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Summary
“Concentrate on my fingers,” Castiel orders from somewhere closeby, maybe next to his ear, maybe over his lips. Wherever he is, Dean can’t tell, his own moans all he can hear. All the while, Castiel continues to smear some unidentifiable liquid—blood, lube, spit, Dean doesn’t know, doesn’t care—across his chest, over lifelines and scars, all in increasingly disjointed patterns. All of them render him immobile, his limbs seized on the verge of orgasm for minutes at a time, always right there, there.
Series
- Part 8 of Shameless