Title: Castiel's Introduction to Strip Poker

Author: Lassroyale

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Pervy! Crossover w/ X-men

Disclaimer: All the pretty boys are belong to…Kripke. Not me, sadly. I just like to play and torture.

Spoilers: none

Pairing: Dean/Castiel (implied), Castiel/Remy Lebeau aka – Gambit

Summary: Never play strip poker with the Ragin' Cajun

A/N: I was asked to do a quick fic a long time ago that was a Supernatural/Marvel Universe crossover…this is what I came up with. Please note that this is a really quick write and unbeta'd so it's not my best work by any means.

***

"It's your call, homme," chuckled Gambit silkily, his words a rich burr in his throat as they dripped like liquid sex from the end of his silver tongue.

The Cajun was slouching in an example of supreme nonchalance, clearly unruffled as he toyed with a red poker chip, dancing it between long, adroit fingers. While his words were for Dean Winchester, his eyes, those red, smoldering eyes, were trained solely upon Castiel.

If Gambit's kinetic energy were a power that he could manifest with a mere glance, Castiel would have exploded on the spot from the sheer intensity of the look.

In response, Cas stared back just as relaxed as the Cajun, fire-red and ice blue engaging in a silent, terse dance laced with sexual tension. Where Gambit slouched in a manner that somehow highlighted the leanness of his torso and the broadness of his shoulders, Castiel sat straight and rigid, no slouch to his ramrod posture.

After all, there was a lot at stake here…Castiel himself was at stake should Dean lose this game.

***

Dean could feel the weight of the Cajun's gaze, heavy and lust-ridden as the mutant stared at the soft dip in the hollow of Castiel's throat. In a somewhat territorial display, the hunter snarled at Gambit lowly in his the back of his throat; an even more sinister growl than Edward Cullen could ever hope to achieve.

Remy's smile widened as he ever so casually leaned towards Castiel and ran the pad of his thumb across the angel's bottom lip, clearly just to further irritate the hunter.

Cas didn't flinch away from Gambit's touch, though a spark rippled through his too-blue eyes which said he just might smite the mutant on the spot.

For a moment Dean saw red, before a gravelly voice interrupted his death glare.

"Hurry up, Bub," muttered a shorter, feral-looking man to the hunter's right. A puff of cigar smoke wafted into his face a moment later, followed by a gruff snicker. "I ain't got all day to sit around while ya wait to see if the Cajun wins a night with your boyfriend here."

Dean checked his cards carefully and tried not to look at Wolverine as the mutant took another deep inhalation of the tobacco stick. The stout man breathed deeply with an appreciative grunt, before putting the burning ember out on his thigh…

…his very naked thigh. It was also hairy thigh and banded with muscle that looked as if it could make steel whimper with a single flex.

In fact, all of the X-men who were sitting around the poker table were stark naked and marvelously defined. They also shared a common look of chagrin as they waited with baited breath for the last hand of the game play out.

Each of them had tried their luck against gambit, which, according to a busty redhead named Rogue, was in general a worse idea than trying to persuade a Southern Belle to work on a hot Mississippi day.

Or at least that's what Dean thought she might have said because by that time she was quite topless and had an eyeful of heaving bosom that couldn't be ignored.

Rogue had since left with a gorgeous and swarthy woman called Storm, along with a statuesque blonde named Emma Frost.

(Emma had pouted the whole time they had been playing because she was apparently not allowed to join in these kinds of games. There was just something about being able to read minds that really threw a kink in a game like strip poker, after all.)

Dean had been rather sorry to see them go – those women had bodies that would put supermodels to shame – but after the ladies had left things had really started to go south.

The Cajun had proceeded to beat the pants off of the remaining players, in the literal sense, until it had been just he and the hunter.

Dean, who had lost his shirt and pants, but kept his boxers and socks, had still been feeling rather good about his odds. Gambit, however, despite remaining fully clothed, had placed a bet on the table that was not only lucrative but highly provocational.

The mutant had bet that he could beat Dean without losing a stitch of clothing. If Dean won, he would give the hunter one thousand dollars and his bo staff. If he won, however, he got Castiel for a whole night…to do with as he pleased.

Cas hadn't seen fit to object the wager, finding it quaintly human until the implication of the bet sunk in. By then it had been too late – Dean, feeling assured and even cocky, had agreed to it.

Now the hunter was sweating bullets with all eyes upon him.

"What's it gonna be, mon frere? Gonna call my bet dere?" pressed Gambit smugly.

The Cajun smoothed his russet hair back from his chiseled face, not a single damn bead of sweat on his brow. Dean couldn't decide if it was because the man was that self-assured or if it was because he was sitting right next to Bobby Drake. (Oddly, Bobby's ice-form rendered him more like a blue-colored Ken doll than an anatomically correct man. It sorta creeped Dean out, when it came down to it.)

Either way, Gambit's expression was damn well infuriating.

Wolverine scented the air suddenly and looked slyly at Cyclops, who was staring at between Castiel and Remy with his mouth slightly open.

"Ooohh, you like that sort of thing, dontchya Cyke?" he said with a wide grin. He elbowed Dean roughly. "The boyscout likes it when the Cajun touches your angel there. Gotta admit, he's pretty."

"I'm all in," announced Dean through gritted teeth, fingering the waistband of his boxer shorts nervously. The piece of clothing was the last defense for his dignity and Castiel's sweet angel ass.

Gambit finally looked at him, offering a rakish grin as he acknowledged the proclamation.

"I'm afraid dat be a bad move, homme," said the Cajun. He flipped over his cards and revealed a full house.

Dean's green eyes widened with shock and bleak realization as he turned over his cards.

Flush – not good enough to beat Remy's hand.

"Dem boxers please," said Gambit, rising and holding out his hand to Dean.

Feeling his cheeks redden but honoring the game nevertheless, the hunter rose with a fluid movement, his form sleek and firm in the low light of the room. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down, feeling the sudden coolness of the air as the black fabric pooled at his ankles.

Slowly, he bent and picked them up, handing them to the Cajun who took them with a wink.

Without a word, Gambit leaned over Castiel and sealed his mouth over the angel's in a kiss that was so animalistic and provocative, that Wolverine rumbled lustily next to Dean. With his lips still over Cas', the Cajun glanced up and beckoned the elder Winchester forward with those burning red eyes and a crooked finger.

The mutant separated himself long enough from the sultry heat of the angel's mouth and grinned roguishly at Dean.

"I never said you couldn't watch, monsieur badant…or join."

And what did Dean choose? Well, that's an entirely different story for another day.

(The end?)