Blue. Blue with a baby pink trim. Lace lining silk. Fine and soft. Sleek and smooth. And a brilliant bold blue.
They match his eyes.
They're shut, those eyes, closed as he swims in the heat of the moment.
It's a fire, an engulfing, consuming blaze of passion, flaming in his mind, spreading through his body. Each breath he takes comes out in a huff, gasping and panting, stifling moans as he traps the cries of pleasure in his throat, nearly choking on them. And he lays sprawled out on the mattress, gripping the sheets, tugging lightly as the sensations delight him, beautifully vulnerable and magnificently exposed.
And Dean loves it, loves his little angel acting so submissive, so compliant to his wishes, so docile and willing to fulfil his desires. They were his ideas, the panties, plucked from one of his wet fantasies and now painted upon the canvas of reality. And through some light coaxing and persistent convincing, he landed himself here, in this moment, in this real dream reserved solely for the two of them.
Not just for his enjoyment, no, because he knows Castiel likes it too. The gaping and hungry mouth. The quivering and dry lips. The florid and flushed skin. The subtle and fluid squirms. Each movement of the muscle has that ethereal edge to it, too graceful to be human, something strangely innocent about everything he does. Funny to think about things like that in the bedroom, Dean muses, but since he and Castiel started exploring the depths of their bond, well, he's realised that this is probably one of the purest things life has to offer. Maybe the purest.
Dean presses his lips to the rising silk, heat burning through the cool fabric, exciting the sensitive skin still concealed. It's kissing a sun through a cloud, the screen barely filtering the blazing heat of the wonder beyond. And through the thin covering he still absorbs all the heat, taking in all the fervour and fire coursing through the angel, letting it drown him in sweet, mind-blowing bliss.
Castiel croaks out a groan, cocking his head and shifting again, lightly bucking up towards Dean's mouth. They've done this a few times, and each time Castiel wonders if he's too eager or not. Then again, Dean has a reputation of teasing, something Castiel does his fair share of too. But right now he just wants those lips around him, seeking asylum in the moist cave, allowing the wet serpent to slither around him, gripping him in a loving vice. He knows that isn't Dean's plan, and it's probably better that way. It can't get too hasty, otherwise the encounter doesn't fully satiate, leaving some note of disillusion that tarnishes the afterglow with a heavy lacking air.
No, slower is better, keeping the fire smouldering while savouring every moment the tantalising tension, the fervid friction, and the sensual satisfaction. This is better. Much better.
Rough fingers glide around the lacy waistband, brushing by the delicate frills, occasionally touching the enflamed skin in the process. Dean's good about pacing, far tenderer than many believe, always sensing what the other wants and properly quenching those urges in the most pleasing of manners. He knows how to treat Castiel, how to treat him well, how to bedazzle and excite him. They're like the lovers of old, the original sinners, only if this is their apple of temptation; no one has thrown them from Eden just yet. Probably because this isn't a sin, more a virtue, one as enticing and alluring as a Devil's trick but still so seraphic and divine that only God could have created such a heavenly feeling.
That's why none of this is wrong, because no matter how many people argue about what He does and doesn't approve of, Castiel—His loyal and noble Child—knows that his Father created love for His creations to share. And he finds himself lucky enough to share it with Dean Winchester, the righteous and the bold.
Saliva dampens the silk, pressing it against the rise, turning translucent as Dean continues his kissing. Thin fabric makes for more fun, Dean said when they picked up the garment, and his assumption's paying off quite nicely right now. Ravenous lust pleads for him to just get on with it, but Dean sticks to his plan, those melodious, musical moans of one of Heaven's choir boys too perfect to pass.
"D-Dean..." Castiel manages out a whisper, light and airy, drawn from his lips by the overpowering ecstasy pounding inside. Angels are a lot like comets, and he's a comet zipping in the centre of a bright blue sun, raging at top speed within boiling confides. Dean has him there, guiding the wayward strike of lightning through rings of fire, the two of them caught in an eternal cosmic dance.
There's something beautiful about it, more beautiful than the stars in the sky or the flora on the ground. It's water and fire and air and earth and light and emotion and passion and light and everything all rolled into one feeling. Caging the universe into a single sensation, a single strike of emotion, a single sublime feeling, just makes the situation all the more volatile. And all the more phenomenal.
Dean looks up from beneath his lashes, lusty olive eyes staring at the begging expression etched on Castiel's face. It's moments like these when he really takes in the fact that he isn't just sleeping with anyone, but with an angel. Because just the way he looks sometimes—in these positions, muttering his name, claiming his lips—that just hits Dean, making him think to himself how much of a damn miracle this is. Because none of this was ever supposed to happen, but somehow it has. Remarkably.
It's time. Time to pull down the elastic, pull away the curtain and bask in Castiel's glory.
He moves deftly, quickly, with such skill and finesse that on any other would be wasted. And then, with nothing in his way, he takes the angel in his mouth, prompting another hushed cry into the blackened night. And he shuts his eyes, blinding himself to enhance his other senses. To feel the heat burn more intensely. To taste the skin more sweetly. To listen to Castiel gasp and moan more clearly.
Castiel drowns, drowns in the heat, melting as Dean sucks him. He bucks his hips, arching for Dean, while his limbs all twist and turn, yanking at the sheets. The comet's reaching the sun's core, and grows pleasantly restless as his guide leads him through the layers. And it just gets hotter, and better, and all the harder to concentrate, getting faster and faster as he nears it until finally he reaches the soaring climax. A soft sound—not a whimper, not a cry, not a moan or a mewl—escapes his throat, hanging in the air as he releases.
Dean lets Castiel fill his mouth, easing back as the white wells up, coating his tongue. Castiel tastes better than anyone else, having some unique tang that comes off his everything. But Dean still can't down that stuff, so he brings a hand to his mouth and spits, letting it roll off his tongue and into his cupped palm. Not all of it comes out, but he doesn't mind; the taste can stick.
Then his eyes flicker over to the angel, who breathes evenly now, relaxed and at ease. Dean creeps over him, closer than he realises, and soon all he sees are Castiel's opening eyes.
They're blue. Bright bold blue.