NC-17, Shut Up ‘verse, Christmas Fluff, Advent Ficlet Collection

11. Sitting/snuggling by the fireplace

[AO3]

Though he doesn’t mean to— has a to-do list a mile long that gets longer every time he notices a new crack in the plaster or a dead lightbulb stranded at the top of some ornate chandelier or another— Dean spends the majority of Sunday in the drafty east hall, trying get a fire going in the six-foot grate.

“You miserable cocksucking sonofabitch,” he yells up the chimney as he yanks on the damper, and gets a faceful of flaking creosote for his troubles. The inspector had cleared all the fireplaces in the house as aged but unlikely to suffocate them or catch fire, which Dean should have realized didn’t guarantee the mechanics actually worked worth a damn. He’s brushed everything out, used enough high-heat lubricant to slick a football field, and the fucking flue still acts like it’s welded in place. “I’ll brick you up and let Cas start with the sticks again, would that make you happy?”

“Very happy,” Castiel says from behind him, sitting cross-legged on a couch cushion stolen from the den. He’d appeared sometime in the second hour of Dean’s battle with the fireplace and just stayed, the way Nabokov or Rosie would if you sat in one place long enough— like it would be a pleasant surprise if you noticed and pet them, but they were certainly not there to seek it out. Of course not.

“You hear that, you useless piece of shit? It would make him very happy,” Dean says savagely, and pulls at the damper handle with his entire weight behind it.

The handle drops slightly, then slowly grinds down with a piercing shriek of metal on metal. Dean plants a foot on the blackened back wall of the fireplace and leans into it until he can feel the breeze of their nice warm inside air being pulled out the chimney and into the wintry evening.

“Ha! Cas, it’s working!”

“Mm.” Castiel is also working, using Dean’s laptop to balance the company checkbooks or whatever. “Are you finished?”

Dean swings the handle back a forth a few more times, getting the lever nice and loose. “Come on, let me celebrate a little here.”

“Celebrate all you like,” Castiel says, typing. “When you’re satisfied, I need something.”

“Fire?” Dean asks hopefully. He’d brought in seven or eight split logs last night and picked up Duraflame starters at the grocery store for just this occasion, and he’s never been more in the mood to watch something burn.

Castiel looks up. “Does that mean you’re done?”

“Ugh, fine, I’m done,” Dean says, crawling out of the fireplace on his hands and knees. Castiel sets the laptop on the floor and pushes himself to his feet. He waits until Dean’s on his feet too, until he’s pulled off his gloves and dropped the disposable face mask on top of them, before he steps into Dean’s space.

“Cas?” Dean asks, and then Castiel grabs him with both hands and drags him into a full-body kiss, fingers in his hair, mouth sealing over his with a kind of lush violence, wet and furling and full of teeth.

“Holy fuck ,” Dean gasps, and tries to reciprocate, but Castiel is drawing back with an intent expression and eyes heated enough to singe.

“Come upstairs with me,” he says, low and demanding, and well, when he puts it that way.

They don’t even get on the bed properly, Castiel walking Dean backwards into the mattress so that he falls sideways across it, then straddling his waist. He tries to pull Dean’s shirt over his head while Dean is trying to unbutton his pants, and Dean has to laugh at the frustrated sound he makes when stymied.

“We could do our own clothes?” he suggests breathlessly, still working on Castiel’s zipper. He’s wearing white boxers and straining obscenely against the fly, hips twitching into the mostly-accidental brushes of Dean’s fingers.

“You could let me do everything,” is Castiel’s growled counteroffer, and his mouth is back, biting hot and insistent along the line of Dean’s neck. “Let me, Dean. Please?”

Although the suggestion, the please makes his stomach tremble and clench, Dean makes a show of considering it for a long moment, fingers sliding into Castiel’s pants, light and teasing.

“Dean .”

Dean laughs and lies back, folding his arms behind his head and grinning up at Castiel when the man eases away to see his face. “Do your worst,” he says to those storm-dark eyes. “Do whatever you want.”

What Castiel wants, Dean finds out too late, is him shaking, sweating, unable to keep his hands still and twisting them in the sheets instead. He wants Dean trying to stifle desperate moans and shocked noises before they leave his throat, and failing. He wants to watch Dean’s body arch while his heels drag restlessly, uselessly against the bedding. He wants to hear Dean’s voice go high and break in the middle of his name, wants him to keep his eyes open. He tells Dean what he wants, and Dean gives it to him, lets him have it, all of it.

“Cas, fuck, I can’t—”

“Don’t come,” Castiel pleads, three fingers sinking in slowly, luxuriously where Dean’s so slick and open he can feel himself dripping. It’s mortifying and it’s making his entire body throb, blood-warm and oversensitive like a new bruise. “Just a little longer, I promise.”

His other hand wraps loosely around Dean’s cock, thumb rubbing leisurely up and down the underside and stroking precome back over his skin, almost soothing if it weren’t so fucking torturous. He kisses the protest out of Dean at the same unhurried pace, until the shuddery knot in Dean’s gut is painfully tight and he can’t stand it anymore. “I want,” Dean rasps against his cheek, thigh hitched urgently around Castiel’s hip, “Cas, please, I need—”

“I know,” Castiel whispers hoarsely. “Dean, you’re so beautiful.”

“‘M not— oh, God,” Dean chokes out, arm vise-tight around Castiel’s shoulder as fingers slip free to guide the head of his cock into place. They’ve been at this for what feels like hours, the world dark and far away outside the windows, and there’s so little resistance that Castiel bottoms out in one inexorable push, Dean’s head tipping back against the bed in a soundless shout.

“Dean,” Castiel gasps, “Dean. Can I—?”

Dean can’t answer in words, can’t fucking speak, and when Castiel moves it’s too soon and jolts a horrible begging whine out of him, one he’s never heard himself make before. It feels too good, Castiel a warm, solid weight inside him, the deep stretch utterly sating in a visceral way. It’s almost too much.

“Dean,” Castiel says reverentially.

“Shut up, just,” Dean croaks, trying to turn his head away, but Castiel cups his hot face so gently and presses adoring kisses to his jaw, his ear as he rocks into him, slower this time.

“Love you,” he breathes, “oh, Dean, thank you.”

Dean wants to ask what he’s thanking him for, but he thinks he knows the answer; it only makes him flush harder. He lets Castiel kiss him instead, uncoordinated and messy as they start to move in earnest, and when he finally comes in a searing, overwhelming rush, he uses Castiel’s mouth to muffle anything incriminating.

They do eventually make a fire, after Castiel manages to drag the corduroy couch from the den into the library and down the east wing to the fireplace. Dean watches him use up most of their matches and all of their old newspaper from the cushions, feeling well-fucked and lazy with it.

“I think…” Castiel stares at the piles logs, crumpled paper and the starters slotted between them. “I think it’s working.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, rubbing a hand up his bare belly. Castiel catches the movement and stares, gaze going a little fixed.

In the next second, a small orange flame creeps over a middle log and starts to spread, but neither of them are looking.