I'm not going to justify this in any way, shape, or form. I'm simply going to blame Panda (for pointing me at the song), Jared Leto for singing this version and my brain for taking the first verse and pulling this from it. The song is 30 Seconds To Mars's version of Bad Romance. I blame it entirely on that.
Disclaimer: Most certainly not mine!
Bad Romance.
I want your love, I want your disease,
I want you open mouthed and on your knees,
I want your love,
Love, love, love, I want your love.
Dean is alone in the motel room, surrounded by darkness broken only by the tiny slither of light from the gap in the curtains. Sam is who knows where doing who knows what and right now the hunter is overdue some much needed alone time.
He sighs as he settles on the bed, clothes kicked in a corner somewhere for the sake of expediency, and takes a moment to just breathe. He lies on the scratchy sheets and feels the cool air of the room move and settle around him as the fan swishes quietly above him. The hunter closes his eyes against even this muted reality and pulls an image together in his mind, an image of wide blue eyes, dark hair, and soft lips parted slightly in anticipation.
His own hand is slowly trailing it's way down his body, almost of it's own accord, pausing to pinch lightly at first one nipple and then the other, circling for a moment until it reaches his half erect member and it takes a few strokes to bring himself to full hardness. Dean enjoys the feel and weight of himself in his hand, he always had, he enjoys the pleasure that it brings him and the moment of forgetting.
His rhythm is sure, practised, and all the while he has an image in his mind. All the while he imagines blue eyes staring up at him, his hands fisted in wild dark hair as the owner leans forward to lick the length of him, tongue swirling over the head of his erection and it draws a moan from him to fill the whirling silence.
"Cas," the image smiles around him, swallowing him down, and Dean can feel the warmth of his angel's mouth as he thrusts up into his hand.
The sound of the fan is lost now, the gentle brush of air forgotten as the hunter loses himself in the pleasure of his own touch and the vividness of his own imagination. The room rings with his jagged moans and whispered sighs of his angel's name, his hand stroking and twisting in just the way that he enjoys until with a final sigh he comes.
He lies still for a long moment, moving from imagination to reality sluggishly, letting his breathing even out as his eyes open at the briefest flutter of sound. He is still the soul occupant of the room, there is no sign of his brother or his friend and Dean rolls from the bed with a sigh to go and get a shower. As he turns on the bathroom light it catches on a flicker of smoke white on the floor.
When he looks Dean sees a feather, gleaming slightly, in one of the darker corners of the room.