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“Jesus, Cas, I’m not– you want me to fuckin’ piss on you ?!”
Dean’s hands were dragging up his face, into his hair. Castiel watched their path.
“That’s exactly what I said,” Castiel affirmed. He lifted the corners of his mouth to make the expression that, he'd observed, placated humans.
Since Dean seemed to be the exception to at least half of the things Castiel had learned about humanity, it was not surprising when Dean huffed in frustration, then pivoted away to pace the short few feet between the slept-in bed and the wall. There was not much space. Eventually, Dean grew exasperated with how tight of a line he was pacing. He changed his path from the bedside table to the far wall, before stopping altogether and staring at Castiel with a deadpan.
“Tell me you’re fucking joking,” he implored. Castiel frowned.
“To my understanding, sexual unorthodoxy is common,” supplied Castiel, treading carefully. “You can just say no, Dean.”
You do not need to make such a show of it, Castiel didn’t add because Dean’s anger usually stemmed from inward desires for which he felt great shame. Dean’s shame was the cornerstone of their relationship. Castiel could see it at that moment, too, in the darts of his eyes around the floor. His pacing stopped.
With the same careful tone that Castiel had spoken, Dean rasped, “Why?”
Castiel, in spite of his want for it, had yet to truly seek its reason, so he did not yet have an answer ready. He stared at the floor to signal that he was thinking. Dean leaned against the wall, then, and crossed his arms.
Because I want to be marked by you were the words that wrapped around Castiel’s tongue, that burned his core as though God Himself sought to smite him slowly, penance for his desire for depravity. He curled his fingers back and touched them over the hem of his sleeve. “I do not have an explanation.”
“Bullshit,” Dean accused humorlessly.
Castiel inhaled. “Yes, Dean. Bullshit. You got me.”
“So–” Dean’s head tilted forward. “Why?”
“Since we first fornicated–”
Dean sniggered. Castiel shot him a look he hoped was baleful and continued.
“Since we first fornicated, Dean, you have… unlocked things.”
“So what, you got a piss thing and I fuckin’ unlocked it? What’d I do, piss too loud with the door open and it flipped a damn switch in your brain–”
“Enough,” Castiel ordered. It echoed around the room.
Dean quieted.
“I have told you that I am yours.”
“Yeah,” said Dean.
“So.” Castiel inhaled again, held, exhaled, mimicking the breath of the calm and composed, the zen. “I would like for you to mark me as such. With your urine.”
“Oh, fuck,” Dean wheezed. He glanced away, wide-eyed.
“What?”
“That’s weirder than I thought,” Dean answered. “Not– not mad, just– you’re serious about this?”
Castiel wished he did not have to repeat himself so many times. “Yes, Dean.”
“And if Sam–”
“He won’t,” Castiel interrupted. The blinds snapped down and shuttered closed. The door locked, all through efforts of Castiel’s mind alone. “He just left. The gas station is a one-and-a-half-mile walk.”
“You told him it was just down the street–”
“And it is,” Castiel said. “One and a half miles away. There are no turns.”
“Jesus,” Dean scoffed. “Princess better like his salad.”
For lack of reply on Castiel’s end, silence hung in the air as would a great stormcloud. Dean was stiff in all places. Castiel did not fail to notice.
“Fine,” Dean decided. “Sure. Why not?”
The abrupt agreement caught Castiel off guard, regardless of the arousal he had detected in Dean’s jeans, but it would’ve been unfortunate for Sam to arrive and see Castiel’s nude body coated in Dean’s urine, so he began to strip immediately.
“Shit, easy, tiger,” Dean huffed. He sounded winded as though he’d just sprinted to the pinnacle of several flights of stairs. Castiel did not cease with his haste, but he did hold Dean’s eyes; full of surprises, Dean rubbed the heel of his palm against the front of his jeans. Castiel, after hearing Dean’s struggle on too many mornings to count, could not imagine that it would be easy to urinate with an erection. “Fuck, look at you. Someone’s eager.”
It took five seconds until Castiel pieced together that the eagerness Dean was talking about was the stiff, readiness of his sex between his legs. “Yes.”
Dean took a few steps forward to where Castiel stood nude. He clasped his palm onto Castiel’s bare shoulder and guided him down to his knees like he was being readied for worship. He supposed, in a way, he was. It must have shown in something on his face, though, because Dean let out an awed chuckle. “Fuck, you’re really into this, aren’t you?”
The only thing that kept a rather sassy reply at bay was the knowledge that Dean’s rhetorical questions were, in one vein, a form of dirty talk, and in another, a backward way of ensuring consent. Castiel nodded slowly and said again, somewhat higher in pitch, “Yes.”
“Look at you,” Dean crooned, then shoved a hand through Castiel’s hair. The roughness, the sting, the ache, it all made something hot shoot through Castiel’s spine. He let his shoulders fall back in a roll that he hoped was smoother than it felt. He tilted his jaw up as Dean tipped it with his finger, making quick work of his zipper with his other hand. “Fuck, Cas, I can’t– go like this.”
The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitched. “Go?”
“You fucker–”
“Do you mean,” Castiel tasted the words on his tongue for a moment, “you cannot piss on me?”
“Jeeesus.” Dean’s hand rose like it intended to cover his face, but then it fished for the waistband of his jeans. He effectively pulled down both jeans and underwear in a move that was undoubtedly practiced, his carnal prowess whetted like a blade. Castiel salivated in a conditioned response at the sight of Dean’s sex. “Know this’s kinda pointless to ask, but you think I could cum on your face first?”
“That may take a long time with just your hand,” Castiel croaked. Drool gathered in his mouth.
“Wouldn’t go that far,” Dean retorted shakily. He stroked himself with a masterful hand, a twist in his wrist every few strokes that brought his thumb to point with his frenulum, which he plucked much like a harp string.. Castiel, with much struggle, tore himself from the sight to look up into Dean’s eyes; he had observed that this move, where he stuck his tongue out while looking up at Dean, was the most efficient method to get what he wanted. “Damn you.”
Castiel’s reply was a hum because Dean slid home on his tongue, into his mouth, inhibiting his speech. He dropped his jaw lower to take the full size of him. His lips stretched wide around the girth, but he only squinted in strain, keeping his eyes open to hold Dean’s.
“Look so damn pretty taking my dick, Cas,” Dean sighed. He always fell back onto his dirty talk and, though it titillated him, Castiel knew it was done in overwhelmed instinct. If this were one of his first times having his mouth on Dean, he might have hesitated or slowed down.
But he knew they had little time, so he hollowed his cheeks and bobbed his head with ease, only a minimal amount of strain at his trained throat as Dean’s sex bumped and slipped down.
Another effective strategy of his, used best to get Dean closer to his crest, Castiel noticed, not just by the pulse of Dean on his tongue, but by the ragged hitches in every gasp, the insistent, desperate clutches at Castiel’s hair. He thrust to meet Castiel’s movements each time that he took Dean to the hilt.
For relief, mostly, Castiel trailed his hand down to his cock, where he’d gotten to the point of leaking pre-ejaculate.
“Fuck, Cas–” Dean strained. His words sounded beaten out of his throat. There was nothing specific about them that painted them like a warning, but Castiel knew they were. He hummed again, something that he hopes sounded like encouragement, even if it was garbled entirely around the thick weight of Dean’s cock.
Only one second sooner than he began to ejaculate, Dean yanked Castiel back by the hair. Semen coated his face in bursting streaks and ropes, dripping down into his stubble as it hit his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Castiel forthwith toppled much closer to his orgasm than he intended. His breath grew sporadic, his hand moving quicker against his better judgment until he managed to still it as the last of Dean’s ejaculate dribbled onto his lips. He flicked his tongue out to lick it clean and wished he tasted more than its atomic makeup.
The velleity to taste heightened into a deep hunger that writhed around Castiel’s organs when Dean’s cock twitched even softening, then started to trickle against Castiel’s lips.
“Oh, fuck,” Dean whispered. His hand moved, presumably to grip around the base, but Castiel took it in his and laced their fingers to keep it in place. Dean’s leak strengthened into a stream that swayed his cock with its force, spattering against Castiel’s chin, hitting his chest with a loud hiss before gliding down in rivers to his thighs.
Dark hair grew wet and matted in its path. It pooled under Castiel’s knees, a pale golden color from dehydration; Castiel narrowly avoided reminding Dean at that moment to drink more water, thereby narrowly avoiding a mouthful he’d likely have choked on in his attempt to speak. He just let it hit him. It dripped from his face. He quickened the pace of his hand into something as urgent as the climbing swell of his orgasm.
“Gonna cum while I piss on you?” Dean sneered, likely due to the involuntarily grasping of Castiel’s free hand, overrun by a frantic, febrile need for his peak. His fingers intercepted Dean’s stream, the very same hand with which he had rose Dean from perdition. He groaned.
With Castiel’s hands both somewhat occupied, though, and with his climax looming like ozone prior to a lightning strike, the rage of God, he did not think to stop Dean’s hands when they grabbed his member. He redirected his urine right onto Castiel’s sex, unlocking a racket of wet squelches as he twisted his hand, using the same moves that Dean had taught him.
At the sight of it, Castiel shot off like a bullet from the Colt, enduring the shocking feeling of life drained out of him as it hit the motel floor and Dean’s shoes. He shook with it as he looked back up at Dean, whose eyes seemed to glow in the dimly lit room as his impressive stream lessened into droplets, adding to the expansive puddle of urine and semen that Castiel still knelt in.
All of the prayers Castiel knew, and yet all he managed was a gruff, “Dean.”
“Thas’it,” Dean soothed. His hand became a comforting thing in Castiel’s hair, though he hardly required the consolation, already in bliss.
The world was unusually dulled after that, with Dean pulling him up to his feet, regarding him with pride, then sending him off to shower because, apparently, he fucking reeked. Castiel had made him promise to actually clean the mess, and quickly, lest Sam return to find the expansive rivers of their relief.
It was when Castiel had just finished washing himself off and was rinsing in the shower when he detected Sam knocking on the door. Even the swears under Dean’s breath were audible to Castiel’s keen ears, as were the quick spritzes, then the pound of his shoes against the floor, then the door finally swinging open.
“Dude, the gas station–” Sam cut off. Castiel froze, a room away. “Dean, why is the shower running? And– why’s it reek like cologne?”