InsaneJournal

It was one of the perks, Dean told himself, (stretched out on a motel bed - magic fingers working every muscle, every joint in his body, loose) of having seen more crap than any half-sane person could imagine.  That or too much daytime TV between hunts.  Whatever explanation he decided on this time Dean reassured himself that a respectable imagination was something he was meant to have.  Shit like that, understanding (imagining) things out of the ordinary, helped him see changelings when the other shmucks only saw dear old Uncle Jim.

And if he used that imagination to his own benefit from time to time well then, that was just one of the perks of the job.

Like magic fingers. 

That was definitely a perk, when it shook every knot out of your muscles, relaxed your body until you felt like a human being again.  If you had to live your life in motel rooms (your entire fucking existence to satisfy some dick’s damn prophecy) then the least an absentee god could grant you was magic fingers and a handful of quarters.

Dean settled into the mattress as it shook him purposefully.  Closing his eyes he smiled and let his mind drift to the corridors of Seattle Mercy Hospital where Dr Sexy roamed.  No one denied Dr Sexy, not even Dr Highmore, the sexy but compassionate hospital administrator.  Dr Sexy was strong and commanding and could have anything he wanted.

And so what if on this occasion Dr Sexy just happened to be a bit shorter than usual?  If he had a squarer jaw and high cheek bones and fuck-it Cas would look good in a white coat.  None of that scrubs shit though, he’d keep the white shirt and tie, the suit pants with the tailored line. 

Cas had the same command over his circumstances, the same way of looking at people like he could see through them (undress them) with a single glance. 

Dean pictured Dr Castiel in the Emergency Room, commanding the nurses and junior doctors (because Cas would be a consultant or some shit like that).  Some people would resent him, some would hate him but they’d all respect him.  Deep down they all knew how good he was. 

Especially the nurses, they’d respect how he put the patients before hospital politics. 

Watching how he put himself in the firing line would make them hot.  Or when he looked at them.  Nurse Winchester – because hey, there are male nurses – couldn’t resist.  He always went to Dr Castiel when he had a problem with a patient.

Dr Castiel would look across the office, eyes fixed on Nurse Winchester, analysing the problem with an intensity that made Dean feel naked.  He could be in no time: scrubs came off so easily (had to).

In fact, they could be ripped off.  When Nurse Winchester stopped the doctor (consultant, damn it) in the corridor with a hastily constructed medical question and Dr Castiel pushed him (frustrated) into an empty room he’d be able to rip the shirt off Dean in an instant. 

Of course Dr Castiel had seen through his excuses, he’d just been watching, waiting.  Looking too keenly at the anxious nurse and undressing him with his eyes, planning what to do.

He’d do it in that empty hospital room then.  He’d push Dean against the wall, his head rattling against the blinds as Dr Castiel ripped off his shirt and drew strong, precise fingers down his chest.

And Dr Castiel would kiss him…hard.  Really hard.  Because he’d wanted to for weeks (months).  They’d lose track of time with their mouths together - Dean would make sure of it.  He’d wrap his legs around Dr Castiel, moan like a fucking porn star.  He’d laugh and gasp and beg for more, just to keep that tongue roaming his mouth.  To keep those perfectly sculpted lips against his. 

Around this point Dean’s (sleeping) mind took over but it would be some time before he realised it because Dr Castiel forced him back to his feet.  Strong hands pushed under the waist band of his scrubs, sliding unimpeded over heated skin (Nurse Winchester saw no need for shorts) to grasp at his fleshy backside and roll their hips together.

Fuck how he gasped, Dean knew he was moaning and panting like it was the best damn thing his cock had ever felt.  Dr Castiel took advantage of the situation to move his lips to Nurse Winchester’s neck, moving down slowly to taste every part of his torso he could.  As he moved Dr Castiel drew his body over Dean’s pressing erection and tugged his scrubs lower by degrees. 

Then he was on his knees, white coat spread around him as he trailed his lips up the inside of Dean’s thigh.  One hand gently teased Dean’s erection while the other continued to dig into his succulent backside.  He stopped, face nuzzled into the warm flesh of Dean’s thigh, and sighed.  A quick breath that crawled across sensitive skin and made it difficult to think.

“Dean.”

“Cas.”  Dean’s hand (the one not grasping and twisting the window blinds) dropped and delved reassuringly into the other man’s hair, certain that even if they stayed exactly as they were the world could end and he wouldn’t care.

Dr Castiel took a careful breath, “I desire to sodomise you.”

Dean did not grin.  He did not huff a relieved and excited breath nor did he suggest that Dr Castiel was welcome to do anything he wanted to do to him. 

Dean may have wondered why fingers carefully pushed inside him when he was ready, when he had been waiting too damn long for this.  But he must have been dead for the moment those lips left his and he was spun onto the bed because the next thought that reached his mind was how fucking good he felt.  How he wanted to bury his face into the (over-starched) sheets and let his world consist only of the man standing behind him, hands running up and down his sides while he burrowed his body into Dean’s. 

A hand slid down and around his side to carefully move his cock and tuck it between him and the mattress (sweet bloody friction).  Dean felt the undeniable pressure of Dr Castiel resting his chest on top of him and he didn’t know what blew his mind more, the gentle way he held Dean close to him or that all that movement (thrust) was isolated to skilful hips.   

With the doctor’s hot breath on his neck and careful attention being paid to his every desire Dean felt himself come undone.  His mind spun as he let everything overwhelm him and he finally knew what it meant to be undone.  It might be chick-flick crap, like he should be worried about his petticoat wrinkling but fuck it felt right.  He was undone.  Unwound and ravelling and swimming luxuriously in the remnants of his sanity, happy to be held and contained by the man above him.  Happy to filled and possessed by Dr Castiel and his want (desire) for him.

Cas…Dr Castiel wasn’t asleep; his breath was steady and gentle but his fingers traced along Dean’s right arm as they rested motionless together.  Dean turned his head to the side and watched the careful exploration of his skin, guiltless in letting the sensation be his world.  He absorbed the weight above him, how it held him comfortably in place though his legs had gone from under him.  Dr Castiel’s skin was soft, the flesh reassuringly firm as his chest moved with every breath.

Terror struck Dean and he was afraid to move, mentally trying to contain the moment, hold the world together.

A questioning kiss was placed on his right shoulder.

“I’m dreaming.”

Dr Castiel nuzzled his face into the nape of Dean’s neck with a nod.  “You must wake.”

Damn it.

Dean woke in time to hear a key turn in the motel room door and he threw himself over, spinning sullenly on the mattress and burying his face into a pillow. 

Sam threw his key onto the table with an obnoxious clatter, “Sorry, you sleeping?”

Dean managed only an offended and frustrated grumble aimed into his pillow.

Sam huffed and clicked the TV off, “Stick a tie on the doorknob next time.”

“Fuck off Sammy.”

As his brother clattered the bathroom door closed Dean bunched the pillow under his cheek, wondering when he could remove the final evidence of his dream. 

Fuck it.

Rising up he kicked free of the jeans and let his t-shirt bundle on top of them.  As he slipped under the blanket and dropped into the pillow he willed on further sleep and more dreams.