I'm in a weird mood, I blame it for the 101 Dalmatians reference and the two and a half men quote. Only one of them is ironically relevant...unless misha's next tweet involves shooting a Dalmatian.
Dean is not having the best of weeks.
He'd lost the notes on an important meeting, screwed up the order of his slides in another and totally failed to remember a lunch date with the senior partner from one of their biggest client companies.
He'd slept maybe ten hours all week and he was on a constant attempt to catch up with work he should have done, or work he needed to do. Lying in bed half heartedly listening to the whale noise machine Jo had bought him for Christmas he was prepared to kill for sleep.
He snakes a hand under the sheet and rubs loose fingers into the softness of his cock. A frustrated breath hisses through his teeth. He fingers the skin, rubs a thumb across the head, teases it out, long and firm in his palm. The other hand shifts and cups his balls, rubbing behind with two fingers.
It takes him an age to get hard, petting and massaging life into his dick in a way that counterproductively reminds him of the runt in 101 Dalmatians. But eventually he gets there, dredging up every memory he can, going back to when he had time for sex. He winds up with the visual of his first girlfriend and a random blond guy he picked up in a bar two years ago, figures it'll do, and starts to settle into a rhythm. He hasn't done this lying in bed for a long time, usually he just lets it off in the shower before work, and only if he wakes up hard anyway. It's kind of nice, lying in a warm, comfortable bed and working himself lazily through his hand, greased slightly with warm, silky lube and rolling the skin back and forth as he goes.
Or at least it would be if he could keep his fantasy on track.
But the actual images keep disappearing and leaving him with nothing but an audio track to work with and it's not the right sound anyway. It's just a narration of what he's doing, up and down, twist. Up and down, twist. Twist, down, slow-ly...little faster, slide your finger back...inside...there. Up and down, faster, twist...
After a while the instructions come a fraction of a second before he performs the action, so now he's bossing himself around subconsciously.
This says all kinds of shit about his work/personal life relationship.
He's kind of far gone by this point, pumping in earnest, one hand alternatively teasing his ass and reaching out to fist the bed sheets as he arches up, so it takes him a while to realise that the narrator isn't using his voice.
It's the doctor.
Dean falters a little, hand going loose and abandoning its rhythm.
Don't slow down! Halfway between a command and a whine. Keep going...oh...Oh, keep going...that's it... as he begins to move his hand again, slick with lube and so, so close that he can't think beyond tightening his grip and sprinting for the edge, palm making wet, thick sounds as he jacks himself off.
The rasping voice in his head becomes even more involved, abandoning its original, detached observations and letting out breathy, Oh God's as Dean twitches his hips up in a quick spasm, and comes into his own hand.
Collapsing back onto the mattress he gropes one handed for a tissue, wipes up the mess, tosses it into the waste basket and rolls over.
He manages seven hours of sleep that night.
And he doesn't dream, at all.
His appointment with the doctor is two days after he starts this. He jerks off both nights and sleeps heavily, almost coma like, for eight hours each time. Of course, both times the voice comes back, rough and intelligently authorative, whispering instructions and falling apart when he does in a rush of vocal bliss.
Dean's a little embarrassed to be seeing this guy again.
But at least he's not bone tired, and he'd also lost a pound and a half. Not much. But enough for him to have a little more confidence as he walks past the receptionist into Dr. Cas's office.
The other man takes brief stock of him over the rims of his glasses.
"You're sleeping better I take it?" is the first thing he says when Dean takes a seat. He feels the blush creep across his face, deepening with a burning intensity.
Cas barely looks at him, but nods to himself.
"Good. Sleep is the foundation of good health, can I assume you're finding genital stimulation effective in relaxing yourself?"
Dean's face blares with blood, hot and flushed as he tries to reign in his embarrassment.
"Yes." He says finally, eyes on the desk.
There's a long pause.
"I never fail to underestimate the shame people find in their own biology." The doctor says after a while. "It's a common, perfunctory release mechanism, and yet people still try and pretend that they are above it." He taps his pencil on a file folder. "There are magazines and websites of masturbatory material, it's an entire industry, and yet..." he lets the sentence trail off tellingly, making his point with his own silence and a wave of his hand. "On to the scale please." He finishes, and Dean does as asked.
The doctor is wrapping a tape measure around Dean's waist and saying 'of course, chafing is an issue, I'd advise a water based lubricant for daily sessions...' when Dean finally cracks.
"Are you trying to make me uncomfortable, or do you just have no boundaries, whatsoever?" He snaps, feeling the thin plastic tape being slipped across his shirt clad belly, slithering and gentle.
"Little of both." Cas says, somewhere near his shoulder, voice soft. The doctor's fingers follow the line of the tape, checking for kinks and twists, slipping underneath and pressing a little into the soft rise of flesh above his belt. Dean sucks in a breath and holds the muscles in his stomach stiff at the touch.
"Relax please." Cas says calmly, mouth close enough to Dean's ear to ghost air over the soft shell of it.
"Sorry." Dean mutters.
Cas takes measurements and notes the number on the scale, then lets Dean sidle back to his seat.
The doctor slides a sheet of paper over to him.
"What's this?" Dean asks before he even glances at it.
"Your meal plan for the next week, complex carbohydrates, lean protein and a variety of pulses, fruits and vegetables." The doctor says blithely.
"I told you I don't have time to cook all this stuff...I haven't been to a grocery store in..." he frowns. "A...long...time." he finishes lamely. He retrieves a bottle of water from his briefcase.
"And I told you to spank it like a monkey in a mango tree." Cas says as soon as Dean takes a sip of water from the bottle.
He manages to hold it in, but only just. The doctor watches with mild amusement as Dean struggles to swallow the water and not send it all over the surface of the desk. "More sleep means better organisational skills and more energy." He taps the meal plan. "Cook a freaking zucchini and get over yourself."
"Do you get a lot of repeat patients or..." Dean lets it hang, pointedly.
"I do alright, now get out. I'll see you next week." Cas says, already flipping Dean's file closed and sliding it away.
