Freedom of Fate ~ Castielxreader

16- Ages 18 and Up

'We're down right Y/n?' Dean elbowed you and you agreed on cue. 'After we finish cooking,' he added, to Sam's surprise.

'You're cooking, Dean?' the younger brother sneered, 'was the store out of dogfood?'

Dean delivered a sharp kick to Sam's shin, 'Y/n's making casserole and I'm helping asshole,' he spat back and you had to pull them apart as they squared up against each other. Dean proposed to start cooking now with the intention of finishing in time for dinner and when Castiel offered to help, Sam also felt inclined to offer his aid. You set up stations for each of them and distributed knives and vegetables among them, instructing them to start chopping. Despite having to diffuse the outbreak of a mild flour-throwing dispute between the Winchesters, the dish was in the oven within the hour. Dean beamed proudly, drying the dishes as his brother washed them. He refused to leave the casserole unattended, wandering over to the oven and peering through the glass every 15 minutes or so until the timer went off and he practically dove into the oven to get it out. You fetched the plates from under the kitchen island, all cheap ceramic and mismatched designs, and Dean served portions to you all, even Cas. He was especially generous with his own serving then shepherded everyone out of the kitchen and to the war room, stopping in the library to get some board games out of a cupboard. 

The casserole was delicious and the two bulky brothers ravaged their plates, with compliments to the chef. Cas insisted your cooking was so good even he could taste it and also finished his helping. After a game of Monopoly, Dean decided it was time to crack into some beers, though to his dismay there were none and he dragged Sam out on a quick supply run, leaving you and Cas in the stagnant heart of the bunker. 

You started to collect the dishes, Cas' dark eyes stalking your movements hungrily. He followed you to the kitchen quietly, as if he was hunting you. As you cleaned the dishes you could feel the heat of his body as he crept up behind you. He brushed the hair away from your neck, gripping the locks of hair gently in his fist he pulled your head to the side slightly to expose the skin of your neck, the delicate easy-to-brandish skin. With taunting deliberateness he nipped at the crook of your neck, nibbling and sucking until you felt the defiling sting of a bruise surfacing, at which point he'd tenderly soothe the spot with his tongue, leaving wet purple marks up towards your jaw. 

'And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love,' the Angel mumbled into your ear, his hot tickling breath sending electricity to your spine and goosebumps erupted along your arms.

Knees ready to give in, you reached over your head to weave your fingers into his hair to hold yourself steady as his hand came to rest on your inner thigh, squeezing and massaging the plumpness there but not drawing any closer to the radiating heat inches away. His lips now on your mouth, you spun around to be chest to chest with him, running your hands down him towards his crotch. Cas smiled into the kiss as you palmed his hardness through the fabric. Starting to lead you out of the kitchen with his tongue still entangled with yours, you stumbled down the hall towards your room. You fell onto the bed as two bodies lustfully tangled together, wrestling on the mattress for a brief moment as you fought Castiel down to submission. He conceded but his hands and lips continued their divine work, pulling off your shirt and kissing you obsessively and you straddled him, grinding against his growing bulge and watched his composure slip away. You lifted yourself off him briefly to shed the rest of his and your clothes but he seized the moment to flip you onto the mattress. You struggled against him, trying to get back on top but he pinned you down adamantly, lowering his face back into the crook of your neck, his favourite spot. He nestled his throbbing cock against your folds. Eyes eclipsed with desire, the firm grasp on your wrists contradicted the patient gentle rock of his hips as he slicked himself with your wetness, adoration syruping his gravely voice.