolls white when teeth find the shell of his ear. he twitches against crowley's fingers as the demon tugs upon the cartilage he claimed with his teeth. a whimper that splits off into a cry of crowley's name echoes off the walls as that digit slips inside of him. heat greets it immediately. the tightness clings to every inch as whimpers of newfound pleasure ripple from his lips.

it takes a few clipped, staggered breaths for him to relax enough that a second is slipped in and when it is, his grip on round ass cheeks falters. there's crescent shaped marks where his fingernails dug in left behind as he grips onto the sheets and turns his mouth towards the pillow with a pleasured sob muffled into the plush cushioning. he listens. every word sinks into a mind that is so blown by this simple act he can't wrap it around how he's supposed to withstand any more. a few shivers send goosebumps along freckled, flushed shoulders when beard hair itches against his skin.

fingers begin to move in him. dean's head turns just as it's pressed into the pillow. in perfect timing as another ecstatic cry snaps free followed by a deep voiced groan of, "do it...." it's easy to hear his breath is kicked right the fuck out of him the second those words are given life. damn near taking whatever part of his soul he's got left with them on their way out. "..just fuck me..please..."

DEAN REALLY MELTS IN CROWLEY'S HANDS LIKE BUTTER. Is this heaven? Oh, no, the best circle of hell because that's where you have fun! Granted, pulling away from his gradually more desperate lover cost courage— he'd prefer to keep his hands all over him, make love to every inch of skin with an abundance of caresses. Crowley's own clothes are off within a blink. If Dean sees it? Good for him, he got what he wanted. If not? He's gonna feel it soon enough. The demon stalls to behold the new sight in front of him with utmost pleasure; it makes his nethers pulse with mounting desire to just dip in there and sin. Speaking of. If lust is a deadly sin, Crowley's going to happily die 666 deaths right here and now. And take Dean with him.

" Exactly like this, darling ", he purrs in response, meanwhile positions himself behind him to squeeze a generous enough amount of lube betwixt those sweet cheeks. Mind you, it's been warmed up some with the help of demonic power perks. Then he leans forward, one hand into the sheets beside Dean, the other's fingertips stroking over that small, twitching rim to spread the lube. Cue a gentle bite to Dean's earshell, followed up by a light tug. One fingertip slowly pushes inside, a second following suit as soon as his lover eases around its predecessor— no enjoyment sans a little stretching.

" Fun fact ", a slightly hoarse hum brushes across Dean's ear, Crowley's beard surely tickling his skin some as well. " Plan A was to make love to you. Vanilla, flowery. " Can the hunter turned demon hear the smile around those words? " But I'm going with plan B. " He proceeds to move his coated fingers inside of his lover's tight ass, his own patience running thinner and thinner by the second. Talk about feeling like you burst. The demon's breath vanishes from Dean's ear and cheek as he inches back, the hand by now in the sheets soon finds to the nape of his neck, pushes his head down into the pillow.

What plan B is? Crowley leaves it up for the pillow princess to guess— in case his mind didn't get swallowed by a lusty haze just yet.