does cas praising dean count as a prompt?? just cas telling dean how gorgeous he is body and soul (dean cries lbr)

sunbeamdean:

It’s not fucking fair. Cas gets him when he can’t protest, when he can’t laugh it off or roll his eyes. Actually, Dean can’t do much of anything but moan, tucking his face harder against the sweat-damp crook of his elbow.

Cas doesn’t stop. “Do you have any idea,” he pants, snapping his hips and sending too-good sparks of heat skittering up Dean’s spine, through his veins, “how good you feel? Inside?”

“Cas,” Dean says. It comes out breathless, shaky, humiliating.

“Dean,” Cas says, warm and easy, agreeing with some unspoken question. He kisses the back of Dean’s neck, open-mouthed. That’s warm too, the faint scrape of teeth making Dean squirm and whimper. Cas is heavy above him, bearing him down into the mattress on his belly, the slow slide of his dick so solid and so close to enough that Dean’s shaking.

He wants. Wants Cas to fuck him harder, to stop talking like an idiot, to just shove him into the sheets and shut up.

“So, so good,” Cas breathes. He grips Dean’s thigh, tugs his legs farther apart, pulls out so far that Dean can feel every hot inch as he sinks back in. “You’re beautiful.”

Dean would laugh if he could. He digs his fingers into the mattress instead and tries like fuck not to beg.

Cas’ lips brush the top knob of Dean’s spine, the bunched-tight muscles of his shoulders. “I knew,” he murmurs, slowing until he’s nearly still, just rocking against the backs of Dean’s thighs. It’s torture, and Dean whines, tries to reach back for him and make him fucking move. Cas doesn’t let him; he tangles their fingers together, his palm to the back of Dean’s hand, and pushes him into the bed again.

“I knew,” he starts again, “before I saw you.”

He shifts, changes the angle, and Dean could sob as the head of his Cas’ dick drags against his prostate. He’s so hard it aches and he doesn’t have the leverage to do a damn thing about it. Cas’ voice is a rasp in his ear, rumbling down into the pit of Dean’s stomach with every word.

“I couldn’t mistake it. Even from afar, as we fought our way through the legions of Hell, I knew.” Cas strokes the meat of Dean’s thigh, thumb fitting into the hollow between his hip and his stomach. “I knew that once I did see you, I would be forever changed. The brightest soul in Hell, drenched in blood and shining through like a beacon. I thought my father had made you just for me.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dean manages. He arches back into the curve of Cas’ body.

A knot is clawing its way out of Dean’s chest and into his throat; he chokes on it, hiding his face again, but it’s too late. The sheets are getting wet and he’s not even crying attractively—they’re sobs, ugly and overwhelmed, and they start right up again every time Cas shushes him and slides back home inside him.

“I had—” Cas’ voice breaks. “I had the privilege of putting you back together. I was terrified, Dean, of—of getting it wrong, of marring all that beauty—”

“Hey.” Dean licks his lips, tasting salt. “You did good.”

“I did,” Cas says. Fuck, fuck, finally he’s rolling his hips faster, his fingers curling tight in the spaces between Dean’s, his forehead pressed to the span between Dean’s shoulder blades. “I did—Dean, you’re good, so good, I’ve never learned what to do with it. The way I feel when you look at me.”

Dean groans, throws his head back, and comes in a desperate, messy rut against the sheets, Cas’ body flush against his own and Cas’ words, ridiculous and gorgeous and indelible, ringing in his ears.