( when things like sex are involved, every sort of coherent thought that might have lingered, back or front in dean's mind immediately go out the nearest exit. never to be seen or heard from again, leaving him a blissfully blank slate and open to any sort of interpretation, any hook that might snag him by the mouth and pull him inward, forward and down into the depths of his libido, to have him give in to it so easily that there had never been a question in the first place.
but he always acts, and thinks later. doesn't even bother contemplating the repercussions of his actions, no matter how serious or not they might be, until after the fact and it's already too late to go back and change something that he might have, inevitably fucked up. he's always, always been more prone to instinct than logical thought, because that's always been sam's job, and it's too easy to get himself nice and lost in the touch and taste and feel of castiel's lips against his own, the warmth of hands seeking out skin, dragging nails just sharply enough to leave marks in their wake, tugging and pulling and begging without so many words, and dean is finding it more and more difficult to keep his head on straight.
not that he's been trying all that hard. congratulations, dean winchester, in-fucking-deed.
he presses that smaller body back against the mattress, breathes light and soft against his mouth even though it's becoming more and more difficult to keep those breaths even, steady as the knock of his heart against his ribs picks up with every subsequent movement. castiel is pulling at him, rolling his hips so fluidly that the slightest pressure is enough to have a moan catching in the back of his throat, brows furrowing even as those soft, long-fingered hands are reaching for his own and encouraging them beneath the hem of his shirt – and dean doesn't resist, not quite yet, following the dips and hollows of ribs and the cut of his hips, every inch of him silently begging to be marked by fingers and teeth, bruised and touched with the sort of reverence that might just border on pain.
there's that little voice, in the back of his mind that hasn't deserted him just yet, trilling high and sharp that he needs to slow down, that he needs to stop because this isn't just some fluke he picked up in a seedy bar, a dive taken just for the night, but the brakes are far from being put on and he keeps pushing forward, rocking his own hips downward to increase the pressure building between them, the heat spiking and curling low in his belly, flaring out sweet and hot and goddamn, why hadn't he done this before? why hadn't he thought of it?
dean bites at his bottom lip, sucks it between his own, burning up from the inside out. ) Hold on, hold on … we got all the time in the world, right? The whole night – ( his breaths are ragged, short and shallow, but he doesn't stop kissing him, doesn't stop those fingers from popping open the buttons of his shirt, or his own from mapping out the curve of castiel's chest, curling about either side of his ribcage and rocking down against him one more time. )
no subject
but he always acts, and thinks later. doesn't even bother contemplating the repercussions of his actions, no matter how serious or not they might be, until after the fact and it's already too late to go back and change something that he might have, inevitably fucked up. he's always, always been more prone to instinct than logical thought, because that's always been sam's job, and it's too easy to get himself nice and lost in the touch and taste and feel of castiel's lips against his own, the warmth of hands seeking out skin, dragging nails just sharply enough to leave marks in their wake, tugging and pulling and begging without so many words, and dean is finding it more and more difficult to keep his head on straight.
not that he's been trying all that hard. congratulations, dean winchester, in-fucking-deed.
he presses that smaller body back against the mattress, breathes light and soft against his mouth even though it's becoming more and more difficult to keep those breaths even, steady as the knock of his heart against his ribs picks up with every subsequent movement. castiel is pulling at him, rolling his hips so fluidly that the slightest pressure is enough to have a moan catching in the back of his throat, brows furrowing even as those soft, long-fingered hands are reaching for his own and encouraging them beneath the hem of his shirt – and dean doesn't resist, not quite yet, following the dips and hollows of ribs and the cut of his hips, every inch of him silently begging to be marked by fingers and teeth, bruised and touched with the sort of reverence that might just border on pain.
there's that little voice, in the back of his mind that hasn't deserted him just yet, trilling high and sharp that he needs to slow down, that he needs to stop because this isn't just some fluke he picked up in a seedy bar, a dive taken just for the night, but the brakes are far from being put on and he keeps pushing forward, rocking his own hips downward to increase the pressure building between them, the heat spiking and curling low in his belly, flaring out sweet and hot and goddamn, why hadn't he done this before? why hadn't he thought of it?
dean bites at his bottom lip, sucks it between his own, burning up from the inside out. ) Hold on, hold on … we got all the time in the world, right? The whole night – ( his breaths are ragged, short and shallow, but he doesn't stop kissing him, doesn't stop those fingers from popping open the buttons of his shirt, or his own from mapping out the curve of castiel's chest, curling about either side of his ribcage and rocking down against him one more time. )