Why , why are you not online? I write this porn in mourning, and because listening to Pink in Destiel videos apparently brings it out of me.
Castiel sits, grading twelfth grade papers on the bleachers by the football field, despairing over the failure of his latest class to grasp the apostrophe. At least, he was, now he's sitting, pen in hand and bundle of papers fluttering on his knees, because the reason he's chosen to mark outside has just strolled onto the pitch.
Dean Winchester, football coach and latest member of staff to join their ranks.
Greek God incarnate.
Castiel huddles against the wind, trench coat fanning in the gust of cold air sent down by the grey, repellent sky. Down below Dean is bellowing at the players as they assemble on the field in full gear, he blows his whistle and they run off to get into formation for a drill. Castiel watches the couch sprint after them, yelling at those who can't match his pace to 'Pick it up or go back to the locker room!'
Dean follows the boys as they go in and out of the line up, running the ball up and down the pitch in a training exercise. He's expending twice as much effort as any player, running to and from the goal line and shouting advice and criticism between whistle blasts. He's in black fleece track pants and a hooded sweater, and despite the cold air he must be sweltering, at one point he even drops to the ground beside a player being punished for lateness with a set of push up's, jack-knifing up and down faster than the younger boy.
Dean jumps to his feet and happens to look up into the stands, straight at Castiel. He ducks his head back to his marking hastily trying to look like he's doing something, anything, but stare at Dean Winchester. He licks his dry lips unconsciously and gives Polly Brown a B+ she really doesn't deserve, just to move his hand, and flips to the next paper, reading intently.
The next story is actually kind of good, which makes it all the worse, because though it starts off with a fairly benign school setting, he can only describe it as pure, adolescent filth.
I left my gym bag behind on purpose so that I could go back into the locker room, and there he was, still standing under the flow of the showers, too shy to wash beside the rest of us. He had no idea how much I wanted to see him without his gym uniform, without the baggy black pants and loose shirts he always wore. I didn't know if that would make him more or less reluctant to strip off beside me.
Castiel drummed his pen against his thigh, watching Dean pelt along beside one of the new recruits to the team, throwing the ball back and forth to practice precision and aim. He'd taken off his hooded sweater, revealing the plain V-necked T-shirt underneath, white cotton probably already damp with sweat. Castiel nips at the rough skin of his lip nervously, and returns to the puerile nonsense in his lap, really hoping that it isn't about to go where it appears to be headed.
He always smelt like the same cheap white soap, and that smell filled up the showers and got to me as I watched him. He had no idea I was there, watching from the lockers, as he soaped himself up and sighed though the steam, easing the aches of a hard hour's training. His hands touched his body innocently, far more so than I would if I were beneath those searing jets. I saw him trail a hand over the soft dark hair on his flat stomach, and I felt my cock...
Castiel flushes and flips over the page, determined to just fail the student and start on a different paper. And maybe throw out his K-mart soap, knowing that the cheap product would now remind him of this.
His eyes flick back to Dean just as the coach lifts his arms and wriggles out of his shirt, chest flushed and sweaty from his work, fleece workout pants hanging so low on his hips that Castiel can see the jut of the bone in contrast to the musculature of the rest of him. Heavy and thick with muscle and tanned from a summer of running outside beside his players.
Castiel swallows and looks back down at the paper in his lap.
...harden against my thigh, thinking about him, a damp spot already on my underwear from watching him at practice. I'd been hard, aching, the whole time, barely able to look away from him even though he wasn't playing, just standing in his position. As he turned under the water I could see his cock resting there, soft and wet and surrounded by damp, dark hair. I wondered what it would feel like in my mouth, slowly growing hard and thick. What he would taste like...
"And you will do it again, until I'm satisfied!" Dean yells, startling Castiel and making him clutch at the stack of papers that he was about to let slither to the ground. Dean is yelling at one of the players, pointing him back out to where the others are running laps. Castiel watches his chest heave in exertion and anger, soft brown hair spiked with sweat and strong fists curled furiously. The sight, combined with the words he's been reading illicitly, out here in the open, albeit empty, stands, cause his own cock to twitch, growing slightly plumper with blood even as he hisses through his teeth in discomfort. But he's unable to avoid reading more of the story in his lap, it draws him back despite his common sense.
...What he would sound like as I sucked him down. If I tried to touch him, to bend him to his knees on the wet tile floor, soaked and slicked with hot water and the lather of K-mart soap, would he fight me? Squirm underneath me, begging me to let him go...or would he like it, like the feel of my wet chest on his back, open his legs wide for me and beg me to fill him, stretch him and ride him hard into the floor?...
It's terribly written and obscene and yet Castiel squirms on the hard wooden seat, hand resting under the papers slightly and pressing the heel of his palm against the aching erection that's pressed to his leg by the seam of his slacks. It relives a little of the pressure, but it aches somehow more once he releases it, and he can feel the dampness of pre-come against his underwear, a steady frustrated throb in his groin.
"You're not giving it your best!" Dean's voice seems to come from a great distance. "Try harder or fuck off back to the locker room!"
Castiel massages the aching bulge pressed against the seam of his pants one handed, his other hand holding the papers over his groin as camouflage. A distant part of his brain is screaming that this is crazy, he could get fired for fucks sake, jerking off over the students football practice. But all his nerve endings are clamouring for release, and he's inclined, high brain functions having shut down, to give it to them.
He turns around, opening his eyes and blinking back water. He sees me, and for a second I feel cold with that discovery, shamed and shocked to have been caught out, hand unconsciously palming my cock and watching him, naked and wet.
Castiel reads the words and his gaze flicks to Dean, currently watching a play, arms crossed over his chest, a whimper catches in Castiel's throat as he rubs himself a little harder.
He looks at me, and I can't help but move towards him, he reaches out to me and pulls me under the jets, tugging off my shirt as the water soaks it, fingers brushing my nipples and mouth so close to mine.
"I thought you'd never stop watching." He murmurs, voice so rough and perfect with the steam and the strain of arousal. He looks me in the eye, and the pressure of those blue eyes goes right to my...
Castiel squeezes his cock, eyes snapping shut as he comes over the inside of his slacks. He slumps back a little, not knowing when he'd bent over like that. He stuffs the papers into his bag a little shakily, knowing he should get to a washroom soon to collect himself and clean himself up. He still has the one paper, the wrong, obscene paper, in his hand, when he looks down at the field absently as he stands.
The players are gone, practice has ended and he really needs to sort himself out before class starts again.
"Hey Cas." He looks up to see Dean walking towards him down the bench, still shirtless and sweating.
He can feel the blush painting his cheeks, the cooling come on his underwear. He hates the universe right now, especially himself.
"Mr Winchester." He says stiffly.
Dean smiles and gestures at the papers in his hand, still breathless and painted with sweat from running on the field.
"Getting some work done out here? Not a great day for it." He says.
"No but...I felt I needed the air." Castiel says, feeling that it's suitably banal for small talk.
"Ahhh." Dean kicks at the wooden floor casually, one hand tapping absently at his bare stomach. "Anything good? We got the next Mark Twain around here?"
Castiel shakes his head, eager to be gone and not caring much for his duty as a teacher to not make light of his students achievements.
"Really? Gee, sucks to be you then." Dean cocks his head to one side. "If no one can write anything interesting. I expect you'd like something more stimulating to read...after a folder of twelfth grade reports."
Castiel looks him in the eye and catches Dean's smirk, the knowing tone in his voice.
And then he remembers that morning in the teachers' lounge, that Dean was sitting a few seats away and Castiel had put his stack of marking beside him for a moment as an excuse to talk to him, leaving it unattended for a moment while he fetched some coffee.
The story with no name attached. Had Dean...
Dean's smirk widens. "Anyway...expect you found practice pretty interesting...but I actually have to go shower so..." he tilts his head. "Unless you need to get cleaned up as well...Mr Novak..." and despite all biology his dick twitches at that, at his name and title in Dean's mouth. "Can get pretty exciting for spectators, I know."
Dean's look is part challenge, part baited tenseness, he's waiting to be rejected, for Castiel to walk away or misunderstand him or yell.
So when he nods and goes to follows him to the coach's private shower, Castiel gets to enjoy the slightly surprised look on Dean's face.
If anyone in his last period English class notices his wet hair and slight wince as he takes his seat, they say nothing.
He's never been so grateful for their lack of interest.