Fic: Conservation Of Space

Title: Conservation Of Space
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: There aren't a lot of things more tortuously unpleasant than killing a succubus, exactly two minutes after she managed to cover you in whatever passed for her crazy pheromone crap.
AN: Written for the Dean/Castiel kink meme.




So, succubus, Dean's night just gets better and better.

Yeah, shit, there aren't a lot of things more torturously unpleasant than killing a succubus, exactly two minutes after she managed to cover you in whatever passed for her crazy pheromone crap.

Dean's pulse is thundering so loud in his neck it's almost drowning out the sound of every breath and he's driving with an erection that aches so viciously he might actually die from it.

Of course, that's if he doesn't swerve off the road and kill himself first.

He gives in, pulls the car over and just breathes for a long second, trying to claw back something in the way of control. He grips his hands round the steering wheel and takes a breath, takes another. Demands his body shut up its damn complaining for long enough so he can think.

But then the passenger seat isn't empty any more.

He groans, and it's a throaty lost noise that doesn't sound anything like him.

"Not a good time, Cas," Dean tells him through his teeth. "Really not a good time." Because his skin feels three sizes too small and every breath shoves out of him like it's the last he'll ever get. "I just-"

"Killed a succubus, I know," Castiel says in that smooth deep voice, like they're talking about the weather and Dean isn't about to burst into fucking flames within the next twenty seconds.

"Yeah, so that's fairly self-explanatory."

Cas continues to stare at him like he doesn't get it.

Dean rolls his head on the wheel and tries for honesty.

"Get out of the car right this minute, or I'm going to try my damnedest to fuck you."

If he expects scandalised angelic protest he doesn't get it.

"Is that what you want?" Castiel asks quietly. Which is pretty high up there when it comes to 'insane things to say.'

Dean manages a frustrated half sob and presses his forehead into the leather.

"Don't fucking ask me what I want right now, just get out." Dean says desperately. Talking shouldn't be this difficult, every breath thumping all the way through him until his dick is just one solid ache and he can't even remember what the hell he's supposed to be protesting. But he knows for damn sure he doesn’t particularly want to jerk off with an angel in the passenger seat watching.

Or, fuck it, alright he does, he really does, but that particular part of his anatomy doesn't get a say at the minute.

Then there’s the brief, bright touch of fingers on his own, that might as well be shards of glass the way his self-control is now.

"I can give you what you need," Castiel says simply and Dean bites his cheek so hard he swears he can taste the sharpness of blood.

"I want- fuck no, Cas, this isn't right-" There are a million things he could say, about how this isn't going to happen, about how Cas doesn't know what he's asking for, that he's an angel, and how Dean doesn't normally have a thing for guys, and there's just no way this is happening.

But Castiel's hand slides into Dean's like he's fully aware of all of this. Fingers against his own and Cas just cuts through every single one of his arguments.

Dean just fucking pulls.

Castiel's knee smacks into the edge of the dash, hand pressing sharp and hard against the leather until it creaks, and his hair is crushed by the roof when Dean hauls him all the way across the front of the car and into his lap.

Cas is bigger than a girl, heavier, but not by that much and Dean drags him down into where he's hard and desperate, holds the warm weight of him against his lap, half shocked that he dared and half dizzy with how it suddenly makes everything tight and immediate. That right there is what he wants, exactly that, and he doesn't care how close it feels to blasphemy.

Cas opens his mouth, and Dean doesn't know what he's going to say, half-terrified he's going to ask him to stop when Dean feels like he's on fire and he can't, he can't- So he kisses him, he finds the soft generous weight of his mouth and pushes it open, he kisses him like he can't stop, tilts Cas's mouth into his own fury and tries his best to crawl his way inside. He kisses him until his jaw hurts, chin scraped raw by the rough push of Castiel's stubble. His fingers digging in, digging under his jacket and shirt, finding skin, soft and new and invulnerable, and Dean wants it, wants it all spread out on top of him and around him. He groans into Castiel's mouth, and hopes to God Cas understands that he can't be coherent any more.

It's not enough, not even close to enough and he's pulling the coat and jacket over Castiel's shoulders, hurling them into the passenger seat, tearing the seams of his shirt, then abandoning it to unbutton and unzip him, hand sliding inside to find Castiel warm, and not entirely soft, where they're crushed together in the seat.

"Dean-"

Dean shoves a hand into Castiel's hair, brings him close, closer.

"I can't," he says desperately, and Castiel's open mouth is so fucking hot Dean can't stand it. "Please, Cas, I can't just let me, please-"

Castiel doesn't reply, but he instantly relaxes under Dean's hands, lets him pull at the loosened waistband of his pants, urging him up enough that his head and shoulders slam against the roof.

Castiel's thighs are warm and bare before he even realises it, and it's nothing at all to curl his fingers round the waist of his boxer shorts and drag them down too. He can't think for a long second because he knows exactly where they're going. Doesn't quite believe it but he wants it, wants it so much he can't breathe and it's too small, too cramped, awkward sliding to impossible like this. But the thought of moving, the thought of Castiel pulling away from him for even a second- it makes Dean dig his fingers in and moan a protest against the rough edge of his jaw.

Then Cas is carefully, efficiently, untangling black fabric and kicking it free, slipping his shirt down his arms, leaving him warm in Dean's hands, almost too warm to be real and Dean can't stop touching, can't stop spreading his hands on the curve of a thigh, the smooth soft line of his waist or the warm line of muscle when Castiel's back flexes.

Dean tears at the front of his jeans, sting of pain when the zipper catches the side of his hand, before he's shoving them down at the front, over the curve of his ass, and dragging Castiel back down.

Dean shoves two fingers into his own mouth, taste of skin and metal against his tongue, while Castiel waits, watches him from far too close, watches him slide his own fingers into his mouth with far too much interest and Dean can't- he can't.

He pulls Cas higher with one hand, tilting his hips back and then he's sliding his fingers down, he knows exactly what he's doing and wants it. Wants the rough too-intimate burn of it.

He swears under his breath and presses his fingers in. Castiel is burning hot inside, too tight, too new and Dean is pretty sure this goes beyond blasphemy but he pushes his fingers deep anyway. Quick graceless pushes, and he's breathing greedy, shuddering breaths when Cas lets him. When he presses back while Dean stretches him open and it's too good, too much.

"Cas, I need, please-" Castiel just sways into his hands in answer.

Dean winds an arm round the angel's waist, lifts him and positions himself, praying that someone, somewhere, is going to forgive him for this.

Then he coaxes him down, hands slipping to catch his waist, hips pushing up.

Cas is too tight and he's not even close to wet enough and it hurts and it's so good that Dean might fucking die from it. His fingers dig into Castiel's warm, slim hips so tightly that he'd be hurting anyone else. But Cas just leans in, thighs tensing and relaxing as he pushes down.

Dean groans, one long shocked noise, when he slides all the way inside, too deep, spreads Castiel all the way open and takes him, and that's just not right, ragged impossible bliss but it's not right.

Castiel's eyes are too wide, too blue, soft and stunned, and Dean's breath lodges in his throat at how naked the angel looks. He's taking quick little breaths, which thud out of him every time Dean pushes up, pushes in, like he can feel it. Like he lied before, and he can feel every second of it.

Dean tightens his grip on his waist, pulls him close, knees dragging on leather, pinching the flesh of his own thighs where there isn't enough room.

"Cas, look at me."

Castiel makes a faint noise in his throat and obeys.

"You can feel this can't you," Dean demands breathlessly.

Castiel's eyes drift shut, and then open again, and there's something fractured there, something vulnerable, for just a second. Something soft and obedient and needy that's too big for Dean to accept, too desperate, too fucking much.

"Cas."

He shivers under his own name, but he doesn't look away, doesn't hide a thing, and Dean thinks maybe Cas is just as confused as he is. Just as unprepared for this, for what it feels like.

Dean lifts a hand, lays it on the back of Cas's neck and curves it down away from the roof, holds it, lets him hide his face in Dean's throat.

One of Castiel's hands lifts, spreads on the roof and then pushes against it, pushes down, and for a second it's hard pressure and Dean is so deep he could fucking cry.

Leather creaks desperately in protest and there's not a single thing to grip on to, Dean's boot is under the damn gas pedal but Cas is making quick breathy little noises and shoving down every time Dean pushes up, and there's no way in hell he's stopping.

Until Castiel holds him there, pins him in place with his knees, and then the rhythm’s all his, quick and dirty and a mess of wrong.

Dean can't fucking look away.

Not when Cas tips his head, too close in the narrow space, forehead pressed against Dean, soft little noises that he doesn't even try to stifle, maybe doesn’t know how, escaping.

Dean's lost in the soft wetness of his open mouth and his eyes, bright and unfocused, fingers shifting and twitching against the soft worn fabric of Dean's shirt and the curl of his neck. Like they have no idea what to do, no idea what they're allowed. Like this is the first time Castiel has ever felt anything like this, and Dean wishes, suddenly, that it had been something other than this frantic, needy, desperate fuck in the front seat of his car.

Even though it's perfect and bright hot and fucking glorious.

He has one hand dug into Cas's soft hair, the other coaxes his hips to push down faster, harder, a little less neat and a little more rough and Cas takes instruction beautifully because Dean doesn’t fall in inches but in one hot slide, pushing up, hands clenching tight everywhere, while he groans and shakes and ruins, completely and utterly ruins, an angel.

A second after that Dean's stomach and the shoved up edge of his t-shirt are suddenly wet and Castiel is making shocked broken noises that almost sound wounded.

Dean is dimly, dizzily, aware that he just made an angel orgasm, which is somehow more shocking than the fact his dick is still buried inside him.

Castiel's mouth rests open and wet against his neck and Dean holds him there for a long second, pulled so close he can feel the strange unreality of Castiel's borrowed heartbeat while his desperation drains out of him, leaves him stunned and shivering through the tail of bliss, colder, stranger.

"Cas," Dean says quietly.

The angel stiffens, very slowly eases back and Dean can't help the short, stifled groan he gives at the shift of muscle where he's still impossibly sensitive.

Castiel looks strangely awkward, as if he's found himself somewhere he wasn't prepared for, and has no idea how to deal with it.

His knees shift and Dean knows he's going to pull away, that he's going to leave and Dean realises, belatedly, that he's still holding him and tightens his fingers.

Castiel goes very still.

Dean drags him back, pulls until Castiel's forehead rests against his own, until he can feel his breath against his open mouth.

The angel shivers against him and very slowly relaxes.