Gosh, thank you so much! I’m assuming that you’re talking about the fic I wrote for @winchester-reload for her birthday?
I love Jackie dearly, and am always happy to brighten her day with weird little fics based on her art! And I’m especially pleased when other people love it too! Collaborating with her in any way at all is always pure joy! I’m happy to be in any level of your favorites! 😀
[A/N It’s my bday today so just let this crack art wash over you like a tidal wave of too much booze and sugar, or think of it as artistic support for the meta theory that Cas is that slice of cake Dean wants to eat so badly. Either one. ]
Dean has an epic amount of pornography on his computer. Castiel knows this. Chuck told him about it. He hadn’t seen it at the time; had no reason to desire to, but things have changed. A lot. For a week, Castiel begs off of hunts. Locks himself in his room. And he watches Dean’s epic amount of pornography. It takes about a week for Castiel to have a solid grasp on the themes he sees over and over. Formulate an idea of what Dean might like.
When it’s time, he he gathers his supplies and prepares himself. He’s not embarrassed, but he is confused. He’s not sure that he understands the appeal here. But now is the time to see the results. As he knocks on Dean’s door, he entertains the very real possibility that he might be laughed at. It’s not a pleasant thought.
Irrationally,he wants to back away from the door, but then Dean is calling for him to come in and it’s too late. He pushes open the door.
Dean does not laugh. Dean does not move. Dean does not blink.
“Happy Birthday,” Castiel says.
That seems to break the seal. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” Dean says. “Cas?”
Castiel raises his right arm higher. “Cake?”
“What the fuck?”
“They were out of pie,” Castiel explains regretfully. “And I can’t cook, so you get a cake.”
Dean sits up very slowly. More slowly he scoots down the bed. Slower still, he drapes his legs over the edge of the bed. “You’re naked,” Dean says.
“Of course I am,” Castiel frowns. “It’s your birthday.”
Dean shakes his head like he doesn’t understand what’s going on here. That confuses Castiel. He should know. It’s about as obvious as he can make it. He’s naked save for the tie around his neck and the ridiculous paper hat that he regrets because the strap cuts into his chin. He’s holding a cake. The door is shut and locked securely behind him. “Hell of a surprise party,” Dean says after a minute, and at least he’s starting to smile.
“It was intended to be a good surprise,” Castiel worries. Perhaps the pornography had steered him in the wrong direction. Considering how any times Dean had watched that one with just this scenario, Castiel had thought it would be a welcome gift.
Still with slow, purposeful movements, Dean reaches out and pinches the bottom of the tie between two fingers. “It sure ain’t a bad one.” He tugs with no force whatsoever, but Castiel draws closer anyway. “Presents first, cake later,” he murmurs.
Castiel starts to apologize about the present. He’d completely forgotten about it in the rest of the planning. But all that comes out is a strangled shout when the wet heat of Dean’s mouth suddenly engulfs the tip of his dick. His whole body startles so violently that the cake almost falls. Luckily it appears that Dean has anticipated the issue, because his hand comes up under Castiel’s, and he rescues it before it can cause a mess.
That frees Castiel’s hands up so that he can place them on either side of Dean’s head and peer down at him with all the wonder in the world.
Dean says nothing else, but it would be a shame if he had to because his mouth is working miracles. His tongue swirls and strokes, teases and tortures, and Castiel couldn’t possibly say how long it goes on when Dean finally grabs the base of the angel’s cock, and as slowly as he’s done everything else, eases the hard length into his mouth all the way down to the root.
Dimly, Castiel remembers that this is called “deep throating” and that it is extremely difficult – sometimes impossible – to master.
Dean, though; beautiful Dean, drinks him down with the close-eyed bliss of a connoisseur. He makes a small moan in his chest, hollows his cheeks, and sucks everything – blood, bone, marrow, grace, everything – out from Castiel’s dick. He’d be ashamed of the absurd hyperbole, but it feels accurate.
When he comes, it’s straight down the back of Dean’s throat to a hurricane in his veins and the human below him swallowing every drop like it’s a necessity of life. Then he moans again, the vibrations ricocheting up Castiel’s spine, and he comes, too. Despite the obscene pleasure, Castiel still has the sense to be slightly disappointed that he missed Dean jerking himself off.
The aftermath is a gorgeous tableau, however. Dean grins up at him, flushed bright and dirtied with come on his chin and hand. “Okay,” he says hoarsely, delightedly. “You sold me on this birthday thing. Now lets eat some cake.”
Two hours and three jumps out of the Citadel, and the Normandy still has another four hours to go at max cruising speed in a race to beat Cerberus to a nameless chunk of rock at the far end of the Terminus. Joker swears he can push it to two, but Adams has sworn to feed Joker to the drivecore as a human sacrifice if he does that and Ianto is far too tired to deal with that.
And if this dead and forgotten Prothean colony world is NOT laden to the gills with Reaper-killing tech, Ianto is going to feed both Javik AND Liara to the drivecore and as he starts giggling softly and hysterically to himself, he realises he should probably try and take a nap before the inevitable shit hits the fan.
Kaidan is deep in SPECTRE paperwork, some of which is probably Ianto’s, and Vanya is… somewhere. Probably arguing about calibrations with Garrus, but as long as the ship hasn’t exploded, he’s too tired to care.
The room feels too cold and empty in the dark, and despite his exhaustion, he spends too much time staring over at the fish. He’s half in and out of a fitful sleep when the bed suddenly shifts beside him and he cracks an eye open enough to watch Kaidan politely shuffle his boots off before carefully lying down. Ianto grunts happily and makes room.
He doesn’t know how much longer it is, Kaidan’s measured breathing in his ear, and the subsonic tingle of their implants like a welcome white-noise generator, that the bed creaks and the vanguard simply faceplants next to him. Vanya smells like ozone and burnt metal which means the little Russian had probably been inside one of the cannons, trying to fix something Garrus couldn’t reach and he groggily flags it for discussion later. Kaidan mutters something about Form 15-A43 hand half-swats across Ianto’s chest at the newcomer.
The room is no longer cold, or empty, and Ianto crashes into a sleep blessedly free of fire and death.
Jupiter Astrid James 