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motherofdragonflies · 9 months

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After an epic fail of Rexwritesstuff's birthday present last year, I have started a tradition of gifting her smut instead. This year she requested an established relationship Destiel AU based on art by Caduoca and here's what I came up with.

(If you'd prefer to read this on AO3 you can find it HERE!)

MR. JULY

Castiel

“Castiel?”

Castiel Novak turned away from the monitor he was staring at to see his agent hurrying towards him, a worried expression on his face.

“Hana? What’s wrong?”

He listened stonily as Hana explained that the casting agent had called. Ashton—one of the models that had been booked for today’s shoot—was sick, and not the kind of sick that could be disguised with makeup. He wouldn’t be coming in.

“Do they have anyone else they can send? The booking was for five models.”

Hana gave Castiel a look. “You think I didn’t already ask them? The only model they have available is Jay.” He held out his phone to Castiel, Jay’s headshot displayed on the screen.

Castiel considered the photo and then shook his head. Jay was beautiful in an androgynous way but Castiel had specifically requested larger, more muscular models for this shoot. He wanted beefcake, which Jay was most definitely not.

“Jo!” he called, handing Hana’s phone back to him. A moment later, the stylist approached, her heels clicking against the studio’s cement floor.

“You bellowed?” she asked archly. “I do have things to be doing, you know.”

“Ashton’s out,” Castiel told her brusquely. “Can any of the other models wear his outfits?”

Jo immediately understood the issue. “Give me a minute,” she said, her long red hair flying as she spun on her very high heel and disappeared back the way she came.

“I could call Balthazar, see if he has anybody available?” Hana offered, but Castiel shook his head.

The client for today’s shoot—an online clothing boutique wanting images for their annual pin-up calendar—was a nightmare to work with, and Castiel was under pressure to get this shoot done as quickly as he could on a very limited budget. He didn’t have time to wait for another model, and he didn’t have the budget to pay Balthazar’s exorbitant booking rates.

“What do you want me to do?” Hana asked.

“Go back to the agency, tell them we won’t be needing Jay, and make sure that we only get charged for the four models that showed up,” Castiel instructed, and Hana gave him a short nod in confirmation before hurrying out of the studio, phone already back up to his ear.

Jo’s assistant, a dark-haired young woman named Ruby, came running up to Castiel and shoved a stack of Polaroids in his hand. Castiel flicked through them quickly, eying the images critically. He paused on the final Polaroid. The model—Cody, if Castiel remembered correctly—was gorgeous: blond hair and blue eyes and a body that looked as though it had been sculpted from marble. But…

Castiel held up the polaroid, raising one eyebrow questioningly and Ruby made a face. “Ashton was the only one without a nudity clause. Jo checked. That’s the best we could do.”

Their best wasn’t going to be good enough. “These are fine,” he said, handing all of the photos but the last one back to Ruby. “Pull the last outfit.”

Ruby’s eyes widened slightly but silently accepted the Polaroids and hurried back to the dressing room.

Castiel tried to think. The client was adamant that he shoot all of the outfits that they had provided and while he could take some amazing photos of Cody, they wouldn’t match the vision that the client had of scantily clad gorgeous men.

The thought of scantily clad gorgeous men reminded Cas of something, and inspiration struck. He pulled out his phone, his thumbs flying over the screen.

Castiel: 911

Three dots appeared and disappeared at the bottom of the screen.

Dean: ??? Castiel: When can you get to the studio?

The dots bounced and Castiel held his breath.

Dean: 2 hours

Castiel: 🙏

With a sigh of relief Castiel slipped his phone back into his pocket. This could work. He’d need to sweet talk Meg into working a little bit later, but she still owed him one and he wasn’t above calling in that favor. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

“DUMA!” he yelled, and a flustered young woman appeared at his side.

“Yes?” she said breathlessly.

“We’re starting,” he told her. “Tell Jo to send out the first model.”

Dean

“Cas?”

Dean Winchester closed the door to Cas’ photography studio behind him. It had been unlocked, but the front desk was empty and the office silent, which worried Dean. Cas didn’t use their emergency code lightly—the last time Dean had received a ‘911’ text, Cas’ piece of crap car had broken down on the way to a job and Cas had needed Dean to come pick him up—so to receive it on a day that Dean knew Cas had a shoot was troubling.

He’d tried hard to get to Cas’ studio as soon as he could. Cas’ message had come in while Dean was in the middle of an important meeting, one that, unfortunately, Dean couldn’t leave. Uriel had droned on and on forever, even with Dean doing his best to hurry things along, and Michael had pulled him aside after the meeting to privately convey how impressed he was with Dean’s work. Any other time Dean would have been punching the air in celebration, but all he could think about was Cas waiting for him, the clock ticking.

“Cas?” Dean called again, sticking his head into the shooting space. The cavernous room was empty, save for a large green screen backdrop and Cas’ expensive lighting setup.

“In here,” he heard and followed the sound of Cas’ voice to one of the small rooms at the back of the studio that Cas used as a dressing room. Cas was leaning against the edge of the long table covered with bottles and palettes and brushes, looking down at a figure sitting on a swiveling stool. Her back was to Dean, but he recognized her long, dark hair, and his confusion increased.

Cas straightened up as soon as he saw Dean, relief naked on his face. “Oh thank god you’re here,” he said.

“What’s the emergency?” Dean asked warily. Cas looked fine, and Dean had done a cursory inspection of Cas’ car as he’d walked past it, and that looked fine too, so…

“I need your help,” Cas said. He crossed over to the rack of clothes standing on the other side of the room and held up an outfit. “I need you to put this on.”

“Oh fuck no,” Dean said, clocking the outfit and shaking his head. “Cas—”

“Please, Dean,” Cas said, blue eyes wide and pleading. “Please.”

“Why?”

“One of the models got sick.”

“Why couldn't you get one of the others to wear that?” Dean argued, already knowing he was fighting a losing battle. Cas was a consummate professional: if he was resorting to calling Dean in, then he’d already tried everything else.

“Because the rest of the models were prudes who skipped leg day, and they needed someone shameless with a decent ass to wear that,” Meg added, spinning around with a gleeful smile on her face.

Dean’s jaw dropped, ignoring Meg’s barb. “Are you kidding? Cas has got more ass than I do! Why don’t you wear it?” he demanded.

Meg hooted with laughter, and Cas’ jaw set.

“Please, Dean,” he asked quietly, his eyes pleading with Dean.

Dean hesitated.

“What’s the shoot for?” he asked.

“A calendar, proceeds of the sale going to an LGBTQ+ charity. It will only be you and me,” Cas said, as if sensing that Dean’s resolve was crumbling. “I’ve sent everyone else home.”

“What about—” Dean waved a hand at Meg.

“I’m just here to make you pretty for the camera,” Meg told him.

Dean looked at the outfit, at Cas, back to the outfit.

“You really need this shot?” he asked reluctantly.

Cas nodded. He pulled out his phone and showed Dean the concept. “You’re perfect for it.”

Dean sighed in defeat. “Alright, fine. Hand it over,” he grumbled.

Cas lit up, grabbed Dean’s face and pulled him into a deep, grateful kiss, then shoved the hanger into his chest. “I’ll get everything ready,” he said, and hurried out of the room, leaving Dean alone with Meg.

Meg waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she told him. “Now c’mon, I have a date tonight, and I don’t want to be late.”

Glaring at Meg, Dean took a deep breath and began to strip.

Castiel

Dean walked back into the studio fifteen minutes later, wrapped in a fuzzy robe with a cowboy hat perched on his head, a scowl on his face. Meg trailed behind him, smirking.

“He’s all ready for you, Clarence,” she called. “I’m out.”

“Thank you, Meg,” Castiel called at her retreating back, smiling at the (dismissive) wave she gave over her shoulder.

“Dude, she put makeup on my ass!” Dean complained when Cas turned back to him.

“That’s normal,” he soothed. “Do you want to put some music on?” He held his phone out to Dean, who begrudgingly swiped through to Cas’ music app, and soon the familiar strains of Led Zeppelin began playing from the sound system that Cas had set up in the studio.

Putting his phone away, Cas put his hand on Dean’s lower back and guided him to the set. “I need to get some levels. Can you—” he waved his hand at Dean. Dean’s eyes flew nervously around the studio.

“I asked Meg to lock the door behind her,” Castiel reassured him. “It’s just us.”

“And you’re sure nobody’ll see anything?” Dean asked again.

“You’ll have your back to the camera the entire time,” Castiel told him again. “And you can pull the hat down as low as you want. No one will be able to tell that it’s you. I promise.”

Dean nodded, then took a deep breath, obviously steeling himself, and turned his back to Castiel. He shrugged out of the robe and tossed it off to the side, and Castiel had to remind himself to breathe.

The final image for the calendar—the pièce de résistance—was a cowboy. Dean was wearing a pair of cowboy boots, a pair of cow skin chaps, a kerchief tied around his neck, and nothing else. His skin glowed golden under the lights, faint muscles rippling as he shifted nervously, hands cupped in front of him. Meg had indeed put makeup on Dean’s exposed buttcheeks, contouring the muscles, and he looked right at home in the outfit with his naturally bowed legs.

He looked amazing.

Shaking himself, Cas picked up his camera and examined Dean through the preview screen.

“Okay, Dean. Whenever you’re ready,” Cas called, and he saw Dean’s chest expand and fall as he took a deep breath and then dropped his hands, shifting his weight onto one hip as he started to pose.

Dean wasn’t a model, and he’d never had any interest in modeling, but after years of being photographed by Cas—especially in the bedroom—Dean had picked up a few tricks. Cas offered some directions (“Think Fabio,” he’d said, and cracked up when Dean looked over his shoulder and gave him what Cas called Dean’s ‘blue steel’) but otherwise stayed quiet and let Dean do what he wanted.

He did slyly change the music from Led Zeppelin to their sexy bedroom playlist and smiled as Dean chuckled in recognition of the beat that started pumping through the studio and began to relax, his body moving more freely, his poses becoming more natural.

As Dean moved from pose to pose, his muscles rippling under the lights, Cas had to force himself to focus more on the composition of the shot and less on the subject as his body started to react to the mostly naked Dean in front of him. His mouth grew dry and he felt himself harden in his jeans, his body associating the music and the sight in front of him with some very good times.

Cas cleared his throat and set down his camera. “Why don’t you, uh, why don’t you try some low poses?” he suggested.

Dean

Dean looked down at the green backdrop under his feet, and then over his shoulder at Cas, checking to see if he was serious. The concrete floor was not going to be comfortable, and the thin canvas green screen that Dean was standing on wasn’t going to offer much comfort. Cas nodded, so Dean shrugged and carefully sank to his knees, keeping his ass as high off the spurs on his heels as he could.

“Wait a moment,” he heard Cas say, and held still, listening to Cas scurrying around behind him, adjusting the lights. When he got the all-clear he closed his eyes, flexed, and started posing.

He could hear the camera’s shutter going off behind him, could feel the weight of Cas’ gaze on him, and his heart started to race. He loved being photographed by Cas, not just because all of Cas’ attention was focused on him, but because when Cas went through the photos afterward Dean was able to see himself through Cas’ eyes. The parts of his body that Dean felt self-conscious about became beautiful, his weaknesses his strengths, and it was hard to look at the photos and not feel absolutely loved by this man.

It might also be that Cas got incredibly turned on shooting Dean, and their bedroom photo shoots often ended with some of the hottest sex Dean had ever had.

His knees were beginning to ache, so he slowly moved until he was lying on his side, propped on one elbow.

“Hold it,” Cas called, and obediently Dean held still, waiting for Cas to adjust the lighting again.

“Okay, good,” came the call, and Dean began. He arched his back, presenting his naked ass to Cas and the camera. With his free hand, he adjusted his cowboy hat, deepening the shadow that fell on his face and then turned his head as much as he could to look over his shoulder, tugging on the brim as he dipped his chin in a mock bow.

He heard Cas inhale and smirked, holding the pose for a few seconds. The shutter clicked frantically as Cas captured the image and then stopped. Dean relaxed and then yelped in surprise as Cas grabbed his shoulder and pushed him onto his back, knocking off his cowboy hat and blanketing him with his body as he kissed him, deep and filthy.

“So hot,” Cas mumbled against Dean’s lips. “So fucking hot, Dean.”

Dean laughed into the kiss. “See something you like?” he asked cheekily. Cas growled, and Dean gasped as Cas roughly rolled him onto his stomach then grabbed his hips and hauled him up onto all fours before burying his face in Dean’s ass.

“Fu–Cas!” Dean exclaimed, jolting from the unexpected touch, exhaling shakily as Cas’ tongue swept over his hole. Cas hummed, using his hands to spread Dean’s cheeks wide and licked again, long licks over Dean’s hole with the flat of his tongue from his taint to his tailbone. Dean closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink into the feeling, to enjoy himself. He groaned his pleasure as he felt Cas suck gently on his hole and began to kiss it, deep, wet, open-mouthed kisses, flicking his tongue against Dean’s rim.

Dean shoved himself back on Cas’ face, trying to force him to go deeper. “Oh, fuck, yeah, Cas,” he moaned. If he’d known this was going to happen, he wouldn’t have fought Cas so hard to do the shoot. In fact, if Cas had said, “Stand in for one of my models and I’ll eat you out until you’re begging me to fuck you,” then Dean would have gladly dropped trou in front of the entire studio, because Cas had a sinfully talented mouth and Dean would do anything to have it on whenever he could.

Cas chuckled but worked his tongue inside, and Dean groaned and dropped his head, letting Cas open him up. He no longer cared that the concrete floor underneath him was uncomfortable, that his knees were aching and that the cavernous studio was chilly. All that mattered was Cas: the wet slide of Cas’ tongue in and out of his ass, the scratch of Cas’ stubble on his ass cheeks, the pleasure that Cas was slowly but surely building deep inside Dean.

Cas pulled back, pausing for a moment, and Dean whined in complaint. “Cas, goddamit—oh, fuuuuck,” he said, the last word ending on a breathless gasp as Cas slid a finger inside him, pulling on his rim to hold him open, fucking his tongue in and out, deeper than before. “Jesus,” he panted, making tiny thrusts back against Cas’ finger and tongue. He could feel saliva coating his ass cheeks and his balls and knew Cas’ face would be a sloppy mess, and somehow that just made everything so much hotter.

Dean was rock hard now, his cock bobbing underneath him in time with his thrusts back against Cas’ tongue He shifted his weight to balance on one hand and wrapped the other around his cock.

Before he could even start to stroke himself, bright pain exploded across one of his ass cheeks.

“That’s mine,” Cas growled.

“Then do something with it,” Dean shot back, but immediately let go of his cock. Cas spanked him again for his cheek, and then Dean felt more fingers slip into him, felt the palms of Cas’ hand prising his cheeks apart, forcing his tight hole open even further and he moaned in a combination of anticipated pleasure and the pain of the stretch.

He heard Cas spit, felt warm liquid hit his skin, and then Cas’ tongue was fucking him again, harder and deeper. Dean dropped to his chest, his arms giving out. “Oh, fuck, Cas, please.” He wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking for, just desperately needing more.

“I don’t have anything,” Cas said uncertainly. “I didn’t—”

“I don’t fucking care, just fuck me,” Dean demanded. Alright, perhaps he did know what he was asking for because he needed Cas’ cock in him, right now.

He made a noise of protest when Cas’ hands disappeared again, then sighed in relief at the sound of Cas’ zipper sliding down. He heard Cas spit again, then the unmistakable sound of him slicking his cock up and bit back a moan at the memory of watching Cas do just that, knowing how gorgeous his cock looked with Cas’ long fingers wrapped around it. He was tempted to turn around and offer to suck Cas, get him all nice and wet, but before he could open his mouth he felt the spongy head of Cas’ cock bump against his wide open hole.

“Fuck yes,” Dean mumbled, wriggling his ass in encouragement. One of Cas’ hands grabbed his hip, holding him still and then Cas slowly pushed in, the head of his cock popping past Dean’s rim.

Cas paused. “You ready?” he asked, his voice rough.

Dean rocked back, forcing Cas in a little deeper. “Fuckin’ give it to me, Cas, I—”

The rest of his words were lost in the breath that was punched out of him as Cas drove himself into Dean fast and hard, and then Dean couldn’t speak at all. Cas pounded into him, the snap of his hips brutal, his cock slamming into Dean over and over until Dean was lost to the sensation of being forcefully filled over and over and over again.

He could hear Cas muttering behind him, thought he heard the “fuck” and “ass” and “mine,” but then Cas’ hand wrapped around the waist of Dean’s chaps and used them as a handle to pull Dean back to meet Cas’ cock harder and harder and Dean couldn’t hear anything above the sound of Cas’ hips slapping his ass and his own panting breath.

Cas’s cock felt amazing, but it wasn’t enough for Dean to come—he needed something more. He slid a hand under his body, reaching for his dick when Cas suddenly moved away.

“Come here,” Cas ordered, and Dean twisted around to look at Cas. He was lying on his back, propped up on his elbows, his jeans and boxers tangled around his knees. His cock was arching towards his stomach, wet and an angry red.

“I want to watch you ride me,” he said, his voice hoarse, and Dean scrambled to straddle Cas’ hips, his back to Cas.

“Wait,” he said, stretching to retrieve his discarded cowboy hat, placing it on his head before shifting back astride Cas. He reached behind himself, lining Cas’ cock up and then slowly sinking down.

“Ohhhh, fuck,” he moaned in appreciation as his ass settled on Cas’ hips, Cas’ cock so much deeper than it had been before. Dean rocked his hips experimentally, clenching his ass around Cas teasingly.

“Fuck, Dean,” Cas groaned, and Dean grinned. He grabbed hold of the crown of his hat, holding it in place, and rode Cas as though Cas was a bucking bronco and Dean was a cowboy. He hammed it up, putting on a performance, drawing out moans and groans of pleasure from Cas, but the brush of Cas’ cock against his prostate had him quickly giving up the act and riding Cas hard, tilting his hips so that he hit that sweet spot, lifting up and slamming his ass down onto Cas’ pelvis over and over until he was the one moaning with pleasure.

“Shit, Cas,” Dean gasped as sparks lit up at the base of his spine and he chased the feeling, moving faster and faster. He wished he could see Cas’ face. He could just picture it—Cas’ brow furrowed, the blue of his eyes nothing more than a thin ring around the black of his pupils, his cheeks flushed red—and his hand flew over his leaking cock. He could feel his balls drawing up into his body, the pleasure sucking everything inwards until Dean thought he was going to explode and his rhythm faltered. “Oh, shit, oh, oh, Cas—”

Cas’ hands landed on his hips, hot and heavy, forcing Dean down harder and harder as Cas fucked up into him as every muscle in Dean’s body locked up, the tension snapping as his orgasm slammed into him and he came so hard he saw stars behind his eyelids.

“Fuck, Dean, yes, just—like—that—oh, fuck, Dean!”

Cas slammed into him one final time, forcing himself into Dean as deep as he could go, and came with a shout. Dean felt Cas’ cock pulsing inside him, his release filling Dean and sighed happily. The only thing better than coming was making Cas come too. When Cas’ breathing slowed and the fingers locked in an iron grip around Dean’s hips flexed, Dean slid bonelessly off Cas and curled up against him, closing his eyes and basking in the afterglow.

If this is what happened when Dean agreed to model for Cas, then Dean was going to agree to do it more often.

Castiel

The floor was hard and the cold of the concrete was seeping up through the canvas of the green screen underneath him, but Dean was pillowed on his chest, and Castiel was loath to move him.

Dean mumbled something into Cas’ chest and then pushed himself into an upright position, groaning slightly as he did so.

“Gotta say, this was not what I was expecting when I said yes,” he said, looking down at Cas, smirkingly slightly.

“You really thought that I was going to be able to keep my hands off you when you were dressed like that?” Castiel waved a hand at Dean, and Dean’s cheeks flushed with an embarrassment that he found charming: after all these years, Dean still doubted how much of an effect he had on Castiel.

“Did you get any good shots, at least?” Dean asked, and Castiel pushed himself up into a seated position, raising an eyebrow at his doubtful tone.

“I know, I know,” Dean said quickly. “But it’s for a calendar, Cas. With real models.”

“And every single person who buys this calendar is going to wish that every month was November so they could keep that gorgeous ass of yours on their wall forever,” Castiel told him. “Real models be damned.”

“November?”

“July?” Castiel shrugged. “Do you have a preference? I don’t actually know which shots are intended for which month.”

“Guess not.”

Dean still looked doubtful, so Castiel rubbed a hand along Dean’s arm soothingly. “Why don’t you go get dressed? I’ll clean up out here and then we can check the images together?”

Dean nodded and climbed to his feet, offering Castiel a hand and helping him up off the floor, for which Castiel was grateful. He was getting too old to be lying down for extended periods of time on such hard surfaces.

As Dean gingerly walked towards the dressing room, Castiel tucked himself back into his pants, screwing up his face at the cold and sticky patches on the front, and got to work.

By the time Dean came back, Castiel had rolled up the greenscreen and thrown it in the dumpster out the back of the studio (and sent Duma an email asking her to order a new one), packed away his expensive cameras and was sitting in front of the large monitor, reviewing all the shots.

“Can I see?” Dean asked and Castiel nodded.

Dean was silent as he peered over Castiel’s shoulder while Castiel scrolled through some of the shots he’d taken earlier in the day—All-American Cody in a skimpy bathing suit, a gorgeous ginger giant in a kilt and leather bandolier—but Castiel heard him inhale sharply when he came to his favorite photo of Dean.

Dean was reclining on his side, his back to the camera, the chaps exposing the golden globes of his ass. Dean’s face was hidden under the shadow of the brim—and Castiel had manipulated the shadow, making it darker—but the corner of his mouth, curled in a knowing smirk, was still visible. Cas quickly added the background that the client had requested—a painted desert, with cacti and distant mountains, bleached by the midday sun.

“Jesus,” Dean whispered. “That looks—”

“Fucking incredible,” Castiel agreed. ‘You look fucking incredible, Dean.” He twisted his head and kissed Dean’s mouth, which was hanging open in shock. “Thank you.”

“I think you already thanked me,” Dean said, quickly recovering and waggling his eyebrows. Castiel rolled his eyes and turned back to the monitor.

“Hey, what are those shots down the bottom?” Dean asked, leaning further over Castiel’s shoulder to point.

“I’m not sure,” Cas confessed, scrolling to the thumbnails at the bottom of the page and clicking on one, then felt his mouth drop open in shock as the image opened.

“What the...?”

On the monitor was Dean, on his knees straddling a torso, one hand on his cowboy hat, his back arched suggestively, ass flexing. It had obviously been taken mid-fuck, but Castiel’s upper body was out of frame.

It was raw and beautiful, and Castiel felt his cock twitch in his pants both at the sight of Dean on the screen and the memory of how it had felt to have Dean above him like that.

“Cas?”

Dean’s voice broke through Castiel’s thoughts. His tone was sharp: that was probably not the first time he’d tried to get Castiel’s attention.

“Yes. Sorry. What?”

Dean gestured at the monitor. “How the fuck did that one get taken?”

Castiel tilted his head and examined the photo for a moment, and then his hands flew to the pocket of his pants. “Oh, no.”

“What? What is it?”

Castiel withdrew a small plastic rectangle from his pants pocket and showed it to Dean. “It’s the remote control for the camera,” he explained. “I was using it for some of the shots earlier and put it in my pocket. You must have pressed the button when you were…” Castiel coughed.

“Oh.”

Dean stared at the image on the monitor for a moment longer.

“That one’s not going in the calendar,” he said. “Right?”

“Right,” Castiel quickly agreed. “That one will just be for us.” He selected the last few thumbnails—Dean must have bumped the remote a few times—and dragged them out of the gallery, saving them in a separate folder that he marked “PRIVATE” to stop Duma from opening it.

Castiel stood and offered his hand to Dean. “Come on, cowboy,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”

“Alrigh’, Huckleberry,” Dean drawled, and together they made their way out of the studio space.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean asked as Cas locked the studio door behind them.

“Yes, Dean?”

“D’you think we could keep the cowboy outfit?”

Castiel looked at Dean, who smirked at him, eyes dark with the promise of heat.

He smiled.

“I think that can be arranged.”

FIN.

#destiel fic #destiel #deancas fic #spn fanfic #birthday smut #here there be smut

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