So this is for Sweetheart From Hell and Punky, two people who have given me a huge amount of support recently and who never fail to say lovely things to me in their reviews. Sweetheart wanted a loving Top!Castiel with a side helping of angst. This is what it got you, hope you enjoy it.
Disclaimer: If it were really mine this would not be a work of fanfiction, this would be canon and we would probably all explode our brains in joy.
Let Me.
Castiel's fingers are light as they skim across the bare expanse of Dean's chest, a delicate fluttering of barely controlled strength and a gentle reminder that beneath the warmth of flesh lies the raw grace of an angel. Dean's hands are no less busy, fumbling almost frantically with the buttons of Castiel's ever present white shirt in an attempt to get to the skin beneath. The hunter wants to touch, to feel, to reassure himself that Castiel is as whole and as well as he appears to be.
There is nothing impatient about the way that his angel is exploring him, the way that fingers curve over a knife scar on Dean's ribs or the burn mark on the hunter's arm, the way that they flicker over first one nipple and then the other before coming up to burrow deep in the man's short hair. The way that they kiss each other is no less relaxed, though it does not lack the urgency of arousal, but they are content to take this time slowly, to savour and bask in the closeness of the other because they do not know when they will have this kind of time again.
The angel's shirt is eased from his shoulders, the kiss broken so that Dean can lick a path down Castiel's neck and listen to the way that the more powerful creature gasps his name with a wonder that never ceases to fill the hunter with warmth. Dean's hands are still moving, still reaching and fumbling, the only sound in the room over their soft gasps is the click of Castiel's belt buckle and the harsh rasp of the zipper. The angel mirrors the movements, fingers trembling a little now, to push jeans out of the way and reach inside the hunter's shorts to take him in hand.
Dean mutters softly, hands tightening on Castiel's hip in a marked contrast to the way that the words are tumbling from his lips, hips thrusting forward slightly before he captures the other man's lips with his own in a heated kiss. They stumble to the bed in this way, lips still locked and tongues tangling, hands shoving the remaining clothing from their bodies and pressing against one another in a way that draws gasps from both of them.
The bad creaks once under their combined weight, a sound that is ignored by both as Castiel presses a hard kiss to Dean's neck, sucking at the delicate skin before licking and nipping a trail down the hunter's torso. By the time that he reaches Dean's erection he already has the man writhing under his attentions, soft groans of the angel's name falling from his lips in a litany of pleas. He takes it into his mouth in the same moment as he presses a slick finger to the hunter's entrance.
Dean flinches away from the intrusion, a hard and vicious reaction, and Castiel pulls away to look at him. There is an edge of fear to Dean's expression, a fear that not even lust can completely erase. The angel's own blue eyes are blown almost black with his need but he is not completely unaware of Dean's reaction, he is not completely unaware of the fact that Dean has always been the one to take control. He moves back up the hunter's body, pressing small kisses to every part of him possible, until Castiel can take Dean's face between gentle hands, until he can capture Dean's mouth in a soothing and loving kiss.
"Let me," he whispers against the hunter's lips. It is not that Castiel craves this experience, he could go for all eternity without ever finding out how it feels to be buried inside this man, he simply wishes for Dean to learn how it feels to be loved in this way. He only wants Dean to understand some measure of what he has given to the angel.
"Cas," though the fear is not so pronounced it is still evident in the man's green eyes.
This is about control, Castiel knows this. He knows it as surely as he knows his own name. Dean hates the idea of not being in control, he hates the idea of having to trust to another when he is vulnerable. If Castiel could have spared him every moment of Hell, every betrayal at the hands of friends and family in those moments when they were the most cutting, the angel would do it in a heartbeat. He would spare this man all of the agonies in the universe to take that fear and pain from his eyes.
"Trust me," he breathes against Dean's skin, hands soothing and stroking, "trust me." The man nods, a jerky broken movement, squeezing his eyes shut. "Look at me," Castiel murmurs, hands teasing a little more now, "let me."
This kiss is so tender, so loving, and when Dean groans his assent Castiel pours his entire being into it. He lets Dean feel the love and the desire that burns within him, he opens his grace to the man and lets it wash over him in a wave of warmth and devotion as he once more presses a finger to the hunter's entrance.
This time Dean does not flinch, he barely breathes as the depth of Castiel's love for him rolls over his soul. It is a sensation that is equally tender and arousing all at once, a sensation that is magnified in the angel as Dean's soul reflects the feeling back at him. To do this is an action of unquestioning trust, undeniable devotion. Not even Castiel's own brothers have been permitted to touch his grace in this way. Dean may not understand the significance of this action, and Castiel is not certain that he will ever be able to explain it, but it calms the man and relaxes him enough that Castiel soon has three fingers inside him and he is moving restlessly against them.
The angel crooks his fingers as he watches Dean shift, watches as the hunter's mouth falls open and a wordless cry issues forth. The shock of pleasure that is flung back at the angel is enough to make him remove his fingers and bury himself in his hunter. Both cry out at the feeling of it, helpless mutters of each other's name, the grasping of strong hands and the gentle roll of Castiel's hips. It is a slow, easy, rhythm that allows Castiel to kiss Dean as he brushes across the man's prostate with every other thrust.
He can feel Dean slowly coming apart under him, the slow build of pleasure love trust acceptance that rolls from Dean's soul and slowly fills him as his thrusts increase in speed. Dean arches against him, mouth open in a soundless cry when Castiel reaches between them to stroke the man to completion. Bliss surges out, rolling through Dean's soul and across Castiel's grace, and it triggers the angel's own orgasm, the sound of their cries mingling with the sudden beat of wings in a darkened room.
Castiel holds Dean tight against him as they come back to themselves and get their breathing back under control. They may never do this again, he reflects, but at least Dean now knows the truth and the depth of the angel's feelings. At least Castiel knows that these emotions are returned. It is more than he has a right to ask for.
Artemis