dean winchester as the filling in an angel sandwich !!
The air in the crawlspace was thick with dust, ancient magic, and the oppressive, metallic tang of old copper piping. It was a maintenance shaft, barely wider than a man’s shoulders, that ran behind the walls of the old warehouse. It was also the only place to hide when a dozen demons had swarmed the main floor, their arrival a nasty surprise for what was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission.
You were pressed against the cold, corrugated metal of the far wall, your vessel’s form humming with a barely contained energy that was the equivalent of a human’s anxiety. It wasn't fear for yourself; it was the acute, sharp-edged concern for the two beings you shared this cramped space with. Your partner, Castiel, had his back to the opposite wall, his worn trench coat brushing against the grime. And between you, trapped in the most literal sense imaginable, was Dean Winchester.
Dean was the filling. The very unwilling, very overheated, very mortified filling of the most impossible sandwich in the history of the universe.
He was pressed between you and Cas with an intimacy that would have made a lesser man pass out. His shoulder blades were flush against Castiel’s chest, and he could feel the hard, unyielding plane of the angel’s body through his own flannel shirt. Lower down, the pressure was even more distinct: the unmistakable, solid warmth of Castiel’s hips and groin was firmly, unshakeably nestled against the curve of his ass. He was trying, with every fiber of his being, not to think about the fact that an angel of the Lord was essentially spooning him against his will.
And then there was you. You were his front. He was face-to-boobs with you, his nose practically brushing the fabric of your shirt. His hands, at his sides, were trapped uselessly. His hips, however, were not. They were pressed directly against you, the hard line of his arousal (and yes, he was trying to will it away, trying to think about Sam’s dirty socks, taxidermy, reruns of Dr. Sexy, M.D., Castiel dressed as a nun- wow, rewind, he'd definetely have to explore that thought later in the shower- anything) making a desperate, unwanted connection with the soft strength of your thighs and the tempting apex of your legs.
His face was the color of a ripe tomato. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he could feel the heat radiating off of him in waves. He was a furnace.
And you and Cas were completely oblivious to his state.
“The primary threat has been neutralized,” Castiel stated, his voice a low, rumbling hum that vibrated through Dean’s back. He was utterly, infuriatingly calm. His posture was relaxed against the wall. He might as well have been standing in a park. “However, the secondary wave is sweeping the eastern perimeter. We are, for the moment, undetectable. We should remain in situ.”
“Agreed,” you replied, your voice a melodic whisper that was just as level. Dean could feel your breath puff against his hair. “The residual energy from the sigils on the outer walls are masking our presence. To move now would be to risk alerting them. They’re hunting, not just guarding. They’ll be thorough.”
Cas gave a curt nod, the movement of his head brushing against the short hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck. “Then we wait. It is the most logical course of action.”
Dean clenched his jaw. He was going to have a stroke. He was going to die of a heart attack at the ripe old age of 20-something between two beings that were literally the definition of divine, and his ghost was going to haunt Sam forever, he'd make damn sure of it.
“Hey, uh, guys?” Dean interjected, his voice coming out a little higher than he’d like, strangled and croaky. “Not to interrupt your book club, but any chance we can figure this out before I spontaneously combust?”
You looked at him, your brow furrowing in that charmingly perplexed way of yours. “Spontaneous combustion in humans is a result of internal, not external, factors, Dean. You are not in danger of catching fire.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” he muttered, trying to subtly shift his hips to relieve the pressure against his own. It was a terrible idea. The minute he moved, the fabric of his jeans dragged against you, and he felt his own body betray him with an immediate, traitorous twitch. He froze, his face flushing a deep, mortifying red.
“You are agitated,” Castiel himmed in, his voice holding a note of clinical observation. “Your heart rate is elevated and your temperature is increasing.”
“Gee, ya think?” Dean gritted out, his voice strangled.
"I am certain, these are facts."
"Can't we just make a run for i-"
He was cut off. Not by a word, but by a gesture so casual, so utterly dismissive, it sent a jolt of pure, electrified shock straight to his core. Castiel, without a single break in his composure, lifted a hand and placed it on the back of Dean’s head. With a gentle, but inexorable, shove, he pushed.
Dean’s face was unceremoniously smushed into your chest.
"Dean, you must cease speaking and let us discuss the course of action."
It was soft. It was warm. And it smelled like ozone, clean linen, and something uniquely you. His mouth was parted in surprise, and his lips were pressed directly against the swell of your breast, his nose buried in the fabric at your sternum. The scent was dizzying, an angelic perfume that was both calming and wildly, terrifyingly arousing.
A strangled, choked-off sound escaped his throat. He jerked, a purely instinctual reaction. His hips bucked forward into the cradle of your thighs, his now-hard cock grinding against you. The contact was electrifying, a shocking jolt of pleasure that shot straight to his core. Then, as if on a rebound, he jerked back, his ass pressing firmly against Castiel’s crotch, and he could feel the angel’s answering hardness there too. It was a full-circle moment of absolute, dizzying mortification.
He felt like a bug pinned to a board.
Castiel continued his statement, his voice not so much as wavering. “As the structural integrity of these older edifices is often compromised. A move would be ill-advised.”
You, meanwhile, were looking down at the mop of short, sandy-brown hair now pressed against your chest. Your eyes, which were your most expressive feature, flickered with a complex mix of amusement, fondness, and a spark of something deeper, something that bordered on hunger. You didn’t move him. You simply let him stay there, his face buried in your cleavage, his body trembling between you and Cas.
He let out a muffled, desperate sound against your chest, a sound that was part protest and part plea, his hands finally coming to grasp at your hips in search of stability.
“Dean,” you said softly, your voice a gentle murmur. “The pressure of your discomfort is… loud. It’s creating a distress signal. If you could perhaps… calm yourself? It will help maintain our cover.”
It was the kindest, most condescending thing anyone had ever said to him while he was using their chest as a pillow.
Dean tried to mumble a protest, but it was muffled by fabric. He could feel your heartbeat, steady and slow, like a drumbeat beneath his ear. He could feel the faint, ethereal warmth of your vessel’s skin. And behind him, he could feel Castiel, stoic and unmoving as a statue, a solid, unshakeable presence that was too close and not close enough.
He felt insignificant. He felt small. He felt human, fragile, mortal, caught between two cosmic forces that had decided, for some inexplicable reason, that he was interesting. He was a butterfly pinned in a box. An object of reverence and curiosity.
And it was the most insane, humiliating, and utterly amazing thing he’d ever felt.
He barely caught what Castiel said, too focused on keeping the grip of his fingers on your hips not too tight but not too loose either. He only caught onto your response.
“I know. But it is the most efficient solution. We are in a confined space, and our primary objective is to remain undetected until we can complete our mission.”
“Yes,” Cas agreed. “Dean is a variable we must account for.”
Dean, for his part, had never felt less like a variable in his entire life. He felt more like a human-shaped, easily-breakable, and incredibly horny chess piece in a game played by beings far beyond his comprehension. He felt small, insignificant, and utterly at the mercy of the two celestial beings who were currently discussing him like he was a mildly disruptive cargo they were transporting.
It was, he realized with a shudder that was definitely not entirely from the cold, also a major turn-on.
He swallowed, his throat dry. He was so utterly, completely screwed.
The next thing he knew, Castiel’s voice was soft in his ear. “The way is clear. We can go now, Dean.”
Dean was unceremoniously shoved from the confines of the small space. He stumbled into the dimly lit corridor, his legs weak, his face a flaming beacon of mortification. He felt like a man who had gone straight to heaven and been summarily kicked back down to earth, all in the span of twenty minutes. He stood there, blinking, trying to remember how to walk.
Sam was waiting standing by the Impala, a few blocks away, his face a mask of concern that quickly morphed into a baffled frown as Dean entered his visual camp, a little breathless, his face still glowing with a tell-tale flush.
Dean clapped him on the shoulder with a little too much force. His eyes were wide, his pupils blown wide, he looked like he’d just stared straight into god's eyes.
“Dean?” Sam asked, following his brother as they took their seats inside the car, his face creasing with confusion. “You okay? You look… weird. Did you hit your head?”
You and Cas slipped into the backseat as if you hadn’t just provided the most intense sexual experience of Dean’s life without even touching him below the waist.
He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mind was still back in that closet.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. You were looking out the window, your face placid. Cas was looking at Dean, his head tilted in that familiar, bird-like way. There was a hint of something in the angel’s gaze, something that looked a lot like amusement.
Dean swallowed, his voice croaking out a single word. “Beer. I need beer.”
He needed a lot of it. And maybe a cold shower. And another one of these hunts. Anything to get back in that closet. This time, he thought, a wild, reckless thought, maybe they wouldn’t be in such a hurry to leave.
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