Coherent thought jumped out the window and ran screaming down the street, followed closely by his sanity. This… this could not be happening. This had to be some sort of truly fucked up dream, only if this was a dream, he was pretty sure Castiel would be better at this, right now it wasn’t exactly sexy being deep throated by a guy who… didn’t know what he was doing.
Because this was a lot more like getting his cock sucked down by a Hoover than the start of a really fucked up Penthouse letter. He bent over, one hand landing on Castiel’s shoulder, the other threading through dark hair. “Cas…” he hissed out, fingers clenching, trying to get out through a half-frozen set of vocal cords that getting sucked off did not actually involve removal of said dick. The tugging at the angel’s hair did get him to back off a bit, dark blue eyes lifting to meet stunned green. There was a rustle deep inside of Dean’s mind, like the wind catching the edge of a trench coat and making it flap, the settling of massive wings… he was half drowning in the blue gaze though, he couldn’t get out the words to tell Castiel to *stop*.
Then the feel of *other* was gone from his mind and Castiel made a simple nod, like he’d just figured something out. His hands raised, thumbs sliding along the edge of Dean’s hips and he turned and took Dean’s cock *back* with a long, slow lick from tip to root, nose nuzzling along, warm breath ghosting across his inner things.
Common sense stuck it’s head briefly in to try and yell at Dean that this was a *guy* and an *angel* between his legs right now, shouldn’t you be stopping him, only his libido told it to go the fuck away and make a sandwich or something because right now Castiel’s teeth were scraping down the underside of his cock, making it gleefully jump to attention. Having an angel rifle through your brain for all the right ways to suck a guy off was a far more devastating ability than just popping eardrums or eyes in Dean’s opinion. Cas had gone from worst to first and had one hand up by his sack now, sliding along that sensitive flesh while his lips popped around Dean’s tip, tounge lapping away the pre-cum, laving at his slit.
When the low throaty hum vibrates through him, everything shuts down and Dean can’t do anything more than just *feel* and make small desperate noises, hands tight in the dark hair, eyes screwed shut to see nothing but blackness until it all washes over white.
Coherency slid back in along with the other parts of his brain that had taken various hikes. He’s leaning against the wallpaper, body damp with sweat and buzzing with pleasure.
When he opens his eyes, he’s alone. But there’s a dent on his bed, from where someone else had sat. Dean retreats back into the bathroom and starts up the shower once more. The cool water sluices away the smell, but the sensation lingers on, like the itch of the brand on his arm and Dean wonders just how deeply the angel may have marked him this time.
“I am so screwed,” he murmured. “And that wasn’t an offer,” he added, looking upwards. Just in case.