"Ugh, I thought that thing would never end," says Meg. Castiel holds the condo door open as she walks inside, and immediately pauses to remove her black stiletto shoes. She chunks them against the wall.
"Please, control yourself, we have neighbors," says Castiel.
But Meg's already walking into the living room, avoiding boxes in the dark. She struggles for a moment with her dress before sighing. "Unzip me?"
Castiel walks into the main room as Meg gathers her unruly curls and lifts her hair out of the way. He pulls the zipper down from the nape of her neck, all the way to the swell of her hips. The matching black bra and panties are striking against her pale skin.
"Thanks, Clarence," says Meg, dropping her hair and slipping out of the dress. She drapes it over the arm of the couch before dropping down and patting the cushions until she finds the remote.
"You know, I think Luci digs me," says Meg as the screen jumps to life, illuminating the dark condo. Investigation Discovery plays on the television, snagging Meg's attention.
"Everyone thinks Nick likes them, he's insidious," says Castiel, taking off his trench coat and hanging it near the front door. "He doesn't care about anyone but himself."
"For some reason, that just makes it hotter," says Meg.
"Spare me the fantasies about my brother," says Castiel.
"Don't be jealous, Clarence, I still love you the most," says Meg. "But your brothers definitely tickle my nethers, oh man, look at this idiot, thinks he can cover up a murder by tearing out the carpet in his trunk, hah, guilty much…"
"Goodnight, Meg," says Castiel, walking toward his bedroom, "It's another long day in the morning, and I'm exhausted."
A dismissive flipping of the wrist is all Meg spares, eyes glued to the screen.
Once in his room, Castiel removes his fine clothes until he's in a gray undershirt and pale blue and white striped boxers. He carefully hangs up his suit jacket, and pants, pausing to remove the familiar weight of his phone from the pockets.
He smiles warmly down at the message from before his speech. He'd felt pathetic, reaching out to an anonymous Internet friend before a stressful speech. It was a relief when Wayward was kind about it.
Thursday00: I appreciate the message earlier. It actually did help a little. I was still a nervous wreck, but maybe slightly less.
Wayward67: glad I could help man, I like to help people, everyone needs a hand sometimes
Thursday00: I'm hoping you still think I'm cooler than the dick pic guys.
Wayward67: don't get me wrong if u wanna send a dick pic that's cool
The response is almost immediate. Wayward is logged in. Castiel allows himself a moment to imagine the man was waiting for him to come online. A smile turns up one corner of his mouth.
Thursday00: But then I'm just as bad as the others
Wayward67: nah you get a pass, ur cool
Another instantaneous response. A bold idea forms. Castiel glances down at his boxers. He gives his already interested cock a squeeze. A photograph from Wayward's profile is open for additional inspiration, and Castiel drowns in the images of tan skin and toned muscles.
The idea of meeting someone from the Internet is daunting. But the idea of seeing more of Wayward is immensely appealing. It's such a small risk with not much to lose and so much potential.
Castiel strokes himself through his thin boxers until his erection is tenting strong. He switches on his phone's camera and takes a shot showing his hand grabbing his bulge, the top of his thighs, and a sliver of bare stomach.
Uploading. Sent.
Wayward67: u look good enough to eat
Thursday00: I am looking at your pictures while I touch myself.
Wayward67: u should pull those boxers down, get a better feel
Thursday00: Show me yours; I'll show you mine.
Wayward67: dude what a line
Thursday00: I apologize if that was too forward.
Is he pushing too hard? Castiel stands up and walks into the bathroom. He washes his face, brushes his teeth, and prepares for bed, ignoring his persistent erection.
Incoming attachment. The picture loads.
Castiel moans.
Faded jeans, unzipped and rucked down to mid-thigh. A hint of white lace from unseen panties. A fist wrapped around a thick cock. It's in black and white. Damn this man. Castiel wanted to see the flush of his skin; the deep coloring at the tip. A handsome cock on a toned body, even if he doesn't know the man's face.
Castiel sits down and slides his hand down the front of his boxers. This man he's never met turns him on more than anyone he's ever known. And it's been a long time since he felt even his own touch, let alone a partner's.
Time and privacy are sparse since moving to Savannah. Staring at the private photo brings all the built-up need boiling to the surface. A wet spot is already forming when he pauses to type.
Thursday00: Stroking my cock while looking at yours
Castiel keeps his strokes firm and slow, enlarging Wayward's picture. He could meet this man. It might be possible to meet this man tonight. He could drop to his knees, and take that hard dick straight to the back of his throat.
Wayward67: pics or it didn't happen
Not rejection. He's being teased. There's no reason to disappoint. Castiel leans back on the bed, imagining how Wayward's dick would feel in his mouth. It's been weeks since he's had any relief. His cock responds easily to his touch, teasing at first, twisting his wrist on the upstroke. He smears the first dribbles of precome into his skin. It's slicker when he tightens his fist, hand sliding easily.
Castiel fucks into his fist, eyes closing. The image lights up the back of his eyelids, already memorized. His lips fall open as he pictures himself mouthing Wayward's dick, tasting his skin, his come.
The first pulse signals the end. Hands are full. There's little choice but to aim up his own stomach, dripping and messy. He milks the last drips out over his fingers.
One-handed photography proves challenging, but Castiel manages. The photo shows his hand wrapped fastly around his spent cock, still hard though flagging. His fingers glistened, sticky with his own spunk. His stomach and the first powerful stripes are in the background, made blurry due to the shallow field of focus. Castiel leaves the pictures up on his phone as he stands up and walks into the bathroom to clean up.
Is it too much? Perhaps sending dick pictures through a dating app isn't the best way to make a deeper connection. And it's something deeper that Castiel wants. One night stands and paid company aren't difficult to find. Castiel's looking for something different—something he's never had before. A real partner, someone to share his bed and his days.
Still, Wayward asked for proof.
Castiel returns from the bathroom, cleaned from his earlier activities, and wearing clean boxer briefs. He stares at the phone a beat longer. Then, hits send on the photo.
"Clarence, cover your naughty bits," says Meg, before throwing open the door. Her eyes quickly scan the room and she sighs. "You're never doing anything interesting in here."
"What do you need?" asks Castiel, pulling back the comforter of his king sized bed, standing in clean boxer briefs. He doesn't feel underdressed since Meg is still in black bra and panties.
"You never told me if you need me to go to the company dinner tomorrow, so I'm asking now while I have your undivided attention," says Meg, smiling sweetly. "If you don't pick me out a dress, I might show up skyclad."
"Sky…" Castiel shakes his head, not bothering to decipher. "Wear the black Valentino dress, the one with the lace neckline and sleeves."
"Your wish is my command," says Meg, giving a short salute. "What are you up to? New episode's starting if you wanna watch some murder porn together before you crash?"
"No, thank you," says Castiel, settling into bed. "It's been a long day, and tomorrow promises to be worse. I'm going to sleep."
"You're the boss," says Meg, backing out of the door. "See you in the morning!"
Castiel waits until the bedroom door clicks behind Meg before checking his phone.
Wayward67: goddamn ur sexy
Thursday00: Thanks for the enjoyable evening. Makes up for the stressful day.
Wayward67: back atcha
City Hall. Dean admires the limestone block exterior. The building's facade is decorated with arches, columns, and stone railings. A clock face is centered at the top, crowned by a golden dome with Old Glory flying overhead. It's the epitome of an early nineteenth-century municipal building.
The best part, in Dean's opinion, is its rich history. Too bad City Hall was too far out of the way to be on the tour. The columns and architectural embellishments would look sinister under a full moon. There are definitely skeletons hidden somewhere in such an old, important building's history.
Dean walks inside and suffers through the metal detectors. A lazy guard runs a wand over his jeans, plaid shirt, and leather jacket. He passes inspection and follows wall signs until he finds the main offices for the City Council chambers. An elderly woman in a blue dress suit and silver bun smiles as he enters.
"May I help you?" asks the woman. The nameplate reads Janice.
"Good morning, Janice, I'm hoping you can help me today. I need to talk to City Council," says Dean.
"Do you have an appointment?" asks Janice.
"I do not, but it's very important," says Dean, putting on his most charming smile.
"You'll need an appointment," says Janice, a tiny frown on her lined face. "The Council members don't come into their offices every day, you know."
"Well, time is a factor, it's in regards to the construction projects in the historical district," says Dean.
"I can take a message?" asks Janice, one eyebrow raising.
"I need to talk to someone, immediately, or else it'll be too late once construction starts," says Dean, sighing. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and scowls. "The Council is making a mistake, the people don't want their landmarks torn down and remade. How are we supposed to have our voices heard if we can't even speak to the Council before demolition begins?"
"There is a Council meeting coming up soon," says Janice, smiling politely. "If you were to have a petition, with enough signatures, the issue will automatically be added to the meeting agenda. It doesn't guarantee that the Council will change their position, but it would open the discussion. You could attend the meeting, and have a say at that time."
"Really?" asks Dean, eyes lighting up. "That's…yeah, how do I do that?"
"I can get you some paperwork to assist you with getting your signatures, and show you how to file a complaint online, and your representative's direct email so you can be in touch…"
"Wow, I can't believe you're being so helpful about this, honestly," says Dean, chuckling to himself.
"City Council is all about listening to the constituents," says Janice. "And I'm a big fan of grassroots campaigns and civil disobedience. I got into local politics back in the seventies."
"I had you pegged for a flower child," says Dean, winking at Janice.
Half an hour later, Dean walks out with a borrowed clipboard, and several copies of a petition to block the demolition of historical markers in Savannah as proposed by Angel Construction. Dean stares up and down the sidewalk in front of City Hall, looking for his first mark.
An elderly couple nods along with his spiel about stopping Angel Construction, and signs. Dean wonders if they understood at all, but still, two signatures. Several college-aged students signed enthusiastically. Likely just trying to be activists rather than really caring about the cause.
More than a few people rushed by, refusing eye contact, but after an hour, Dean is standing on the corner of City Hall with one full page of signatures. It's nowhere near the required five hundred, but it's a start.
Dean looks up from the list and prepares to turn his charm on a man approaching in a black overcoat and dark shades.
"Ah, Mr. Winchester, fancy meeting you here," says the man in a familiar accent. He removes his shades and a thin-lipped smile peeks out from his beard.
"Crowley."
"I don't suppose you came all the way down to City Hall for another tax discussion?" asks Crowley.
"I came here because I'm looking for a solution to your unrealistic taxes," says Dean, gripping the clipboard tighter.
"I apologize, I didn't realize this was your corner," says Crowley, making an obvious show of glancing up and down the street. "I'd try back again at five, that's when all the sad city workers are clocking out."
Dean levels a dark glare.
"Oh, I bet you drive all the johns crazy with that pout," says Crowley.
Dean ignores Crowley, making eye contact with a woman walking past. "Excuse me, ma'am, can I interest you in signing a petition to stop the decimation of our historical landmarks?"
The woman keeps walking, but another man in a suit hears Dean's plea and pauses to add his signature to the list, before wandering off.
Dean frowns when he notices Crowley reading over his shoulder. "Saving the Marshall House won't help your property value, you know?"
"No," says Dean, "but it could ruin Angel Construction's Savannah branch, and if tearing apart my town hurts their bottom line, you can bet those bottom feeders will move on and leave our city alone."
"Aren't you a devious little citizen," says Crowley, holding out his hand. "I think I'd like to add my signature."
Dean hesitates, then shrugs. A signature is a signature.
"It's short-sighted though, you know," says Crowley, accepting the pen and clipboard. "Angel Construction is one of those companies that care about their image. They try to look like they care about the people. They pretend to listen. And if you chase them away, the next real estate company to move in might not. And they'll gut this town without a second glance." Crowley finishes his signature with a flourish and smiles as he hands the clipboard back.
"It ain't in my nature to go down without a fight," says Dean, frowning. "I'll worry about whatever comes after Angel Construction once they're packing their bags and leaving—for good."
"Well," says Crowley, dropping his shades back down over his eyes and shoving his hands down into his pockets. "My lunch break is over. Good luck on your quest, Mr. Winchester. Toodles."
Dean glares at the back of Crowley's head as he walks toward City Hall. He glances down at the signature, Crowley's making it an even one hundred. Though Dean reads the signature and groans.
For a Good Time call: Crowley (912) 666-6669
Dean's still frowning when his pocket begins to vibrate, and Ghostbusters by Ray Parker, Jr. Begins to play. It takes a few moments for the pieces to fall together.
"Dammit, Sam," says Dean, pulling out his phone and staring a the unfamiliar number. He frowns as he holds up the phone. "This is Dean."
"Hello, I'm calling on behalf of Castiel Novak, regarding an appointment for a tour of your facility this weekend," says a nasal, female voice over the line.
"No, I invited him to go on a ghost tour, not to tour my facility, I don't even have a facility, I don't.."
"I was instructed to call and get a date and time for an appointment, I apologize, I wasn't given the details of the meeting."
"Yeah, fine, whatever, uh, how about this Friday, eight pm…"
"Hot date?" asks Dean, walking into the shared bathroom.
"Oh, no, just doing some studying at the library," says Sam, standing in front of the sink, looking in the mirror.
"You've never once gone to the library to study on your own, and you definitely don't worry about your hair when you do," says Dean, meeting Sam's eye in the mirror. "It looks great, by the way."
"Really?" asks Sam, combing his fingers through his hair again. "Thanks."
"You gonna tell me her name now, or later?"
"It's Jess, the girl from the presentation the other day," says Sam, tearing his eyes away from the mirror to meet Dean's. "We have a class together, and she asked me to study. Right now it's about fifty-fifty, could be a date, could be really studying."
"Hm, is it a class that actually requires studying?" asks Dean.
"We have a test on Monday," says Sam, mouth twisting into a worried scowl.
"Eh, she was checkin' you out at that Angel thing, I'd say it's more like sixty-forty, leaning toward date."
"We'll see, I guess," says Sam, taking in a deep breath before exhaling slowly at himself in the mirror. "Gotta go, can't be late."
"Bring protection," shouts Dean over his shoulder as Sam pauses for his books before stomping downstairs.
An evening to himself. Dean quietly weighs his options. Beers at the Roadhouse. Porn and jerking it at home. It's the thought of porn that has Dean diving for his phone.
Wayward67,
I have avoided opening the app too much today because I go straight to your pictures. I must confess, I have been thinking about you more and more, to the point of distraction. I want to know more about you, who you are, what you do, and whether this intense attraction I feel translates into real chemistry.
Wishing you a pleasant day,
Thursday00
Dean's heart hammers away at his ribs as he reads the email. A meeting is back on the table—he can hardly believe it. This sexy man he's been sexting wants to meet up. Finally.
Balancing his outdated iPhone against a pillow on the couch, Dean fusses with the settings, the timer, the filter. Why does taking nudes have to be so damn complicated? When he can finally frame himself from neck to thighs he gives a satisfied hum and rips off his clothes until he's down to just his panties. Sky blue satin, form-fitting around his package.
The anticipation alone coaxes his dick, and a few long strokes brings him to full mast. He watches himself on his own phone screen as he touches himself.
Does it make him vain that he's getting hard watching himself?
Probably.
Dean pulls the crotch of his panties out of the way, freeing his cock and balls. He leans down to turn on the timer. Three seconds. Dean strands back up and notices he's no longer centered. By the time he is, the picture is already taken. He tries again. And again. And once more for good measure.
Reviewing the pictures, Dean quickly deletes all the blurry motion shots and one where his face is clearly visible. The last one he likes.
The angle from the couch up is flattering, making his thighs and dick appear in the foreground, but his stomach and chest are also visible, all the way up to the very bottom of his scruffy chin.
Dean has to admit—it's a hot picture. He's grinning devilishly as he sends it over to Thursday, along with a message.
Wayward67: what would u do to me
The apartment is empty. Dean brings the laptop into his bedroom and shuts the door, anyways. Never hurts to be cautious. He opens up the incognito browser and starts to type in his favorite porn address before he pauses. Dean opens up a search instead.
Sexy Men Tramp Stamps.
Dean frowns at the results. It would take some time to sort through the tattoo regrets and tired demotivational posters to find anything remotely sexy enough to entice him. A ringing alert from the phone derails that thought.
Thursday00: I want to rip those panties off of you, feel the satin fabric give in my hands, then grip those thighs, and kiss my way down your tight stomach. Want to see your cock leaking just for me.
Wayward67: damn
Thursday00: Does it turn you on to know that I think about sucking your cock while I'm at work? That I'm thinking about how far I could take you in my throat this very moment.
Shit, this guy has a dirty imagination and Dean can't come up with more than single word answers. There's never an issue when speaking to people in person, but Dean's texting skills are severely lacking. Dean strokes himself slowly in order to last longer. He's dying to know how far this guy is willing to go.
Wayward67: turns me on alot
Thursday00: I would grab your ass with both hands while sucking your cock. Do you like having your ass played with? Because I fantasize about licking you open and fingering you while you come down my throat.
Wayward67: fck
Thursday00: would you let me eat you out?
Dean's movements accelerate. Of course, he would let a sexy guy eat out his ass, it's only been his number one fantasy for years. No girl had ever offered, and the few men he had been with were strictly hands and a couple of blowjobs. This man sounds like a dream come true.
Wayward67: hell yeah let me sit on ur face
Okay, that was dirty. Dean feels slightly embarrassed, but he shuts his eyes, tilts his head back, and strips his cock. Lust quickly chases away any shame.
Thursday00: Can I get you to come for me?
Wayward67: close
Thursday00: I want you to come thinking about my tongue in your hole while you're grinding on my face.
He read the sentence once—then again, and that's all it takes. Dean grunts as he comes hard into his own fist. His climax is over too quickly, and already his brain sends regrets. Regrets that he wants this man, but can't have him. Regrets because he wishes he could share such a euphoric moment with the person that inspired it.
It's another hassle, positioning his phone and holding still while trying to keep his stomach tight. He settles on a picture of his spent cock laying chubby on his thigh, and a pool of come in his naval with additional strands dripping lower. Slick white against sweaty, freckled skin.
Uploading. Sent.
Wayward67: would much rather have aimed that load at ur tattoo I want to use that thing as a bullseye
Thursday00: I want you more than I've wanted anything in a long while.
Wayward67: we should meet
Thursday00: Date and Time.
When to meet, when to meet. Dean concentrates on the dilemma as he cleans up his mess. The come and sweat made the satin panties a death trap that had to be carefully untangled.
A day date could be good because it's easy to beg out if the chemistry isn't there. But if it is there, it's less likely they'll end up rushing home to roll in the sheets at noon on a Sunday.
An evening date is much more indicative of romance, but Dean has full tours both days of the weekend, and can't get out until after ten. Any date after ten falls squarely into the 'possibly just a booty call' category. Is that what he wants from Thursday?
Wayward67: Saturday night ten o'clock moon river
Thursday00: See you there.
A/N: Updates will continue on Mondays and Thursdays. Next Thursday: Before Wayward and Thursday can meet, Castiel has his ghost tour :)