#touch touch touch

“Is this too much?” Cas asks. His breath puffs warmly on Dean’s chest between kisses.

“Heh… hnn... no,” Dean pants, his smile turning every sound up at the corners. He scritches the back of Cas’ head in encouragement.

The light stroking of Cas’ fingers continues up and down the sides of Dean’s body. The touch lingers in delicious little swirling eddies in the spots along the slow, circuitous route that make him squirm. Every stroke serves to set Dean on edge, balanced precariously on a razor-thin line with the tumble of laughter inevitable on either side. Cas skillfully keeps him teetering upright, though, keeps his breath hitching in with gasps and out with pants, keeps his lips alternating between smiling over his teeth and being bitten beneath them.

Dean feels like… like glitter. Like he’s just made up of a million tiny sparkles piled into the shape of a person, constantly collapsing and reforming in golden waves under the brush of Cas’ hands. He’d begun crumbling the moment Cas had gently taken the hem of his shirt from his hands, thawing him out from his frozen attempt to remove it himself, and lifted it reverently up and off his body. Cas had leaned down to kiss him, then, and Dean had never been kissed like that, not while already horizontal with pants and belts decorating the floor. Cas had breathed across his cheek and ghosted his lips over Dean’s own; no hard press, no deep desperation, just teasing the texture of their skin together, and Dean was already lost to breathlessness before the rest of him was ever even touched. Then, with lips still drifting, Cas had guided Dean’s elbows away from his body and swiped fingers through the hollows beneath his arms. That’s when Dean had begun truly dissolving, shivering down into glinting pieces that twisted and slid and reveled in catching the light.

Now, he’s nothing but a squirmy, glittery heap. Cas keeps kissing his mouth, his neck, his chest while roaming fingertips glide over his ticklish skin. The balancing act has been dizzyingly maintained for ten minutes straight, and it’s starting to feel like Cas is turning this into an art form in its own right. Dean decides he’d pitch a tent in that museum and live there.

And true to his communicative promises, Cas hasn’t stopped asking questions:

“Does this feel good?”

“Are you ticklish here?”

“Do you like that?”

“Would you like… hm.”

Dean raises his head when Cas stills his hands and doesn’t finish. “Whh–” Dean gulps his first full, uninfluenced breath in recent memory. His body still squirms like the separated tail of a lizard, cut off from the stimulation but reacting nonetheless. “Would I like what?”

“I’m not quite sure how to ask it,” Cas says. His eyes track appreciatively down from Dean’s face to his body cradled between Cas’ thighs, and back up again. “I want you to know that I’m very much enjoying this, actually; even more than I thought I would. You’re gorgeous like this.”

Dean’s face valiantly tries to take back some of the blood that’s busy further down his body.

“But,” Cas continues, “you can absolutely ask for something different. But again, if you just wanted to keep doing this, that’s okay, too – I don’t want you to be afraid that I’m getting bored.” Cas runs his palms up over Dean’s chest, drags them back down with trailing fingertips that make Dean shiver. “Because I’m certainly not. I never realized that tickling someone could be this sexy.”

Cas is going to kill him with that voice. Dean closes his eyes for a moment, trying to keep himself anchored. “To be fair, I didn’t either. I mean,” he swallows, and forces himself to look up at Cas again, “it’s always been sexy for me, but this?” Dean gestures between them. “This is like, sexy-sexy, man. Like holy shit I’m ruined for other people sexy.”

Oh, fuck, did he really just say that?

But Cas smirks that melting smirk of his and says, “So we should keep going?”

Dean nods eloquently.

“Do you want to be tickled more?” Cas smiles at his confused look and clarifies, “Yes, we just established we’ll keep going, but I mean: more.” His hands suddenly latch onto the sides of Dean’s ribs, squeezing demonstratively.

A startled laugh leaps out of Dean’s throat.

Cas stops, though his eyes glint. “Yes or no?”

Damnit, Dean really needs more blood in his body. He bites his lip. “You remember the answer? To your first question?”

“About where you’re ticklish?” Cas grins, and the way his tone dips is beyond unfair. “I believe you said, and I quote: ‘you’ll find out.’”

Dean’s heart is going to pound right out of his chest, splatter his glitter-self everywhere and leave Cas looking like a drag show’s leftovers. “Haven’t found ‘em all yet,” he says, the closest to a challenge he can muster in his exsanguinated state.

The calculating look on Cas’ face is just as unfair as his voice. It’s also the last thing Dean sees before he’s flipped onto his belly and he finds out just how much more Cas has to give.

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