A/N: This got...obnoxiously long. And gained more plot than expected. Sorry (not sorry).
I am shocked and pleased by how many of you chose to subscribe after reading the first chapter...thank you for the vote of confidence! I hope this second installment gives you a better idea of what to expect as the actual plot begins to unfold, and that you're not disappointed!
Everywhere he went, whether he was at the Travellers Club, at home entertaining, at a party or gathering, riding in the park, or walking down the street, Dean sought out blue eyes.
Of course, he found them everywhere. They were not nearly so common as brown or his own green, but they stood out. A laughing child, an elderly man with crinkled skin, a lovely young woman with blonde hair, a tired housewife, people all over London had pale gazes. The shades of blue ran from the palest of misty gray to navy so deep it was practically black. He'd never noticed how much variation there was in eye color before. No two hues appeared quite the same. Not a one matched the exact cerulean of his angel, nor did any of those who possessed blue eyes have the accompanying unruly black hair.
It was wrong of him to look, inappropriate to hope that a chance encounter would lead him to the true identity of Castiel. He couldn't help himself. The man preoccupied his every sense, captivated and subverted his reason. Dean would have given anything to touch him, taste him, smell him, hear him, see him. He longed for Castiel to fill him in every conceivable way, craved him, dreamt that the angel could absorb him until they were one person, one complete soul.
The days dragged by in the usual give and take of social visits, gatherings, and promenades. Dean tolerated it for the sake of his small number of friends – Mr. Ashley, Mr. Lafitte, Mr. Fitzgerald, and Mr. Henriksen were all in London for the Season – and because Charlie and Ms. Harvelle enjoyed company. He occupied his time as best he could. The days past mostly quickly when he was with his family and friends, entertaining small groups at home, doting on his children, helping Samuel prepare for his nuptials with his beloved Ms. Moore. Time slowed to a crawl when he was in mixed company. He felt more exposed than he ever had before even with Charlotte on his arm, like strangers could look at him and see the secret desire to which he had finally succumbed. His instincts were to seclude himself, yet only at parties and galas could he hope to find the pair of blue eyes he sought, so he forced himself to attend night after fruitless night. It was worth it, he convinced himself, to see Charlie so enjoying herself at cards and other games, to see Samuel and Ms. Moore able to steal precious moments of privacy with which to converse. He left the parties aching in body and mind, gut clenched with unfulfillable need, desperate for everything he wanted but could not have.
Thus two weeks passed.
Emerging from his bath that Thursday morning, Dean was so hard he was ashamed of himself, thoughts of the past and anticipation for the future driving him to unparalleled arousal.
In the privacy of his bedroom in their rented townhome, he touched himself. He imagined his rough hands lithe, his calloused skin smooth, his thick fingers nimble. Laying back, his eyes slipped shut. He trailed one of his hands over his skin, settling it on his nipple, tweaking and rubbing until it formed a hard nub. Shards of pleasure leaked from the contact to scatter throughout his body. The other hand, he wrapped around himself with a low groan. After submersing himself had become his favorite time to engage in gratification. With his body flush from the hot water, his skin damp, he could pretend he felt Castiel's mouth around him. The ring he made with his fingers were the pouty pink lips he pictured on the face his mind had given his angel, the lingering moisture was the liquid heat of saliva, the flick of his thumb over his tip was the tongue that had danced so enticingly over him. He throbbed in his own grip and stroked, blood warming, coursing bliss to every pore.
Slowly, restrainedly, he pumped his aching cock. With a light touch, he ran his other hand along his chest, down his side, hitching his legs up to allow access to his backside. He'd never done this for himself before Thursday two weeks ago, but now he did so nearly every time. He couldn't not, not any more. Simply touching himself no longer was enough. Even through their brief contact, Castiel had changed him irrevocably. As the hand clenched around his cock trembled with the difficulty of not accelerating his ministrations, his rubbed at his entrance, scratched it lightly with his nail, pressed into it ever so slightly.
Do you like that, Mr. Asmodeus? A husky voice whispered in his thoughts. In his mind, blue eyes peered up to meet his even as that exquisite mouth continued to work around him.
"Yes, Castiel," he moaned softly. "It's good, you're so very good." Unable to restrain himself, his hips jerked hard into his hand. Drawing his thumb away, he filled himself with a finger. It was not ideal, far from it. Given the choices of having nothing inside him at all, or having what short length of his finger he could penetrate himself with despite awkward angles, he opted to be poorly filled rather than not filled at all. After two weeks, he knew it would unsated, desperate, more in need of Castiel's cock than he had been before – but what else could he do? Straining, stroking, he fit in a second finger and tried to get them in deeply enough to find that glorious spot that Castiel had so expertly stimulated, but no matter how he squirmed, he couldn't. All he could manage were pathetically weak thrusts that abraded his dry interior shallowly, shivering him with pleasure and pain in equal parts. A frustrated mewl leaked from him.
Shh, pretty demon. I promise when I see you, I'll give you what you need.
"I know you will," he panted. With a groan, his hips jerked into his grip, and he let go his self-control. His hand pumped, his fingers thrust into him, and in his mind's eye, Castiel's gorgeous eyes met his until he was rent to pieces, a sweating, writhing mess of want. "Castiel," he moaned. "God, I can't wait..." His hips stuttered, his hand clenched, he managed to get his fingers in himself almost to the second joint, and he climaxed, semen streaking out of him to rest thickly on his hand and tangle in the curly brown hairs clustered thickly at the base of his cock. With a shudder, he collapsed limply on to the bed. "Oh, Castiel..."
Such behavior was becoming a daily exercise, and he was mortified by it. He'd always been able to control his inclinations. He'd abstained completely from sex for years, at times by choice, at times by necessity, and while he had always taken the time to satisfy his own needs, it had never felt so wanton.
It had never felt so good, either.
The last spasms of pleasure wracked him, and he relaxed with a sigh, allowing his phantom lover to fade from his imagination. Two more weeks until he could see the real man again. He dared to hope that his faith in Castiel was not misplaced, that the angel would truly attend and seek him out again. Dean had never been one to flutter over the possibility of being abandoned by a partner, but then, he'd never had a suitor, much less an inamorato.
Dean cleaned the sweat and grunge from his body with his towel and rapidly donned his daywear. It was a flattering outfit without being ostentatious, a form fitting jacket in a muted green over a vest and shirt in cream, taupe breeks, and polished Hessian boots with the dull luster bestowed by extensive wear. None of it was top of the line, and Sam would certainly find ways of making it clear how unfashionable Dean was to wear it, but he didn't care what others thought. No matter how he dressed people would say what they would say. He'd heard the fashionable set call Sam a bumpkin even when he was dandied to the nines. Dean was who and what he was, and he knew he was a better man than any of those who judged him for it.
Downstairs, the faint clatter of tea things warned him that the ladies were entertaining in the sitting room, and he snuck by, not wishing to rudely intrude where a gentleman might be undesired. His concerns proved unfounded, however, as Charlotte noticed his poor attempt at stealth and called out, "Mr. Winchester! Do join us!"
He stuck his head in with a broad smile. "How can I be of assistance, Mrs. Winchester?"
Charlie and Ms. Harvelle sat at opposite arms of the same long damask couch, his wife in a demure sitting gown in pale cream striped in blue, Ms. Harvelle in a pale blue of a more girlish cut. Both had their hair in deceptively simple curls, vibrant red on one, pale blonde on the other. Each busied their hands, Charlie with the embroidery she loathed so much, Ms. Harvelle with mending as more befit her supposedly lower status. Theoretically, the young, lean woman was there to be Mrs. Winchester's companion, someone to speak with her if there were no visitors but expected to keep her own counsel if there were more distinguished personages present. In practice, the Winchesters maintained formality only with virtual strangers. Judging by the faint scowl on Ms. Harvelle's face, the way she punched her needle aggressively in and out of the hem of the gown she was working on, now was one such time.
Opposite them sat two young women, one with red hair to compete with Charlie's and slimness beyond even Ms. Harvelle's, the other round-faced, dark-haired and pleasantly curved beneath her rose dress. Both were bedecked in clothing and accessories that spoke of quality, taste, and wealth. Dean stepped into the room hesitantly, unsure what role he had in such a meeting, supposing that Charlie meant to introduce him. As he entered, a third figure came into view, standing in the corner not visible from the doorway. A lithe young man dressed in the height of fashion, his collar so starched that Dean wondered if he could turn his head, leaned indolently against the window frame, watching outside as if bored out of his mind. He had a shock of black hair and for an instant Dean felt a flash of hope, but he shoved it away. Even without knowing the youth's eye colors, he was too short and too broad in the shoulder to be Dean's mysterious angel of Thursday. There was a family resemblance between the red-haired girl and the boy, and Dean supposed any spoiled dandy would be frustrated to serve escort to a sister, abandoned to girlish chatter. Dean's role would be to entertain him. Fantastic.
"Mr. Winchester, did you have the opportunity to make the acquaintance of Mr. Adam Milligan when we attended Mrs. Alder's fete last week?" Charlotte asked. He ran through his memory of stuffy parlors and vapid discussions and finally settled on the appropriate event. He'd been especially distracted while they were at Mr. and Mrs. Alder's impressive home. After all, Mr. Alder – Zachariah – was present, so perhaps other's of Ms. Naomi's set would be in attendance as well. Soliciting introductions to every stranger he found, he intently searching each face for magical blue eyes. He'd been disappointed, of course. Mr. Milligan was memorable. He was distinguished as the most important man in the room, and clearly arrogantly certain that he was well aware of the fact. He'd bestowed his introductions like a lord giving alms.
"Yes, Indeed," he said, marshalling all of his good breeding. "It was a pleasure to make his acquaintance."
"Ms. Harvelle had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Masters," Charlie explained. Ms. Master's brown hair was bound in an elaborate twist with a delicate feathered hat atop it, loose curls bobbed as she nodded politely in Dean's direction. "She taught Ms. Harvelle the most delightful new game, I cannot wait until I have time to show it you, and I think perhaps it would be simple enough for John to play as well." His eldest, a strapping lad, was proud to be six and determined to show that he could learn anything, up until the instant something more interesting distracted him and he went sprinting off in pursuit of greener grasses. "Remind me what it was called?"
"Flapdragon, Mrs. Winchester," Ms. Master's voice came as a surprise to him. There was nothing girlish or light about it, instead it had a husky maturity at odds with the youthful cut of her wardrobe.
Dean laughed. Charlie, catching the look on his face, exclaimed, "Oh, you know this game already, don't you!"
"I do, Mrs. Winchester," he winked at her. "I am a master at it."
"Ignore him!" Samuel's light voice chimed in over his shoulder. He looked to see his tall, fair brother stride into the room confidently. "I am the undefeated Flapdragon master of the high seas."
"Eight years, and you two have kept this amusement from me? Of all the…" Charlie stopped herself short, flushing in embarrassment as she realized how rudely she was behaving. "As I was saying, Ms. Harvelle met Ms. Margaret Masters, and today she and her particular friends, Mr. Inias and Ms. Anna Milligan, have come to call. Mr. Milligan is the youngest son of the gentleman we met last week, and Ms. Milligan is his only daughter. Dear visitors, do forgive me, and may I introduce you to my husband Mr. Dean Winchester, and his brother Samuel?"
Both girls rose and curtsied, and Inias left his vantage by the window to join the group and bow. Murmured "how dos" were exchanged by all.
"Mr. Milligan," Samuel chimed in as soon as the formalities were complete. Inias was staring, open mouthed, at Sam's put-together appearance and the ludicrously elaborate coif of his neckerchief. "If the ladies can spare you, perhaps you would care to accompany my brother and I? We have an appointment to visit Mr. Whittaker, who has promised me first crack at what he says is the prettiest studded fob he has ever laid eyes on." Inias' face lit up at the prospect, his hand unconsciously going to the gold watch chain gleaming at his side. "I remain skeptical. Do you think the ladies can spare you half an hour?" The boy turned expectantly towards his sister.
"I expect we will be staying at least that long," Ms. Anna had a light, soft voice that made her sound exceedingly gentle. It matched the kind turn to her eyes, and was shockingly incongruous compared with the aggressively overbearing behavior her father had displayed. Dean reflected on it a moment longer and supposed perhaps he had it backwards, that her father's dominance was precisely why she was decorous to the point of timidity.
"Well, then, let's just be off, shall we?" Samuel said happily. In a whisper that was easily audible across the room, he covertly added, "Mr. Whittaker has threatened to sell it to Mr. Sandover if I do not arrive punctually at 11:30."
"No," gasped Inias with overblown distress. "Not Mr. Sandover! He still wears wool stockings! It would be a scandal. Mr. Winchester. We must rescue that fob from a fate worse than death!" Everyone shared in a laugh at the elderly Mr. Sandover's expense. Dean passed by his wife and they traded an affectionate clasping of hands before Dean followed the younger men out of the house.
Considering Inias' clothing, parentage, and attitude had suggested, he proved to be a surprisingly pleasant companion for the short walk to the store. At least, Dean supposed he must be satisfactory, for he and Sam were so enthusiastically bonding over male fashion that Dean dared not intrude. Sam gave Inias a thorough rundown of the outfit commissioned for Samuel's May nuptials. Without each minute detail, Inias could not possibly assess the watch fob correctly, for the fob was part of the ensemble and must be perfect, in synch with all yet distinguished, restrained yet flamboyant, eye catching but not distracting, there was more such but Dean stopped listening. No blue eyes caught his as they walked along the street, and they arrived at Mr. Whittaker at a time that could pass as "fashionably late." Fortunately, despite their lateness Mr. Sandover had not stolen their prize. After a hushed discussion of the fineness and rarity of what they were about to see that drew rapturous "hear, hears!" and "let's sees!" from Sam and Inias, Mr. Whittaker was finally prevailed upon to reveal this pinnacle of the jewelers art. The piece proved to be as singularly unremarkable as every other fob he had ever observed. Dean wore his father's old fob, an anchor carved in the hard black stone, a gift presented to John Winchester by his former captain, Rufus Turner, upon John's promotion to Post Captain for gallantry on the Glorious First.
Mr. Whitaker passed Sam a looking glass, and his brother leaned so low above the fob that his nose nearly brushed the table, his long chestnut hair sweeping over his ears. Inias gushed eloguently about the fob, "The opal comes all the way New South Wales," and "purest white gold," and "perhaps a little too…something…you know, that ineffable something…for one of your stature," and "it will perfectly compliment the shimmer of the silk as you've described it" and on and on.
"I'm afraid it won't do," interrupted Samuel with a sigh, passing back the magnifier. Dean repressed a groan. If this fob was not "the one," there was no knowing how many more such meetings Dean might be dragged to. Sure enough, the jeweler accepted the refusal with stunning good grace and whisked the offending decoration away, and the remainder of their time was spent in a demonstration of Sam's good taste, Inias' lack there off, and Dean's complete disinterest. One piece did catch his eye, a pendant mounted on a thin chain. The stone was round and simply mounted, the clearest, most stunning blue Dean had beheld outside of Castiel's perfect gaze. When the light caught the stone, a crisscross of lines glittered white, light somehow manifest and reflected cleanly from the blue depths. The stone mesmerized him and he clamped down inappropriate thoughts as he felt distantly as if he peered into the real thing.
"Star Sapphire," murmured Mr. Whittaker's unctuous voice at his shoulder. "Very rare, from India. You have excellent taste, Mr. Winchester. Would you like to take a closer look?" He shook his head wordlessly and tore himself away.
They left without a fob, strolling home, and Inias and Sam were clearly fast friends. It could be worse, Dean supposed. Inias was well connected, the son of one of the most influential men of the ton, and for such an insensible peacock he displayed a surprising quantity of good nature and wits. Sam had befriended many a sillier person, and many who were far less appropriate as acquaintances. In the time his younger brother had pursued Ms. Ruby Cassidy, Dean had grown frankly alarmed at the proclivities of those who passed through his home at all hours. Time and Ms. Moore had changed all that, and Sam was no longer in danger of descending into a selfish life lived for naught but the pleasure of the moment. Watching Inias and Sam converse easily, Dean felt a long nursed concern finally lift from his shoulders, and he smiled contentedly.
A flicker of blue caught Dean's eye, and he followed it to the clear gaze of a waif selling flowers. Though she was obviously not his angel, as she stood shivering in the cold she seemed an angel nonetheless, thin and worn and undeserving of the fate that life had dealt her. He stopped. "How much for the entire basket?" She blinked at him as if he'd spoken a foreign language. "Miss?"
"A bob and 6 pence, sir," she stammered. The dazzlingly white daisies were bedraggled, and Dean wondered how she'd gathered so many amidst the chill of winter. He fished in his pocket, removed two shillings and passed them to her, sweeping the basket off her arm.
"If you don't mind waiting a few minutes, I'll return the basket and give you another shilling," he promised.
"Yessir!"
Sam and Inias stopped, looking back at him, Inias frankly incredulous, Sam indulgent. "What?" he answered their looks gruffly. "The ladies will appreciate the flowers." He brushed between the two men, and turned, walking backwards and holding a finger up in Inias' face. "Always make the ladies happy, Mr. Milligan."
They arrived at the house to find the visiting ladies donning their outer wear, jugging gloves and parasols. Dean liberally bestowed flowers amongst them, earning a bemusedly quirked eyebrow from Ms. Masters and a modest blush from Ms. Milligan. Goodbyes were made all around. Dean overheard Ms. Harvelle and Ms. Masters planning on a further meeting even as Ms. Harvelle's hands worked busily braiding together daisy stems. Sam and Inias were covertly exchanging calling cards, a daisy having somehow found its way into Inias' pocket. Mrs. Winchester gave Dean an affectionate look, her gentle hands threading a daisy through each button hole of his jacket. The foyer was flooded with a great deal of laughter and breathless goodwill, culminating when Ms. Harvelle bestowed a crown of flowers atop Charlie's head. Sadness only took over when goodbyes were made – there were other calls to be made, it had been a pleasure, wouldn't they stop by again sometime? Soon, the ladies promise over their shoulders as they leave, very soon!
The door closed behind them, Sam seeing them off and bearing the basket to return to the waif. Ms. Harvelle grabbed the last few daisies and manhandles them into the neckline of Mrs. Winchester's dress as both women giggle. Dean rolled his eyes. "What pleasant young women!" Charlie said, swatting Ms. Harvelle away. "Enough, Jo! Enough!" Ms. Harvelle backed away, nothing shy about the smile on her face. "They're surprisingly modest, given their parentage and connections. How was the Milligan boy?"
"Naïve and frivolous," shrugged Dean. "Self-indulgent and vain. A little condescending. Really, not bad for the sort."
"Well, I'm tired of tea," Ms. Harvelle announced in her brusque, blunt way. "What say we to
lunch, and season it with wine?"
The door burst open and Samuel returned, looking distinctly proud of himself for no obvious reason. "Lunch?" he asked as if he'd overheard. He hadn't, he was merely hungry all the time and capable of eating Dean out of manor and comfort given the opportunity.
Passing Sam a daisy, which he promptly tucked behind is ear, Charlie led the way to the dining room. "By the way, Dean? Sam? If you know any eligible young men, Ms. Masters and Ms. Milligan have both 'come out' this season, and are distressed by the some of the attention they have received. Having some nicer boys around them would improve their view of the species and protect them from unwanted advances."
"You wish to improve women's view of the male species?" Sam said incredulously.
"I like men very well, Samuel," Charlie said tartly. "They are extremely useful in many respects." She paused, a smile tugging at her lips. "I simply have no desire to bed them." She burst into a laugh, Ms. Harvelle snorted her agreement. Samuel contrived to look aghast that such scandalous words would ever leave Mrs. Winchester's lips.
"She's got you there, Sam," Dean clapped his brother on the back, grinning.
"John Henry Winchester, if you push your sister one more time you will have no dessert for a week," bellowed Ellen's strident voice, her Liverpool accent obscuring the words. "What'd I just tell you, boy?"
Completely ignoring her, John barreled through the doorway and leapt at his father. Dean happily caught the child in an embrace and spun him around, letting his legs fly outward. John laughed with childish delight. "Faster, faster!" he pled, and Dean obliged, going about so rapidly he began to grow dizzy. John wiggled and wriggled in his arms, finally slipping free and dropping to the floor with a content sigh. Dean tottered, world teetering around him. Chuckling, Sam put an arm on Dean's shoulder to help him stay up right.
"Dean, what have I told you, boy?" Ellen intentionally echoed her prior words, giving Dean a sharp look. She was holding Diana in her arms. The small child's face was scrunched with distress, her chubby hands lifted to her eyes, but there was not a single actual tear evident. As if reading that Dean suspected her falsehood, Diana wailed and buried her face in Ellen's shoulder. "There, there." The wailing crescendoed.
"If John retches, I have to clean it up," he recited her repeated admonition.
"And that's the truth," she vowed. The tantrum subsided the instant Ellen wasn't looking and resumed the moment attention returned. Ah yes, the poor little darlings.
With an air of innocence, John ran to his mother and clutched at her skirts. "It's alright, darling. I've got something for you," Charlotte said, and dropping the crown of daisies atop John's head. It instantly slipped down and became a necklace.
"I made that for you," huffed Ms. Harvelle.
"Dean, I've been thinking about hat pins," Sam said as if bestowing a great gift upon him.
"It's okay, sweetie," cooed Ellen, teasing at Diana's cheeks until the skin pinked and a sweet, tentative smile came to the girl lips as she forgot what she was so unhappy about.
"Come on, everyone, lunch won't serve itself," Ms. Moseley called from the kitchen.
Letting it all wash over him, Dean smiled and went to the kitchen, grabbing a steaming pie as his share of settling out their lunch. That done, he took his place at the head of the table. John promptly climbed into his lab. Sam sat beside him and talked animatedly about the relative merits of onyx and tiger's eye. Ms. Harvelle and Charlie bickered playfully about the hidden meanings of gifted daisy crowns. Ellen settled at the far end with the toddler, she and Ms. Moseley discussing the best use for slightly spoiled apples. Dean's family, at one table, enjoying a meal. Everything he wanted from life, all the people he cared for, happy, healthy, and together. It was perfect – or at least, it was almost perfect. His mind conjured a phantom in the only empty seat, a lean young man with tousled black hair and stunning blue eyes and full lips smiling at him, gaze as full of adoration as the look Charlie and Ms. Harvelle were now leveling each other.
He sighed, took the butter knife from his son's clumsy hand, and began his meal.
The closer it grew to Thursday, the –- of February, the slower the time passed. The Wednesday evening before was the most unending yet. He couldn't have said what was so dreadful about it, because in truth he hadn't the least attention to spare nor the slightest ability to concentrate on a word that was said to him. By the time they left, Charlie was convinced he was ill, though in her sly words he detected a hint that she suspected the truth. She knew as well as he what the next evening was.
Dean woke that morning to the certainty that arms embraced him, a warm body pressed against his, and blue filled his vision. His first thought upon seeing sunlight and a pale sky was confusion, wondering where his companion had departed to. Reality set in harshly. Sadness and profound loneliness crushed down on him in a way that was unfamiliar and unwelcome. Ruthlessly, he quashed the feelings. They were unworthy of him. He was not unhappy, for the most part. He loved his family, and they loved him.
I'll love you tonight, Asmodeus.
Castiel's voice whispered through his thoughts and he groaned, cock beginning to harden between his legs. He shook his head with a silent admonishment. Not today. He would not touch himself in solitude and risk dulling the acute pleasures to come. As the dream faded into nothing, the anticipation that had kept him up much of the night curled in his gut and settled tensely. His throat felt oddly constricted, and the thought of eating was nauseating. How many hours til he saw his angel again?
He'd known the day would be torture, and had planned ahead accordingly. The only horse he'd been able to afford to bring from the country was his black hunter, Impala. She was boarded at a stable nearby, and when he arrived she was already curried and saddled, ready for him to take her on a short excursion to the country. It proved pleasant to feel the wind in his hair, to escape the sights and smells of the city, but it did little to sooth him. The landscape around London was nothing like the rugged beauty of Lawrence, his manor in -shire amongst the hills and dales of northern England. Some part of him wished he were home, no matter how desperately he craved the evening. As long as he remained in London, as long as he attended Ms. Naomi's soirees, some part of him felt justified in hoping for the impossible. Once he returned home, such whims would return to their rightful place in dusty attics and cobwebbed corners, and he could return to his normal life.
Sighing, turning Impala back towards the city, he wished he truly thought it would be that easy.
By the time dusk fell, he was incapable of sitting still and had been in a state of partial arousal for hours. As early as he dared, he made his way to Ms. Naomi's, having finally resolved that he'd prefer to wait around in her sitting room making awkward small talk with masked strangers while he awaited his angel than spend one minute longer stalking about his own home, snapping at anyone who looked at him.
Ms. Naomi's impressive townhouse was on a narrow lane off - Road, at the fringe of polite society. A wealthy dowager, Ms. Naomi was something of an unknown to Dean, for he had never met her. Ostensibly, these Thursday night meetings were intended as Salons in the French style, a place for men of letters and learning and power to meet and engage in lively discussions that spawned the great ideas of the morrow. Upon Dean's arrival, a servant took his hat and gloves – and obligingly handed him the shepherd's crook he'd completely forgotten the prior month. A quick stroll through the public rooms established that Castiel was yet to arrive. Several of the men with whom he'd exchanged words the previous month gave him nods of recognition which he returned in kind, and other than that, he was left to his own devices.
In other words, he seethed in a state of abject tension, his thoughts an agony of anticipation and need, his cock as stiff as a board, and probably as suitable for driving in nails as a hammer.
Guests trickled in seeking their acquaintances. Some couples immediately retiring upstairs. The music had not yet begun, but refreshments were laid out, and unattached men gravitated towards the table to exchange small talk and sound out their options. There was a timelessness to Ms. Naomi's. Thick curtains blocked the view out every window, there was not a clock to be seen, and his costume had not allowed him to bring his pocket watch. Surely, it was growing late. Several men approached him, and Dean managed disinterested chitchat to pass the time. Most recognized rapidly that he was paying them no mind and drifted off again.
The door opened and Castiel, a vision of divinity in draped white and black wings, stepped into the room. An older man dressed in staid clothes with a mask made entirely of cloth pulled over his head flanked him. They paused in the doorway and exchanged words. It was impossible to guess what might have been said, but their body language spoke to a comfortable familiarity with each other, the kind of intimacy that rendered it acceptable for the older man to lay a hand on Castiel's shoulder and give it a squeeze before they parted ways. A stab of hot jealousy pierced through Dean, and he repressed it. The angel was not his, could never be his but for these nights. Who he was outside of here was none of Dean's concern.
The gentleman strode rapidly across the room, met another man wearing a suit as garish as anything Sam had considered for his wedding, and the two exchanged a warm greeting before proceeding immediately upstairs. Meanwhile, Castiel stood in the doorway, looking around as if lost.
His eyes fell on Dean.
As Dean watched in wide-eyed wonder, Castiel's entire demeanor changed. His eyes lit up, his shoulders relaxed, and all signs of the young man submissive to the elder who accompanied him vanished. With confident, eager strides, Castiel came directly to him. Their eyes locked, and blue seared through him like fire and ice.
"Mr. Castiel," Dean inclined his head slightly, unwilling to break eye contact.
"Mr. Asmodeus," he said, returning the nod. God, the things that voice did to him! A faint shudder twitched through his body and set the cloth enwrapping him swaying.
Dean opened his mouth to reply, and could find no words as passion, pure and unadulterated, licked through him. He'd thought himself aroused before, but now his member throbbed painfully, straining against the buckram of his pants. A glimmer of concern lowered those perfect eyes.
"Are you feeling unwell again?" There was a hint of true anxiety and a more generous splash of raw amusement in Castiel's voice. Remembering all that ensued as a result of the last time Castiel asked him that question, Dean bit his lip hard to repress a moan, managing to choke it back into agitated breathing.
"Perhaps," Dean chuckled weakly. "Forgive me."
"Not at all," said Castiel brightly. He must have determined the cause of Dean's distress somehow, for he laid a hand lightly on Dean's and guided him once more towards the staircase. "A lie down was just the cure you required last time. Perhaps I will be as successful in doctoring what ails you this time, as well."
"Any aid that you can administer would be overwhelmingly appreciated," Dean said, following him in a daze.
They proceeded up the narrow staircase to the upstairs hallway, where they found many rooms vacant, including the familiar blue bedroom. Returning to their prior boudoir, the air was tense and silent but for the moans of other men. The moment the door was closed, Dean collapsed against it, fumbling with stupid fingers at the clasp of his cloak.
Seeing the muddle that Dean was making of the simple task, Castiel's hands closed over his, and though they moved confidently, Dean could feel them shaking slightly. Their skin brushed, and Dean whimpered.
"Are you truly ill?" Castiel asked with evident concern. The enveloping fabric fell away, and a breath of fresh air hit Dean's overheated body. He heaved a sigh of relief, his knees weakening as he slid further down the door. Those gorgeous eyes left his to stare with burgeoning lust at Dean's extremely prominent erection.
"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you for a month," Dean confessed.
The sound that Dean was growing accustomed to interpreting as Castiel licking his lips beneath his mask came. Castiel drew a deep breath, causing the fabric on him to shift and his wings to rise and fall.
"Me either," he admitted.
"I can't wait," said Dean. "I want to dance with you again, and to have a chance to speak, but to be perfectly blunt, if I do not feel you inside me in the next five minutes they will have to send me to Bedlam."
There was that sound again, the faint smack of lips, the click of moisture on dry skin! His mind embellished the noise by imagining Castiel's lips wrapped around Dean, sucking down on him hard and he moaned pitifully. Lust flooded Castiel's eyes. "We can't have that," Castiel's voice was seductive and low. "However, if you will permit me to conduct an examination of the problem, I believe we can find the cure." Trembling, Castiel took one of Dean's hands and laid it to his cloth-swathed crotch. Dean squeezed Castiel's bulge, heat burning through fabric, his actions feeling were deliciously filthy contrasted with the brilliant clean white of Castiel's clothing. Castiel's eyes slipped rapturously shut at the contact, and Dean palmed at the hard cock, drawing an almost pained moan from Castiel's throat.
They stood like that for a moment, and then they were on each other.
Their bodies were close, their masks rustling as they brushed. Dean's hands were on the gold belt securing Castiel's robes. Castiel's hands were on the buttons of Dean's breeks. The belt undone, Dean's placed his hands on Castiel's shoulders and pushed the fabric away, caressing the unblemished skin beneath. He caught the harness for the wings and tried to remove that as well, earning a snarl from Castiel. "Leave them," he said, his voice harsh and rough and good God no mere sound should make Dean feel like he's about to tumble into his release. "Get on the bed."
"Yes," gasped Dean. Castiel turned and hurried to the bedside table. Dean leapt onto the mattress, settling on his knees. He tugged his pants down and then bent forward until he rested on knees and elbows. He watched Castiel's every move hungrily as the winged angel opened a bottle of some kind of oil and poured in on to his hands. Castiel then looked to Dean, and froze, eyes wide, swollen cock twitching against his belly, as he stared with longing at Dean positioned and awaiting for him.
"You're unbelievable," breathed Castiel. "I want you so much."
"You've used two of your minutes, Mr. Castiel," Dean said desperately. "Three left 'til madness, I promise you."
Instantly, Castiel was behind him. There was no teasing, there was no warning, there was no delay. A hand settled on Dean's still-clad back and two fingers were shoved deeply into him. It was better, so much better, than he remembered, than anything he'd been able to do for himself.
His weigh collapsed forward, shifting his bottom into Castiel's hand, and he groaned in satisfaction.
"Don't worry, my precious demon," Castiel thrust in and out harshly, rapidly, smearing Dean with lubricant inside and out. Focusing on Castiel's voice was all that kept Dean from climaxing immediately. "I will always catch you before you fall."
"I know you will," Dean whimpered. Frantically, he freed his mouth from his mask and pressed his lips into his arm, holding back sobs of relief that finally, finally he was going to be filled again. A third finger roughly joined the other two. It hurt as it had not the first time. Though Dean had begged, he knew that wasn't what spurred Castiel to take such haste, he had seen in the angel's captivating eyes that his need and longing matched Dean's own. With such desperation driving them, there was no time to prepare, no patience to give taut muscles time to relax, there was only right now and how much they required physical contact with each other. Even the hurt felt good, because it meant he was being touched. He'd suffer anything if only Castiel would keep doing as he did. "God, that's...that's..." Clenching his legs, he raised his bottom, straining to drive Castiel deeper with each penetration even though it was impossible. Dean's thoughts screamed for a touch against that perfect spot deep within him, and Dean strove for contact, shifting himself forward and back, up and down, but Castiel compensated for each adjustment, denying him.
"Not until I say so," muttered Castiel distractedly. He audibly bit back a moan.
Glancing back, Dean took in sight of Castiel behind him. On his knees, Castiels gaze was locked on the motion of his own hand buried within Dean and his other hand stroked his oil-coated cock. Desire choked at Dean, and he moaned out, "What are you...?" Castiel's eyes met his, dark with need and pleasure, and though he couldn't see it, Dean was prepared to swear that the angel smiled at him.
"Saving you."
The fingers withdrew, and before he even registered the emptiness, Castiel lined himself up and thrust in to Dean in a single motion. Pain and pleasure coursed through him, eliciting a sound he would never have confessed to a soul was a scream. Then...nothing.
"Are you al—?"
"Move, Damn you!" hollowed Dean. Panting hoarsely, he rocked forward and slammed back, and they cried out in unison.
Hands clutched his clothed hips and squeezed, and Castiel held Dean still and began a punishing pace, grunting and groaning each time he pulled back and then sank back in. Dean was beyond words. Every few thrusts, Castiel hit that spot that threatened to shatter him irreparably, incomparable bliss melting his bones until he couldn't have met Castiel's thrusts even were he not being held immobile. Castiel's motion rocked him back and forth against the bed and he moaned continuously against his sleeve, saliva leaking out to soak the wool as his painful erection dripped and bobbed and ached to be touched.
"Asmodeus," growled Castiel. In his mind, he plead with Castiel to touch him, to never stop filling him, to keep moving, to go faster or slower or harder or softer, but there were no actual words, they tangled up with raw desire and couldn't make it past his lips. "As...mo...oh God this feels good. I need...I want..." Flesh met flesh as Castiel's legs slammed into Dean's buttocks and thighs, Castiel's cock burning within him and driving him higher than he'd ever been. His body felt afire, he was suffocating beneath his jacket and shirt, tears leaked from his eyes, light seared his head. He thought he might die it felt so glorious.
"Whatever it is, take it," the sentence emerged as if ripped from Dean, a howl whose words he couldn't put meaning to. "Take me, angel...I'm yours..."
Hands left Dean's hip, seized his shoulders and pulled him upright. Castiel growled and groaned and thrust up into his body. Every stroke hit Dean's most sensitive place, and it was too much, far too much pleasure for anybody to bear. "Ca..." he gasped. His vision blanked in blackness each time Castiel struck against him, showing him the room as one massive blur of blue. "Cas..." His climax rolled over him, released in a flood though he was yet untouched, and he collapsed limply back against Castiel. Crying out, Castiel barely caught Dean's weight.
There was a moment's hesitation, and then Castiel was thrusting into him again despite the awkward angle, chasing his satisfaction. Dean whimpered at the continued stimulation to his spent, weak body, feebly tried to help. Barely responsive muscles clenched, and Castiel groaned, wrapping his arms around Dean and shifting his dead weight to improve his angle. Dean clenched again. "That..." Castiel whispered as he thrust again. "Do that..." Dean mustered more strength and bore down hard. "Yes," groaned Castiel. The body supporting Dean tensed completely, arms crushing him, and Dean squeezed again. "God, yes..." Castiel's movements flagged as he spent himself inside Dean, one, two, three pivots of Castiel's hips, and then the angel went limp. Tangling together, they fall back against the bed, panting as if they'd run to Marathon.
"That was amazing, right?" Dean finally managed.
"Yes," agreed Castiel, still breathless. "Yes, that was amazing, Mr. Asmodeus."
"Good...good," mumbled Dean abstractly. "I thought so...I thought it was...just wanted to be sure that you..."
"You can be sure," Castiel nodded, his chin bumping Dean's shoulder each time. "I can honestly say that was the best experience my body has ever had. Ever, ever."
Dean chuckled, dissolving into a pained groan as an ache settled into his spent muscles. "Ever, ever," he echoed by way of agreement. Flopping over, Dean pushed Castiel off him and tackled the seemingly insurmountable task of removing his jacket and shirt.
"How often we are in concurrence is one of my favorite things about the time we spend together," Castiel mused, sitting up, shrugging off his wings, then turning to help Dean.
"What's your favorite?"
"You don't need to ask me that," Castiel emphasized the words by running his hand along the diamond of flesh now exposed on Dean's chest.
"No, I guess I don't," Dean smiled against his mask. They pealed Dean's clothing off, then settled back, unashamedly perusing each other's naked bodies. "You know what I wish?"
"No – what?" Castiel asked. Fingers dropped onto Dean's stomach and began tracing lazy swirls there.
"I would very much like to kiss you," he said wistfully. Castiel's head quirked to the side, a curious light in his eyes, and he nodded once decisively.
"Close your eyes," ordered Castiel. Obediently, Dean did so, though it meant blotting out his sight of beautiful blue. Fingers lifted Dean's mask aside,, exposing his mouth to the open air. "My eyes are closed, too," Castiel said, which explained why a moment later Dean felt stubble bump hard against his limps. He grunted, and Castiel laughed, and blindly they sought each other's lips, finding a nose, a cheek, the curve of a chin. Dean took the time to lightly kiss each, loving the feeling of coarse skin against his own. Finally, mouth found mouth and Dean moaned as Castiel's lips satisfied his every fantasy. They were plush and soft and malleable, giving at the slightly pressure from Dean. Warmth and comfort spread from the soft contact. Castiel seemed unsure what to do, and so Dean took the lead, teasing at Castiel's mouth with his tongue until the angel realized that Dean wished entry. Castiel tasted like honey and pepper and something Dean couldn't place but that was his new favorite flavor. As their tongues met, Castiel moaned lightly into Dean's mouth, and he breathed the sound in hungrily as Castiel drew away from him.
"Was that your first kiss?" breathed Dean tenderly.
"Yes," Castiel mumbled. Dean felt a surge of possessiveness. He grabbed the back of Castiel's heads and forced their lips together again, ravishing the angel's delicious mouth with his tongue, adoring as Castiel tentatively licked at Dean's lips and explored his mouth. They stayed joined until the need for air drove them apart, and both fell back against the bed, breathing hard. The weight of Castiel's head settled pleasantly on Dean's chest.
They each placed their masks back in place, and Dean opened his eyes to see a mass of black hair facing him from beneath the edges of Castiel's masks, rising and falling with Dean's breathing. Dean buried his hands among the tendrils and massaged Castiel's scalp, delighting in every appreciative sigh he coaxed from the other man. Imperceptibly, they gradually shifted until there was no distance left between their bodies. Castiel lay flush beside him, legs encircling Dean's, an arm around Dean's stomach, his head and shoulder's resting on Dean's chest. Dean encircled Castiel's shoulder and pressed him closer, and Castiel gave a happy sigh and snuggled closer still. The profound delight of being in physical contact with another person flowed through Dean, and he thought he could easily spend the rest of his life doing nothing but holding Castiel in his arms.
Shifting, Castiel turned to rest his chin on Dean's breast, looking up at him, the expression conveyed by his eyes adorably vulnerable and content. Castiel's eyes closed as a yawn stretched his jaw and exposed Castiel's chin beneath the painted mask. Dean got his first glimpse of pale skin shadowed with black and lips as pink and delicate as Dean had imagined. Reaching over, Castiel took Dean's hand, interlaced their fingers, and lifted them in the air over head. Their skin contrasted, Castiel's appearing light as cream against Dean's, which was sun tanned dark where his sleeves didn't protect him. Blue eyes studied their hands as Castiel turned them now this way, now that. Dean rolled his thumb over the back of Castiel's hand and smiled at the soft approving sound Castiel made at the back of his throat.
"What do you do?" asked Castiel drowsily.
"That's a little personal..." said Dean.
"Apologies – I meant, what are your hobbies, your pastimes?" Castiel corrected himself.
Dean hesitated before replying, but when he considered his answer, he knew there was nothing revealing in it. Hundreds of men in London for the Season could as easily answer identically. "I'm fond of riding," said Dean. "I like to hunt and shoot, and I keep a good stable. When I have access to appropriate locales, I am also partial to walking and fishing."
"Oh," said Castiel. Their hands dropped. The single word and simple gesture conveyed such a profound disappointment that Dean felt sick. "That is why your hands are so brown?" Dean managed mumbled agreement. The first thing that his angel learned about him as a man caused Castiel to think less of him. It hurt like a fist clenched 'round his heart.
Awkward silence fell.
"What about you?" Dean asked tentatively.
"The opposite, I suppose," Castiel sighed. "Indoor pursuits – art and reading primarily. I'm fond of poetry..." Castiel trailed off as if made as uncomfortable by their supposed difference as Dean was. However, Dean felt a surge of relief. This was a topic into which he could enter.
"Have you read The Prisoner of Chillion yet?" he asked. A prayer went up to whatever kind spirit led Dean to share in his brother's pursuits. Many a night at the Winchester home passed in Samuel entertaining the family with dramatic readings of his favorite works.
"No!" said Castiel with surprised enthusiasm. The pain in Dean's chest vanished, replaced with happy warmth. "I have not been able to acquire a copy."
"I will bring it for you next soiree," promised Dean. "You see, we are not so opposite after all!"
"I loved On First Looking into Chapman's Homer," Castiel enthused. "It was as if I stood myself and stared upon the 'realms of gold,' how Keats could capture so much in so few words...have you traveled, Mr. Asmodeus?"
"Yes," said Dean. The poem was one of his favorites, as well. "As Cortez has, I've stared at the Pacific, though I don't think I surmised much, wild or otherwise. I have seen walked on Delos and seen many of the other isles of the Mediterranean."
Lifting himself up on an elbow, Castiel met Dean's eyes. The blue was as bright as Dean had ever seen despite the dim lighting, wide with wonder and soft with interest and affection. No, Dean amended, that could not be, they were too unknown to each other for that. It was merely curiosity. "How is that...how did you...you must be...?" Castiel stammered, unable to alight on a question that did not tread dangerous ground.
For a moment the answer was on Dean's lips, how his father was a second son, how his mother died in childbirth, how John Winchester was leftenant on the new-built ship HMS Audacious at the time. How John convinced his patron and Captain, now Admiral, Turner to permit the boys on board, kept at John's own expense, how Captain Turner's illegitimate daughter, Missouri Moseley, had helped raise them, how Dean had circumnavigated the world three times before his 13th birthday. How the advent of war with France had forced Dean and Sam to return to land, but each peace brought them new adventures asea. How Dean fervently importuned his father to buy him a midshipman's commission, but John had denied the request without explanation. How they had been permanently beached when Dean was 19, Sam 15, to take up residence at Lawrence with their Uncle Henry Winchester II. How Dean had not left England's shores since from that day, how in '05 his uncle died of typhus, his father was killed at Trafalgar, how all the responsibilities of landed gentlemanhood, included a young and troublesome Samuel, descended onto Dean's unprepared shoulders at 21. How he'd struggled to understand his sexual desires even as everyone around him pressed for him to find a wife, how he was too young to wed yet too shackled by obligation not to. How he despaired until he met Charile how they were wed in '09. How he was happy with his life save for the absence of a beautiful, blue-eyed angel to sit in the vacant chair at his dining table. Tears pooled in his eyes and his hands shook as he clutched Castiel to him.
Neither spoke for a long time.
"I'm sorry," whispered Castiel. "I shouldn't have..."
"It's alright," Dean forgave him brusquely. He hesitated. "Were circumstances different...I would happily share my history with you if I could, Mr. Castiel. Perhaps I can instead divert you with tales of places I've been? My wife says I can bore the shell off a turtle."
Another extended pause. The warmth in Castiel's eyes diminished and he slumped back onto Dean's chest.
Dean groaned, realizing what he'd just said. "It's not what you think," he said softly. "I know I should not have ever mentioned it, but having done so, I hope you'll forgive me a brief explanation? She knows I am here. She knows that I want this, and not her or any of her gender. She approves, and has as little interest in physical pursuits with me as I do with her. There are women who are like we are...like I am, I mean, and I was fortunate to find one such to wed. Forgive me, I'm saying far too much, but..." He floundered for the appropriate way to conclude his inappropriate exploration of his personal life.
"I'm not married," Castiel said in a rush. "And it is we, for I am like you – I have no interest in the female form. And it is not too much to share, it is far too little, and I wish we could discuss all, but..." He shook his head, burying the chill ceramic of his mask against Dean's heart. "We both know the reasons we cannot, must not."
"Yes," sadness flooded Dean. How many hours did they have left together before they would leave safety and companionship for the cold, lonely chill of a London February? Sitting up, he wrapped his arms around Castiel, guiding the other man until the embraced closely, bare chest to bare chest, hands resting on firm back muscles, Castiel's buttocks settling comfortably into his lap. Abruptly, Dean separated them, only because he wished to see Castiel's angelic eyes once more. "Let me tell you about the Greek isles." Castiel's gaze blossomed with delight, and he nodded enthusiastically.
Dean would never have credited how little of the night they spent love making, and how much of it they spent talking. He'd not have traded their discussion for mere physical intimacy for all the wide world.
A/N: By the way, the full text of the Keats poem they quote is on Wikipedia, it's short if you want to read it: wiki/On_First_Looking_into_Chapman%27s_Homer
This chapter is set in February, 1817, the first was in January, 1817, right around Dean's birthday, in case anyone was wondering.