A/N: So, um, I've been telling myself for two weeks that I'm not allowed to start something new, something long, until I get some of my current projects done. For about the same amount of time, my brain has whined about how, with all of the vast amount of AU Destiel smut I've read, I haven't found anything set during the Regency era.

Somehow, yesterday, as I sat down to work on "The Devil Went Down to Detroit," it all coalesced into this and it was impossible for me not to start writing. So, here, have a thing. I have an entire outline for the rest of the story, too. Because this is not just a one-shot, no, this crap woke me up at 5:15 this morning and refused to stop writing itself.

Based on how my brain is currently behaving there is a really good chance I'll be neglecting both other projects short term while I pound this out. Imma try to get this done fast. I'm sorry I'm distractable. (But not that sorry. ;p )

A couple notes:

1. I have read a lot of Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer. And, I actually did a small amount of research to write this, which is more than I normally do for fan fic. However, if you want historical accuracy, go elsewhere. I made sure some (but not all!) of my terminology was time period appropriate, and looked at the some pictures of Regency era rooms, and checked out what some fashion might be, and that is the absolute limit of the research I will be putting in to this project. Period.

2. Based on my current outline, there will be non-con later on in the story. Consider yourselves warned. I'll make sure I flag the chapter when I get to it, and highlight the section so that it can be skipped if the reader desires to have the event remain off screen.

Sorry to babble. If you like, please review...I've been gratified by all the nice things y'all say, and amazed by how helpful and motivating I find them. I can't say how much I appreciate them. Anyway. Enough of me talking. ON TO THE SMUT.

Dean was bored.

It was an alarming state of affairs. It had taken him years to discover the existence of the soiree at Ms. Naomi's home in London. It had him months to secure an invitation. It had taken him weeks to convince himself that he was making the correct decision to attend. It had taken him days to arrange his couture precisely to match the rigorous dress code and to ensure that his identity would be sacrosanct no matter how the evening proceeded.

It had taken him a mere two hours to grow bored at the dilatory farce that turned out to be the disappointing reality.

Ms. Naomi's parlor was the height of modern fashion. The home was clearly a rental for the Season and was not to be outshone. The walls were pale green and paneled in rich orange cloth. The windows were draped in matching orange fringed in gold that gleamed faintly in the light of the ornate candelabras. Men stood in knots, in pairs and trios, holding quiet discussions while leaning against the elaborately carved marble fireplace, lying on the delicately upholstered chairs, or standing on the fine Persian carpets.

A man dressed in an extremely well made suit walked by. His only concession to the anonymity of the party was an elaborate white feathered mask that failed to hide brown eyes, thin pale lips, an aquiline nose, and slate gray hair. No amount of tailoring could hide a body on the twilight side of middle age, with a paunchy stomach and unappealingly thick legs. Behind his own mask, Dean rolled his eyes. The man looked in all directions as if searching for someone, circling the sitting room before settling on Dean with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Good evening, Mr…?" The white-masked man's voice was sleek and overly polished. Everything about it oozed insincerity and disingenuousness. Dean started at being addressed so. In his life, he had never been to a party where it was appropriate for a stranger to approach and beg an introduction. He'd never been to a party like this one.

Though he felt exposed, Dean reminded himself that his mask granted him anonymity, and anonymity gave safety, power, and escape from the social conventions by which he was used to being constrained. That was why he was here, after all. "Asmodeus," Dean said with what confidence he could muster. The name had been carefully selected to match both his costume and the locale, and Dean had been disappointed that thus far no one had recognized the import of his choice. There wasn't a flicker of familiarity with the name from the white-masked man, either. Only a lifetime of good breeding kept Dean from sighing audibly.

Could the people here be any more boring?

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Asmodeus," the man gave a passably elegant bow, taking Dean's hand and kissing it. Dry lips and wispy feathers tickled, and a tongue flicked out, lightly licking Dean's sun-darkened skin. It was a highly unappealing combination of sensations. "I am known as Mr. Zachariah. I hope you are enjoying your first time amongst our numbers?"

"I have felt very welcome, I'm sure," Dean said, unable to keep a trace of his true feelings from his voice.

"And will you have a dance this evening?" The eager light was back in Zachariah's eyes, and his mouth was parted in a grin so wide that Dean could see teeth

"I'm afraid I rarely dance," Dean said as discouragingly as he could while remaining in the bounds of polite behavior. He wasn't sure if they met a literal dance – there was one, just one room over – or if the word alluded to less proper behavior, but he wanted no part of either with Zachariah.

"Ah," said Zachariah, completely missing the hint. "I expect this evening you will find the dancing partners far more agreeable than normal."

"I do, yes," he said neutrally. "Thank you." Zachariah showed no signs of leaving. With a jolt, Dean realized that he recognized the man. Between the features that Zachariah had not deigned to hide, the turn of his voice, and his stubborn unwillingness to understand standard social cues, he could be no other than the infamous Mr. Alder of –––––– Street. The man was a reputed pederast, indeed it was almost certain, though little could be done about it due to his stature. Society assumed that men like Dean were interchangeable with men like Zachariah. It had taken Dean his youth and his formative years to come to terms with his inescapable preference, and in so doing he'd come to understand how completely different the two truly were. Enjoying the company of adult men who consented, who wished for Dean as he wished for them, was not unclean no matter how taboo it might be. It bore no comparison to the crime of taking the innocence of a youth as yet incapable of understand what they were consenting to. Zachariah and men like him sickened Dean.

Out of the corner of his eye, through the open doorway that led to the ballroom, he caught a flutter of white, blue and black. "So, Mr. Asmodeus," continued Zachariah obliviously. "Do–"

"If you will excuse me?" Dean interrupted. He smiled and gave a slight nod, hoping to pass off his departure as anything other than grossly impolite. Walking away, he could feel a gaze burning into him, but he refused to look back.

At the most rapid stately pace Dean could manage, he entered the grand ballroom. A group of musicians occupied a raised dais at the far side of the room, standing or sitting as their instruments demanded. They were the only people in the room who were not wearing masks and costumes. Instead, they wore thick blindfolds through which nothing could be seen, playing their instruments by rote. The music was sedate and entirely prosaic. The room was vast, papered in pale pink with raised molding painted silver. Red velvet curtains were drawn closed over the enormous windows. Three chandeliers lined the ceiling, blazing with innumerable candles whose light was multiplied by swags of pure crystal teardrops. Mahogany and oak interlocked in an intricate diamond pattern, the parquet floor polished until it gleamed. The room reeked of money, polish, and the musky scents with which men were fond of anointing themselves. With the faint whisper of shoes brushing the floor, cloth scraping cloth, hands clasping hands, Dean stood to one side and watched the strangest dance he had ever seen.

Every person on the floor was a man.

The soiree had been billed as a masquerade, and Dean had accoutered himself appropriately. On arriving, he'd discovered that nearly everyone chose for normal garb, jacket and breeks or pantaloons as the individual's taste required. Many wore additional flourishes, doe's skin gloves or elaborate jewelry or had selected unusual fabric or bright colors, but the outfits themselves were not atypical. Even most of the masks were relatively dull. Case in point was the couple currently promenading beneath the arms of two separated lines of dancers. A tall man wore a jacket in a tawny brown, tan pantaloons and court shoes, his mask making his face appear like that of an eagle. Beside him, a heavy set fellow stretched a bright green satin over his girth and wore loose offensively yellow breeks, and a crude Guy Fawkes mask. Disappointed, frustrated with himself for having expected better of the some of London's supposedly most fashionable, Dean shook his head.

The next couple made their way down the line, one dressed in a completely white suit with a plain white mask depicting classical tragedy covering his features, and the other...Dean froze. The other was a costume, a true costume as Dean did, and he was captivated by it.

The man was a little shorter than Dean and he suspected leaner, though it was hard to tell because of what he wore. Draped white fabric swathed his entire body except for his feet, on which he wore golden sandals. A matching gold belt was artfully placed to hold all of that cloth around the man's body even as he danced enthusiastically. His mask appeared to be porcelain, thin worked and painted with the delicate, lifelike colors of a girl's doll. It was topped by a thick crop of disheveled black hair. Somehow mounted on his back were wings, roughly the length of his torso, beautifully made with feathers of the deepest black. They caught the light and shimmered purple and green. Blue eyes swept the room, brightened with exertion and laughter. Dean was captivated. He moved around the room so that he could get a better look, acquiring a glass of Champaign so that he would have an excuse to lurk along the wall and sip quietly, hopefully undisturbed. The man was in the line of dancers facing him. For an instant, their eyes met, blue piercing through him. Dean swallowed, feeling a rush of heated emotion as he imagined those eyes staring into his soul as the man pressed Dean's body into a mattress.

Well, Dean was certainly no longer bored.

Finishing his drink, he self-consciously adjusted his mask, stiff blackened leather tooled into the form of a monstrous face with a long nose, ears shaped like bat wings, and a mouth painted devilishly blood red. Cloth attached to the mask covered his hair, and a thick black cape drenched his figure in yards of fabric. The only flesh he showed was one hand, in which he held a shepherd's crook. He'd thought it a good joke, but again, no one had shown the least sign of recognizing it.

Until now. The blue-eyed angel took advantage of another couple working down to the line to give Dean a frankly appraising look, his eyes delightfully expressive. In their stunning depths, Dean saw curiosity, interest, and amusement. He smiled back, though no one could see, hoping his own eyes were as communicative of the extent to which he reciprocated.

The hour was growing later, and fewer and fewer men lingered alone around the periphery of the room. Those few that remained, who yet wanted for partners, approached Dean, but he made no sign of acknowledging them. None had Zachariah's audacity, all accepted his polite refusal and moved on. He devoured the sight of the angel on the dance floor, noting that the lithe man moved easily and that his partner was consistently failing to initiate conversation. It seemed to Dean that the blue-eyed angel kept stealing glances at him, and he desperately hoped he was not wrong. He needed this so much. Only desperation would have led him to such an assembly.

With a flourish, the music ended, and the couples on the floor began to scatter. Some, laughing, waited breathlessly for the next set to begin. Some separated, finding the company not as amenable as they had hoped, and searched for others with whom to partner. Some broke towards the exits for the room, seeking someplace quiet to speak or heading for the staircase that lead upstairs to privacy. Normally, it would have been scandalous for guests to intrude on the family living quarters. There was nothing normal about this party, and throughout the evening more and more men had departed in that direction. It was, after all, the true purpose of the entire gathering: a safe, anonymous place for men to engage with likeminded individuals.

It had been a long time since Dean had the luxury of indulging his preferences.

He was watching the last group depart, feeling surprisingly wistful, when a low, rough voice spoke behind him. "Good evening."

Dean turned, a polite rebuke already coming to his lips, when he stopped dead. It was the blue-eyed angel. He'd never dreamed that the form he saw dancing so effortlessly, eyes glittering with exertion and pleasure, could have such a voice. The erotic fantasy in his mind blossomed into more full life, blue eyes meeting his, sinewy muscle enfolding him, that unbelievable voice moaning his name in pleasure.

"Good evening," he managed, proud of his ability to maintain the niceties despite the stirring in his breeks. His shapeless costume had many advantages, not least of which was hiding arousal. It was demonstrating a major disadvantage, though – as heat rose in his veins, he found it suffocatingly hot beneath the fabric.

"I am Castiel," said the man.

"Asmodeus," Dean said. "Is it a coincidence that it's Thursday, Mr. Castiel?"

Castiel chuckled. "Are you truly lusty, Mr. Asmodeus?" Dean grinned, though he knew Castiel couldn't see him. Finally, someone had understood his carefully selected pseudonym.

A wicked thought occurred to him, the kind of thing he could never have done in reputable company. Anonymity had many advantages, though, and suddenly he felt daring in a way that he'd never been in his whole life. Bravery on the hunt, gallantry towards others, those were familiar, but he'd never been forward in social situations. Until now, until this blue-eyed angel filled his head with irresistibly enticing thoughts. Leaning forward, he drew so close to Castiel that the ears of Dean's masks brushed the doll's delicate cheek. "Perhaps you will have the chance to find out, Mr. Castiel." That close, he could hear Castiel's breathing grow momentarily ragged. The subtle change only increased Dean's desire.

The music began, a few brief bars to warn the couples to line up and indicate what the dance would be. Feet scuffed on wood and conversation died down as the floor filled with men once more.

"Would you care to join me for the next set, Mr. Asmodeus?"

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Castiel." Dean leaned his shepherd's crook against the wall.

Reaching out, Castiel took Dean's hands. Strong, lithe fingers seized his own, made rough and calloused by Dean's favorite outdoor pastimes, riding and hunting. In the first shock of contact, Dean imagined what the man might do for hobbies that gave his grip such strength yet did nothing to reduce the lush smoothness of his skin – did he play the piano, paint, or was he fond of writing? Such innocent thoughts quickly vanished as Dean's imagination took flame and he imagined how those fingers might feel pressed bruisingly hard into his skin or curled around his member, caressing and rubbing.

An arm tugged him firmly, and he realized he'd been oblivious to the beginning of the dance. Castiel laughed. "Mr. Asmodeus, I imagined you a better dancer than this."

"My apologies, Mr. Castiel. I will do my best not to embarrass you."

They danced for several minutes in silence, stepping through complex forms, trading partners, weaving with the many other happy men. Dean lost himself in the unexpected delight of sharing in the steps with a partner he would truly have chosen. It was nothing like the dances he'd been forced into as a youth, required to stand up with each girl present lest he offend any, denied the opportunity to stay with those few he found congenial lest he give the wrong impression. His wife was the only dance partner he'd truly enjoyed before this. Charlotte, his darling, sweet Charlie, was the greatest blessing of his life, a woman who desired as little of him as he desired of her. They had fulfilled their familial duties and produced two fine children, now three and six, and that done neither had ever touched the other again. They happily put on the appearance of a fond husband and doting wife, easily done since they truly cared for each other. Charlie spent her nights with her dear, darling spinster friend – poor Ms. Harvelle, no dowry with which to find a husband, so lucky to have such a school friend to take her in! If only men had similar options. Dean envied her. Perhaps, if he were very lucky, he'd find a younger son with few prospects whom he cared for and who cared for him and might be interested in some manner of arrangement. He'd hardly let himself dream of such, it seemed so unachievable.

Every time he turned around, every time he passed down the line, he was greeted by Castiel's beaming eyes, focused on him as if not another soul existed in the world. Meeting that gaze as he took Castiel's hand, for the first time Dean formed the least idea of what that impossible dream might truly resemble.

"This is your first time at Ms. Naomi's, correct?" asked Castiel, voice low and rough as he grew breathless from dancing.

"Indeed," said Dean. "It is quite an elite group. I found it quite challenging to gain admittance."

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Honestly?" Dean chuckled. He was, ultimately, a painfully honest man. Subterfuge disgusted and infuriated himself. It was a cruel irony that he was forced to live much of his life as a lie. He found small solace that those about whom he cared the most – his brother Samuel, the family's long-time gameskeeper Robert, his governess Ellen, and Charlie of course – knew the truth, and didn't value him less for what he was, nor lose respect for him because of the myths he was forced to maintain.

"Always!" Castiel said brightly. Dean wished he could see the smile that so clearly accompanied those words.

"Honestly, I found the early parts of my evening insipid, and felt the first glimmers of despair. However, since then things have taken a surprising turn. It must be the dancing, it is quite stimulating. And you, Mr. Castiel?"

"Entirely the same," said Castiel with evident delight. "I am of your opinion in every regard."

"Remarkable," Dean said. He and Castiel were at the top of the figure. Joining their hands, they skipped to the end of the line, hopped a few kicking, prancing steps, and skipped back. "I don't believe I have ever shared a dance partner with whom I did not differ in at least one major regard."

"It's a gratifying experience, is it not?"

"Very gratifying," Dean couldn't stop grinning like a boy promised pudding, and he wished that Castiel could see how much pleasure the angel's words gave him. He attempted to communicate it all with his eyes, though with no clue as to how successful the endeavor was. "How long have you been attending this gatherings, Mr. Castiel?"

"This is my fourth," Castiel replied as they resumed their places in the line. The music paused. All of the men who had been leading changed their stance so that they would be following, and all the men who had been playing the women's part switched so that they would lead the couple. Dean took Castiel's hands and led him through a figure eight. "I have done naught but dance at any of my prior excursions..." Dean was certain he did not imagine the way the sentence lingered with words unspoken, and lust surged in his veins. Damn, he hoped that communicated in his eyes, as well. "I have found that a simple dance is a fine way to grow more acquainted with someone. It reveals so much more than mere conversation can."

"Oh?" Dean imbued with simple word with genuine curiosity.

"Body language speaks quite loudly," Castiel said. They were serenading around the slick floor, providing them an ideal time to speak. "It reveals athleticism, coordination, memory, endurance...and of course, there's the conversation. You would be shocked how many people struggle with even the most basic discourse while their feet and arms are otherwise occupied."

"My dear Mr. Castiel, it would not shock me in the least," said Dean. "I have shared many an unsatisfactory dance, a truly sad number of such. Indeed, I think I can say this is the only truly satisfying experience of the kind I have ever had."

They linked arms loosely and spun slowly around each other, affording Dean a fantastic opportunity to stare into those stunningly blue eyes. They were alive with happiness, and Dean felt his last doubts fade away.

"It is a delight to me that you feel so," confessed Castiel. "And a relief! Though we had thus far concurred in so many respects, I feared that I was alone in finding this particular dance so far superior to the others of its kind in which I've engaged."

There was no opportunity to reply for several minutes, as the group came together once more and the couples stepped back into lines. Dean's heart raced faster and faster, his body thrummed with anticipation. It was growing increasingly difficult to dance well for the weight between his legs. Finally, mercifully, the music came to a trailing, lilting stop, and the couples bowed to each other.

The moment it was appropriate to do so, Castiel closed the space between them. He took Dean's arm forcefully and steered him towards one of the exits from the room.

"You've said several things I find intriguing, Mr. Asmodeus," Castiel said. His voice was husky and breathless, his grip appealingly possessive. "I was hoping we might have the opportunity to discuss them in more depth."

"Certainly, Mr. Castiel," Dean tried to repress his enthusiasm. It would be unseemly to demonstrate too much excitement. He did not wish to appear desperate. He was desperate, but appearing so was unthinkable. "Certainly." He licked his lips. "Certainly." Castiel laughed.

"Are you well?" Castiel asked with mock concern. "You sound unwell. Perhaps you should lie down and rest. I believe there is a sitting room upstairs where you may lounge until you recover from the efforts of our dance."

"Thank you," Dean couldn't hold back a delighted laugh. Could Castiel be any more perfect? "Perhaps that would be best. Do lead the away, as you are more familiar with the house than I."

They walked through two of the lovely rooms. The first was empty save for a man dressed as Arlecchino playing the piano while a man dressed as Colombina leaned on the keyslip with a dreamy look in his eyes. The second housed a cluster of men talking animatedly about politics, amusingly reminiscent of any normal party. Castiel confidently walked by them and to a doorway that he opened to reveal a servants staircase. Climbing to the second floor, they stepped out into a hallway dimly lit by bronze sconces, no less stylish for being in the private parts of the home, with wallpaper striped in dark and light green and lustrous wooden floors. Most of the doors were closed, and the unmistakable sounds of passion leaked, muffled, into the open. It was impossible not to blush. It was easily the most scandalous thing Dean had encountered in his entire life.

At the far end of the hall, a single door stood open. The mortifying prospect of encountering another couple – whether they emerged from one of the rooms currently occupied or came up the second staircase and sought the only vacancy – left Dean looking every which way and holding his breath, biting his lip nervously. Fortune was with them, however. They didn't pass another soul, they reached the room, Castiel closed and bolted the door shut, and Dean finally released the breath he held.

It was a small room, containing nothing but a bed, two chairs and a small table. The walls and bedding were both deep blue, a color to compete with Castiel's eyes but for the gleam of life and joy. A single lamp stood on the table, shedding a shaky light over the whole.

"Shall we sit?" asked Dean uncertainly.

"I think that would be wisest," Castiel agreed. Turning, Castiel went to the armchair. Dean hastily undid the clasps holding his heavy cloak closed. The small room was close, and Dean felt like he was boiling beneath the layered fabric. Beneath it, he wore a jacket fitted to his torso as if it had been painted on, showing off the broad shoulders and narrow waist that were the result of his constant physical activity. Breeks clad his legs closely, stretched over every muscle, crotch obviously swollen by his hardened cock. As Castiel glanced back to see why he hadn't followed, Dean had the enjoyment of watching the other man's eyes widen at the sight of him, his pupils spreading black through beautiful blue, unmistakable desire punctuated by a faint gasp. Dean was glad for his mask covering his blush. "I may have spoken too soon," murmured Castiel, voice thick with desire.

Dean took his seat.

For long moments they stared at each other. The light flickered over Castiel's doll face oddly, the painted features of a boy's face flat and lifeless and distantly sinister. He wondered how demonic his appearance had become, but Castiel didn't show the least sign of minding. He wasn't even sure that Castiel had noticed. Castiel's eyes never left his own.

"Is this your first time?" Dean finally broached the topic at hand tentatively.

"No," said Castiel. It had the air of a confession, with a hint of embarrassment behind it. "It is my fourth time attending, after all. Is it yours?"

"No," Dean said, his words tentative as well. "However, it is been some years."

"We do not have to..." Castiel paused, and Dean heard a faint pop, of hesitation over a word, or perhaps of lips being licked. "I mean..."

"I believe you have already observed how much I would like to," Dean said. There was that amazing anonymity, giving him bravery he'd never thought he'd possess to seek that which he craved.

"Yes," breathed Castiel. He half rose from the chair, hands on the arm rests. "May I..."

Completely unsure what he was agreeing to, and not minding one bit, Dean nodded firmly. Without ever breaking eye contact, Castiel approached, knelt beside Dean's chair, and laid a hand on Dean's knee. Even that touch, through the thin fabric of his trousers, was enough to send a tingle through Dean's body. Castiel's palm was hot, and his fingers rubbed gently against Dean's flesh. He didn't move for a long moment, and he made a sound that Dean was certain was his tongue flicking over his lips. With a squeeze, Castiel began to massage up Dean's thigh. Slouching into the contact, Dean let his head fall back against the top of the chair back, and his body slide towards Castiel's hand, breath rushing from his lungs with a needy sound. "Cas..." he sighed the name out.

"I want to make you feel so good, Asmodeus," murmured Castiel. The hand brushed over Dean's erection, and he moaned irrepressibly. "Keep making those sweet noises." A second hand joined the first, one on the inside of each of his thighs, spreading his legs slightly as if Castiel could read in Dean's mind everything that he wanted. Confident movements caressed and toyed with the skin, so sensitive through his trousers, sparing sparse attention for his aching member. Dean's entire body pulsed in time to his racing heart, each beat a flare of heat and light in his head that spiked when Castiel touched him. Breathing raggedly, he let each whimper and gasp escape his lips, enjoying the answering roughness of Castiel's inhalations.

Suddenly the contact was gone, and Dean moaned hugely. "Don't worry, my beautiful demon," said Castiel. His voice was gravel, a sound like nails scouring Dean's skin. He moaned again, he couldn't help it. "I have an idea."

Lifting his head with difficulty, Dean watched through liquidy eyes as Castiel retrieved Dean's cloak. Spreading the fabric over Dean's lap, Castiel held Dean's eyes as his hands slipped beneath the fabric, questing over his quivering flesh. Fingers touched him unexpectedly, ghostly, movements hidden by the obscuring cape. Dean started at every contact, breath hitching. Castiel seized Dean's hips and slid him further down the chair, flicking along his waist band until they found the buttons to undo his breeks. Getting a sense of what Castiel intended, Dean lifted his hips and allowed Castiel to lower the garment, releasing him from the tight confines of the fabric. Those gorgeous fingers closed around him, and he groaned and thrust needily into the grip.

"This isn't right," he murmured abstractly. "I want to touch you, Castiel, I want to..."

"Shh," Castiel whispered. "You will. Relax." He stroked over Dean's hardness, firm and confident, and paused to swirl at the liquid slowly leaking from Dean. "I've dreamed of doing this for someone," Castiel continued, tone as if he were talking to himself. With quick movements, Castiel stuck his head underneath the thick fabric, his hands left Dean despite a desperate half-thrust in pursuit, then something soft and warm and wet closed around his head, and it was easily the most amazing thing that Dean had ever felt.

A moan shuddered through his entire body as he every muscle in his body tensed and pushed into the contact. It was Castiel's mouth, it must be Castiel's mouth, sinful and awe inspiringly good. Underneath the black cloak, Castiel had removed his mask and...the lips moved further down him and obliterated any rational thought.

"That feels..." he groaned as a delicate tongue flicked over him, licking over and over again at the sensitive opening even as the lips continued to bob up and down. "Good God..." He needed more, oh, he needed more so much more. His hand trembled uncontrollably as he found the back of Castiel's head and pressed on him, encouraging him lower. A chuckle vibrated against him enticingly and he whimpered. "Castiel, please." He strained to hold his hips still as Castiel teased him, taking a little more of his length only to draw back out again, then a little more, and back, a little more. "Please." The word was so breathy he wasn't sure it intelligible. Castiel drew all the way out and returned to teasing at him, refusing to surrender to the pressure of Dean's hand. Light, sucking kisses traced the vein taut on the lower side of Dean's cock, vibrated along the ridge just before the head, tantalized his aching tip. "Plea..." Gasping, tears obscured Dean's vision as Castiel's mouth suddenly enveloped him and the head of his member his a solid barrier. Unbelievable sensation flooded him, the heat doubling and redoubling. Castiel found a rhythm, up and down, sucking, placing pressure on Dean again and again until he thought he would explode. "No," he barely managed. "Stop. You have to..." He sobbed in loss as Castiel obeyed him, pulling away when he was moments from spilling into the beautiful angel's mouth.

There was a wet sound as Castiel swallowed. He ran a taunting finger through the slick saliva coating Dean, chuckling low as Dean panted in desperation.

"You've never done that before, Mr. Asmodeus?" he said lasciviously. There was a shifting beneath the cloak, and Castiel emerged, masked once more.

"Perhaps I am less experienced than I thought," Dean admitted.

Castiel leaned close and whispered throatily in his ear, "Shall we learn together?" Lithe hands went to the golden belt and it came unclasped. Castiel gave a tiny shrug, and the fabric enclosing his body all fell away. Beneath, he wore a harness that bore the wings. He removed those as well, carefully setting the fantastic apparatus to the ground.

The sight of Castiel naked was breathtaking. His body was slim and finely muscled, his skin deliciously pale and smooth enough to make many women jealous. His chest was hairless, but near his belly there began a thin trail of black that widened and thickened as it led down to his beautiful erection. Dean had never looked at another man's intimate anatomy and thought it beautiful – strong, thick, appealing, many other things, yes, but not beautiful. Castiel was, though, delicate skin flushed red with desire, long and curved and incredibly appealing. Surging forward, Dean leapt to his feet and enfolded the gorgeous man. He wrapped one arm powerfully around Castiel's back, lay his head on Castiel's shoulder, and clasped Castiel's exquisite, enticing member in his calloused hand. Castiel moaned, a sound combining relief and surprise, and Dean felt a surge of possessiveness and strength.

Unrestrainedly, he stroked Castiel like he was precious, adoring the way that fair body seemed to melt against him, the mewls that leaked from Castiel's lips, the feel of sensitive skin against his rough flesh. Every sound forced twitches from Dean's arousal, and he rutted against Castiel's thigh. Fumbling, Castiel's hands sought the buttons of Dean's clothing, removing them as best he could even as his hips twitched him into every pump of Dean's fist, even as the sounds bursting from his lips grew less inhibited and more full of lust. Insistent tugging at his jacket forced Dean to release Castiel as the blue-eyed angel stripping Dean of his remaining layers quickly, dropping down to remove his pants. Breathing hard, barely close enough that each inhalation brushed their skin and each exhalation separated them, they both stood bare but for their masks.

Damnable masks! Every iota of Dean's mind screamed for them to kiss, for their lips to meet, for him to taste himself inside that talented mouth, for Castiel's tongue to invade him and own him. It was forbidden, though. The rules of the soiree were clear: bodies were fair games but faces were off limits. Faces could give away secrets that other flesh rarely could. For the first time, he wished he'd worn a more revealing mask, one that showed his lips as some of the other men's had.

Their bodies pressed together, arms entwining and binding them close. They held their heads side by side, and simultaneously burst into vocal, longing sounds as their members met and rubbed together. They shamelessly ground each other, delicious friction derived from the closeness of their flesh, and Dean felt himself getting closer again. He felt like he couldn't draw enough air. He wanted to tumble over that edge, wanted to take Castiel with him, but there was something else he wanted even more. Abruptly, he raised his hands to Castiel's shoulders and forced them apart.

For a moment, they stood that way, both breathing hard and trembling.

"What is it you want, Mr. Asmodeus?"

Dean felt a flush of shame for the first time since they'd begun to interact. It never felt natural to ask, even when he wanted so much he could cry. And oh, he would, if he were denied now he would simply break down and sob, he needed to feel Castiel more than he'd ever needed anything. Everything had been for this moment, for the thing he'd never been able to bring himself to ask anyone for.

"Don't be ashamed," there was a coy note in Castiel's voice. Stepping back, breaking all contact between them, Castiel retreated until he bumped into the bed. He allowed his knees to give way, and he slid back atop the blankets, spreading his legs wantonly wide. "It's alright."

Breath rushed from Dean. It was a beautiful thing, to see that Castiel wanted him, to see that beautiful body pale against a sea of deep blue blankets, that thick, red erection bobbing and twitching, that fine pink hole ready for someone to fill up that angelic form.

It wasn't what Dean wanted, though.

"No," he breathed out, so hoarse and nervous that he could hardly articulate. "No," he tried again with better success. "That's not..." He met Castiel's spectacular eyes. Castiel's breath caught, and his pupils dilated full black. "That's not what I want." His confidence grew. Castiel quivered with barely restrained power, and Dean knew, looking at him, that Castiel wanted this too. "What do you want, Mr. Castiel?"

Slowly, each breath sending tremors through Castiel's body, the angel rose. Like a stalking predator, he circled Dean, looking him up and down. Dean knew he was good looking, his skin darkened with a natural brown undertone, his muscles honed, and he could see that Castiel appreciated it. After two times around, Castiel stopped behind him. Strong hands settled on Dean's shoulders, pressed firmly into the blades, palmed down the flesh of his lower back, and finally settled on his buttocks, kneading powerfully. Dean groaned as each movement manipulated the sensitive skin around his entrance. This was what he wanted, what he'd always truly wanted, what he'd never had. The types of men with whom he'd slept, hired from darkened allies, were not those of whom he could request such a thing. He'd felt them tight around him, heard their apparent enjoyment of every jerking thrust he made deep within their bodies, and yearned with all his being for their positions to be reversed. This was what he had come to Ms. Naomi's for.

A thumb pressed against him, pushed in, and he thought his body would fail him, thought his knees would give out, thought his bones would melt with pleasure.

"It's a night of firsts," desire laced Castiel's voice, low and erotic. His breath brushed along Dean's neck.

"Yes," said Dean as the thumb swirled over the puckered flesh. He bent slightly, forcing his rear more firmly against Castiel's hands. "Yes," a groan ripped out of him as Castiel past tight muscles into his virgin interior. It burned and hurt and rubbed and felt like absolute heaven. "Yes!"

Hard heat met the cleft of Dean's butt, Castiel's erection coming to rest between his cheeks. The thumb came out of him, hands seized his hips, and Castiel walked him forward, rutting against him at every step. Dean's knees gave way as they reached the bed, and he collapsed against it bent forward, masked face pressed into the soft bedding, butt raised shamelessly. Castiel stepped away, and Dean repressed a distressed cry into a mewl of longing. He was so sensitized that even the fine linens felt amazing, and he rubbed his body against them, thrusting his hips weakly to feel the drag of fabric over his member. There was a clatter of a drawer opening and closing, a moist sound, then Castiel was back.

A finger tip brushed over him. Where before it had been rough, skin catching on skin, now it was velvety, liquid coating Castiel's hand chill against his flesh. The finger meandered over the outside of his opening, spreading the moisture. It felt so chill, Dean's flesh so hot, he couldn't understand how it didn't sizzle like water cast onto flames. Need choked at his guts, sublimating hot pleasure into a bonfire of desperation. There was nothing, nothing in him, and he needed it so much. So much. There was room for no other thought in his mind. Something had to fill him. He'd waited a lifetime for it, he couldn't bear the anticipation another moment. He pressed against Castiel's hand, mumbling incoherent pleas.

"Beautiful, naughty demon," Castiel's voice curled around him like a hot embrace. "You truly want me this much?"

"Yes, angel, please," he begged.

The finger filled him, and a cry erupted from his lips, his back arching away from the bed towards the contact. The painful part was gone, the liquid easily lubricating him, and all that was left was the amazing feeling of something pressing against his eternally-neglected interior. It felt right, profoundly correct, and he craved more. Falling back to the bed, he pressed his rear back until he could feel Castiel's knuckle against his skin.

There was stunned silence. Castiel didn't move.

"Please, angel," Dean mouthed into the vile leather of his mask. "Castiel, please, I need you, I need you, please don't stop, oh, please..."

With a growl, Castiel pulled the finger out and thrust it back in, hard, and Dean reveled in the trails of heat that burst throughout him, casting spots over his vision. Castiel penetrated him over and over, and Dean rocked with him, driving the single finger deeper, exposing him to feelings he'd dreamed of without beginning to guess how good they would actually feel. "More." He had no idea if the word actually left his lips. "Need..."

The motion stopped.

"Yes?" Castiel panted. "What do you need, precious...gorgeous...perfect...Asmodeus?"

"More!"

A hand brushed over the dip in Dean's spine, and that simple, relatively chaste contact nearly drove him to climax. He writhed against the bed, whimpering. A moment later, cold porcelain rubbed him, then lips pressed against his skin.

"More?" Hot breath tantalized Dean's skin.

"Please, Cas..."

Dean thought one finger was spectacular. Until a second finger joined it, stretching him, swelling him, delighting him. Castiel moved more slowly, his lips making hot trails over Dean's back as he plunged in and pulled back gently. Fingers embedded to the hilt, Castiel paused, exploring, grazing lightly along the Dean's inner walls. Dean tried to hold still, determined not to come before he'd even felt Castiel's perfect cock inside him, but it was growing increasingly difficult to hold himself back. This felt unbelievably good, yet the urgent voice in his thoughts yet cried out for more.

Castiel pulled out nearly all the way. There was pressure against his entrance, Dean felt the muscles straining and flexing and giving and then he was filled with three fingers buried deeply, unmovingly, within him. Castiel made slight movements that felt monumental to Dean, every twitch of a finger, every slight bend of a joint was electric. As Castiel lingered, not pulling back out, Dean realized there the movements were systematic, that Castiel was searching for something. Dean had no idea what was going on. It felt nice, but not like the thrusting had, that constant friction of in and out. Impatient, he tried to force Castiel to return to resume the required pulse, but Castiel only laughed against his skin, licking at his salty sweat as his fingers continued to feel along inside of Dean.

White hot pleasure exploded through his mind, blanking everything. A loud sound filled his ears

Sense returned an instant later. The sound was his own cry, amplified as Castiel leaned into him and groaning so hard it vibrated through Dean's entire body. Dean was tensed against the bed, legs trembling as they forced his bottom towards that unspeakable feeling.

"What was that?" he was amazed he was able to form a coherent sentence.

"It's good, right?" Castiel said. He crowded closer to Dean, forehead pressed to Dean's spine, cock a rod of fire against Dean's buttocks.

"Do it again!" Dean demanded. Castiel drew his fingers out completely, drew away from him, left him quivering, ignoring Dean as he practically howled in frustration. "Do it again!"

"Oh, I will," promised Castiel. Hands rubbed along Dean's legs, massaging and relaxing the knotted muscles, easing him back down. A knee pushed against his thigh, encouraging him to spread his legs wider apart, and Dean did so, feeling occasional brushes of the unmistakably hot, smooth flesh of Castiel's cock.

"I've waited...I've waited for you forever, Castiel. Please..."

"Your wish is my command, Asmodeus."

Thick hardness pushed against Dean's entryway, spreading him open, filling him slowing, stretching him, taking him as he'd longed to be taken his entire life. It was agonizingly paced by necessity, pressure building within him to the point of pain, and his breath came in gasps. "Are you okay?" It sounded like speaking had suddenly become much harder for the beautiful angel. "This feels...demon, you feel..." he groaned as he pressed his thighs against Dean's buttocks, as far inside as he could go.

It hurt, a little, and it felt perfect, a lot perfect, unspeakably perfect. This was it. This was right. No one could ever tell him otherwise.

Castiel took hold of Dean's hips and rocked backwards, pulling Dean with him as he did. Fingers dug into his skin, shaking hands guiding him to where Castiel wanted their bodies to be. They shifted together, Castiel's thrusts growing gradually harder and deeper and more insistent.

The spectacular feeling flooded liquid fire through him once again. "There," he exclaimed breathlessly. Castiel repeated the motion with a moan. "Yes!" Dean tangled his hands in the sheets, desperate to cling to something as it felt like the entire world was washing away around him. "Don't stop!" Everything was whiteness and burning and need and fulfillment and bliss.

"Asmodeus," Castiel moaned out his name long and low. "I never thought anything could feel this good." He thrust hard. "Oh God!" He rolled into Dean over and over, until Dean couldn't see for the brightness behind his eyes, until nothing existed except for the glorious cock buried within him and the desperate need throbbing between his own legs. With fumbling fingers, he tried to get a hold of himself. A strong grip grabbed his hand, and together he and Castiel wrapped around his member.

Moving as one, Castiel thrust, Dean's hips met him, their hands stroked him. Castiel moan and faltered, they gripped Dean and both jerked him hard, and Dean was enveloped in ecstasy, splattering semen into the once pristine blankets. "Cas...yes...oh, yes..." He rocked weakly through his climax, desperate to draw out each echo as he felt them slip away. "Castiel...my angel..."

With a primal groan, Castiel thrust again, his hardest yet, balls slapping on flesh as Castiel embedded in him and at that glorious center of divine pleasure again. Dean twitched and clenched as the feeling bordered into pain, it was so good. "Asmodeus!" the cry burst from Castiel's lips. "God, I..." Castiel thrust again spasmodically. "I..." Whatever he intended to say died on his lips as he cried out and came.

Neither moved for long moments. Sweat made a chill trail down Dean's spine, he struggled to regain control of his breathing, and he could feel Castiel slowly growing flaccid within him.

Castiel withdrew himself from Dean and collapsed onto the bed beside him. Weakly, Dean twisted onto his side and closed the space between them. His semen-stained hand crept to Castiel's body, tracing lines in sticky white over the smooth skin he'd hardly gotten to touch at all. Castiel whimpered, and Dean chuckled – giggled, really – into his mask.

"Thank you," Dean murmured. "I needed that. I needed you."

Castiel rolled onto his side. Their eyes met. At some point, Castiel had replaced his mask, but the dolls face meant nothing, no more than Dean's demonical one did. Clear blue eyes met green, and what they shared was beyond the need for other expression. Castiel settled a hand on the back of Dean's head and drew them together, forehead to forehead.

"No one has ever let me do that," said Castiel tenderly. The hand trailed down Dean's side, touch light against his flesh, causing him to shiver. "No one has ever trusted me to. Certainly, no one has ever asked me to, begged me to."

"Does that mean you liked it?" Dean allowed a mischievous twist to the words. He slipped a finger beneath Castiel's mask, running his thumb over plump, soft lips. Castiel gummed at him gently, drawing a faint moan from Dean.

"Very much."

"Will you be at the February soiree?" he asked, feeling suddenly shy.

"Will you?" Castiel matched him with a vulnerable catch in his voice.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he said, "as long as I can see you there, my angel of Thursday."

Castiel laughed with delight.

Good God, a month without this was going to be torture.