Disclaimer: I have no claims to ownership on either Supernatural, or the characters portrayed here.

A/N: The person who was prompting me for these things was getting really frustrated about the lack of peen. So this one's for her.

Prompt: You stick it in me

How interesting, this slick friction of flesh against naked flesh, slipping and pressing and then, for brief moments that were both reprieve and torture, moving away. It seemed to him that he was never more aware of himself, his own physical matter and sentience than in those brief, precious pauses. Then he comes back to himself with a shattering gasp, and he reaches out desperately, wanting to place his hands over his human, his fingertips loosening from a death-like grip to dance frantically over the contours of muscle and bone stretching and flexing under skin that should be rough and weathered - and yet - and yet - it is comfortable as that dirty trenchcoat he wears all the time.

The moment is gone - he does not know when there will be another. He has just the fraction of a second to realise that he has forgotten to take a breath when he had the chance, before he is once more reduced to a quivering, arching wreck, his lips whispering for more as firm, questing lips pass over the most private part of this body that contains him, then demanding when it feels that he cannot endure it any longer, he must have it all, or he will collapse into oblivion and never return.

Then, because Dean has managed to work out somewhere in all the pleading and kisses and eyes shut tight, that Castiel sort of enjoys being tormented, he will stop - again.

And all Castiel can think, when he is not drowning, is that it is such a very good thing that angels don't really need to breathe.

End Note: And that's it, folks!