mazal_

This is my first SPN fanfic . . .

. . . and it IS guy-guy romance, so you HAVE been warned . . . 


Educational by Mazal HaMidbar

Fandom:  Supernatural

Genre: M/M

Pairing: Castiel/Dean

Rating: R

Category: First Times

Story: Addiction, love, pophumor, music, promises, seduction, sexual healing — what’s not to like?

Note: You may wish to look up the lyrics of the four songs mentioned . . . in order, “A Little Less Talk and a Lot More Action,” “We’ve Got Tonight,” “Addicted to Love,” and “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, and no money made. This is for entertainment only.

Word Count: 1,631

Another Saturday evening at home, another night of passing out drunk for Dean. Castiel’s favorite human claimed to have consumed his first beer at age 9 and apparently had never stopped imbibing in the ensuing three decades. Dean had once estimated his typical weekly intake “in the mid-50s,” or an average of eight doses per day — habituation to a toxicity rate twice that considered alarming for anybody. 

From the vantage point of Heaven, Castiel had had millennia to observe that alcohol was historically civilization’s imperfect antidote to emotional, physical and spiritual anguish . . . and Dean had been on intimate terms with those all his life; Castiel knew that he bore some responsibility for that damage but tried not to let that guilt deter him from one day becoming a guardian truly worthy of his charge.

Why even have such a profound bond with someone yet be unable to ease his pain? But Dean’s remedy would not manifest by simply laying on of hands for two seconds as when erasing a corporeal wound.  Recalling the title of a vintage television series , Castiel felt sure that there was more than one way that Dean could be touched by an angel. Not needing to sleep, Castiel always had sufficient time to listen to music and to watch TV shows, movies and videos . . .all kinds of videos, demonstrating all kinds of touching.

He entered Dean’s room and quietly shut the door behind him. Dean was slumped on the bed, four empty longnecks and a half-full fifth of whiskey on the nightstand, next to the computer. Castiel shook his head. No matter how many more eons he might have ahead of him, he would never comprehend the supposed efficacy of inebriation. The poisonous liquid might make Dean numb, but it had never made him happy.

Castiel gave himself precisely 30 seconds to admire the view: thick brown hair, amazing bone structure, a perfectly shaped nose and what was factually the most gorgeous mouth in Creation.

Then he sat down on the rumpled comforter, took Dean’s face between his palms and briefly touched his nose and forehead to Dean’s . . . delicately, angel-feather-light, just enough to arouse him.

“Dean. I want to report to you something quite interesting,” he began. “My viewing of online videos recently has been most educational. For example, I discovered that pornos are hardly limited to the Asian busty babes that you favor.”

Dean opened his eyes.

“In fact, I now know that the participants need not be busty. Nor must they be Asian. Nor even babes.”

Dean looked at him steadily, eyes gleaming, much as he himself had once gazed at Dean unblinkingly until finally being told, “Cas, not for nothing, but the last time someone stared at me like that, I got laid.”

It was clearly going to be Castiel’s responsibility to break the current stalemate in a non-ambiguous way.

He picked Dean up, got him vertical, pushed him against the door, kissed him hard, harder, then harder still, exerting even more pressure than he had done with demon-turned-ally Meg long ago. “I learned that from the pizza man,” he had explained to her, referring to his first-ever pornographic movie. It was only now he fully realized that the pizza man, if not truly in love with the babysitter in the film, was at least deeply in lust with her. He understood that feeling now with more than just his mind. Tonight, he didn’t want Meg, nor the actress portraying the babysitter, nor anyone else with a double-X chromosome.

“Dean. Do you remember the first words I eve r said to you, the first time I laid my hand on you, hard enough to leave a mark on your shoulder? They were these: ‘I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.’  “

No answer. 

“Now you are in another kind of hell no less perilous. And I could grip you tight again, but in a different way. Save you, again, but by an alternate means.”

Dean still said nothing. 

Castiel kissed him again, now much more slowly, much more gently, experimenting, exploring. Licked each ridge and each fold of both ears, nibbled softly at both earlobes. He kissed up and down both sides of Dean’s neck, then finally the front, with special attention to the Adam’s apple. Tossed off the flannel jacket, pulled off the T shirt, licked his nipples, felt them stiffen under his tongue.

Dean shuddered, sweated, breathed deeply, still silent, not resisting but not clearly responding.

Castiel hesitated. He needed to be sure of his course of action. Because he had been wrong so many times before, about so much, in so many ways.

“Dean. Tell me you don’t want this, and it won’t happen. Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll go away. Maybe even back upstairs, back to a multi-dimensional wavelength of celestial intent.”

“No,” Dean finally spoke up, breath ragged, voice even deeper than usual. “I mean, yes. I want. Hell, yeah, I want. I can’t tango with a wavelength. And what does celestial intent even mean?”

“So you wish me to remain incarnate?”

“You mean, keep your current meat suit on? Looking like a cross between Rock Hudson and Tab Hunter? Even if I weren’t as hella buzzed as I am tonight, no way am I gonna be turning that down.”

“Then this male vessel poses no concern to you?”

“Dude, no. Let’s just get this party started.”

Castiel slipped Dean’s belt off, unfastened the zipper, pushed the slacks down, peeled off the boxers.

“I want you to know that I have learned to appreciate the masculine form, including my own. It allows me any action that its former bearer was capable of. Erection, ejaculation, impregnation. . .”

“Well, no danger of that last one here, so let’s just call it another win.”

“And a benefit of my being . . . not terrestrial . . . is that I can do many things that the late James Novak, may he rest in Heaven, could never do . . .  that he surely would never do. Let me show you.”

“Yeah. Sure. Anything. Just shut up, would you?” Dean grabbed his laptop from the nightstand, punched in “A Little Less Talk and a Lot More Action” by Toby Keith, raised the volume, and put it on repeat. 

For his part, Castiel, keeping his earlier promise, seized Dean’s hip bones not quite hard enough to hurt and did exactly as Dean had asked.

Ten minutes later, Dean finally caught his breath. 

“Damn, Cas. Damn. I mean, damn! Where did you learn that? How could you do – that?”

“More educational viewing. Deep Throat is deservedly a classic of its genre. And I possess angel strength and angel stamina. You already know from that incident some time ago that I can comfortably stand for many hours in one spot without moving. I can remain on my knees this entire night. And I can do this for you again, and again, and again, as many times as you want, all night.”

“Are you trying to kill me, Cas? Are you trying to actually kill me?”

“No, of course not . . . but you’re speaking figuratively.”

“Um, yeah, especially as we both know that you literally could end me with a snap of your feathery fingertips if you ever really wanted to.” 

Dean reached for the laptop again, looping several repetitions of “We’ve Got Tonight” by Bob Seger. “I’m not sure that I can really take several hours of this, but, if not, I’ll die with a smile on my face.”

However, Dean was fully alive and grinning broadly as the sun was starting to come up.

Finally cooling them both down with some dozen slow, searching kisses, Castiel had them lie inches apart, on the bed. 

“My turn,” he said, taking out his phone and queueing up “Addicted to Love” by Robert Palmer and “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by Simon & Garfunkel.

“Dean. Please just listen to the music right now. Don’t talk. Not at all.”

“So, is this going to be the part where we exchange promise bracelets?”

“Dean. I just told you. Pay attention. You need to listen to the lyrics. Carefully. So, as someone else in this very room said only six hours ago, just shut up.” Castiel unclasped his belt buckle and swiftly ensured the needed silence throughout the time it took for the music to play. Dean obviously didn’t have his own level of flexibility but acquitted himself admirably, especially for a mortal.

“Dean. Hear me. I believe every word that both those songs say. This is not a one -night stand. I don’t want it to be. Here is what I do want. From now on, any time you have a craving – for escape, for excitement, or for just plain comfort – please don’t look to a glass bottle. Don’t. I want you to choose this, instead. I want you to choose me, instead. Choose. Of your own accord. Please choose this. Please choose me. Someday you will have to die a human death, but please don’t let it be earlier than it has to be because of the demon rum.”

“Well, Cas, I gotta tell you, that little heartfelt speech there is over-the-top melodramatic even for you. But I do understand what you’re saying. I do. I will try. I will. I really will,” Dean said, grabbing the last two beers from the six-pack container on the floor and handing one over. “Right after this nightcap.”

“It’s dawn. That means that it would have to be called a daycap.”

“Whatever. One last call for alcohol. And one more round of the other thing, too, if you wouldn’t mind.”

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