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Sam Winchester never thought he was particularly stressed more than the average Los Angeles Lawyer, but when his colleague mentioned how tense his shoulders seemed to be one Monday afternoon--just after what he thought was a relaxing weekend--Sam immediately seeks out a massage therapist.
Through a few recommendations and suggestions, Sam finds himself at a place called Heavenly Feet, which is definitely the most off-putting name for a massage therapy place. He has an appointment in three minutes, so he sits in the almost too-small chair in the corner of the tiny lobby.
The shop is strange, tucked into the corner of a strip mall and decorated with lots of strange woven rugs, exotic decorative plants, and dangling beads. It's almost a little too hippie-ish for Sam, but his colleague recommended this place with a one-hundred percent approval rating.
As he waits, Sam taps away at his BlackBerry, looking at the case notes he's saved there and looking for a possible argument, something to seal the case he's been working on for six weeks so it's watertight and a guaranteed win. It keeps him distracted until a man wanders out from behind the bead curtain of the only other doorway in the room.
"Are you Sam Winchester?" the employee asks, his voice so rough and tinged with a thick Russian accent that Sam has to do a double take to make sure it was coming out of the shorter, dark-haired man with incredible ocean blue eyes.
"Uh, yes," Sam answers, jumping up and sliding his phone into his pocket. "Hi."
He looks the man up and down, taking in his appearance. To be honest, Sam didn't really know what exactly he was expecting a masseuse to look like--all white? yoga pants?--but it certainly wasn't this.
The man, Castiel as he introduced himself on their way back to a small private room with a table, dons rather untraditional garb--or at least something that Sam wasn't expecting his ashiatsu massage therapist to be wearing. His clothes fit him loosely, light blue linen shirt and pants hanging from his runner's build frame.
Sam can't help but to let his eyes wander over the bit of shoulders exposed by the wide-necked shirt as they walk down the long skinny hall.
Castiel ushers him onto the cushioned table after Sam strips down to his boxers and covers him with a warmed blanket. The lighting is soft and there is some incense burning on the small counter in the corner of the room.
"What kind of pressure?" the masseuse says with a demanding tone, circling around the table.
"Uh, I'm not sure," Sam says. "I've never done this before."
"Hm, we begin with medium."
Castiel climbs on a step-stool beside the treatment table and Sam can't help but to crane his neck to watch in wonder and curiosity while the man climbs up onto his back.
"Head down." Sam immediately presses his face back into the headrest. "Good."
The first few steps onto his back are surprisingly light, perhaps to test the waters before they actually begin. Sam knows for sure that Castiel is holding onto the parallel bars that hang from the ceiling, keeping about half of his weight off of Sam.
"O.K., yes?"
"Okay," he confirms.
From there on, the pressure and weight against the middle of Sam's shoulders grows steady until nearly the entire weight of the man is pressing down on him.
It didn't particularly feel any better... until Castiel starts kneading. Soft feet and heels roll into Sam's muscle, pushing him further into the padding of the table, like he's melting. The feeling is overwhelming, like someone was unlocking each of his muscles one by one, causing his eyelids to flutter shut.
"You are very tense," Castiel says from somewhere six feet above him. "How do you survive?"
Sam chuckles but it comes out a little muffled like a wheeze as there's possibly a hundred and seventy five pounds squeezing his ribcage and rubbing into his shoulders. "I don't know anymore."
"Hm," his masseuse hums, turning to apply parallel pressure on the sides of Sam's spine, walking inch-by-inch down toward his lower back. "This good?"
Sam's about to answer with something along the lines of 'it feels fine' until Castiel hits something, something deep in his back that sends a jolt up his spine before turning him into jello.
And Sam, much against every fiber with his being lets out the most embarrassing sound.
"Oh?" Castiel says, slowing his footwork to a stop.
Sam freezes, rigidly tensing again--which is a miracle since that means he was relaxing in the first place. He scolds himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he hopes Castiel continues on, not bringing up his terribly embarrassing moan.
Surely he's not the only person to enjoy a massage enough to make noise?
"That was a pretty sound," his masseuse observes, his voice dropping lower, tone turning almost dangerous. "Let's hear you make it again."
For the next fifty-three minutes, Castiel nearly tortures Sam, making him moan as much as a freakin' pornstar, the masseuse taking pleasure in every single sound he makes. Sam's cheeks burn pink the entire time, growing more and more aware of what he sounds like with each passing moan but he just can't stop the sounds from escaping his lips.
He's never felt this good. Not ever.
It doesn't take Castiel long to find all the pressure points that need to be hit, all the points that make Sam gasp and whine. He tries to hold them back, pressing his lips into a thin line as Castiel's feet work across his back and shoulders, but he can't seem to stay quiet.
Not that his masseuse minds, he thinks. No, the man is definitely enjoying being the undoing of Sam Winchester.
In the end, Castiel leaves him feeling like he's melted right against the pleather of the treatment table. Sam can't seem to look the man in the eye when they're finished, cheeks still red regarding the pornographic sounds he made the entire hour.
"Please come again," Castiel says, holding the door to the small shop open. Sam nods but still doesn't meet his gaze, stepping through the doorway and he's almost out of earshot when he hears, "I want to hear your pretty moans again."