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ethiaI have this deep, heartfelt love for the broken and jumbled mess that’s future!Dean. He’s beautiful even in his bitterness, and as much as he’s hardened himself, he still seeks physical closeness, connecting with people around him on the one level he’s still comfortable with. ♥ I can easily see Cas getting caught up in the wake of Dean’s angry passion.
This is a break from my usual h/c routine. Hurt? Check. Comfort? Uhm, not so much.
Also, I’m still working on that longer End fic; just felt like taking my porn fu out for a test drive.
Have I mentioned that this is very, very porny?
Title: as we move towards perdition
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ethia
Rating: NC-17
Genre/Pairing: Dean/Cas, Dean/OFCs (mentioned), Cas/OFC
Spoilers: 5.04
Warnings: Mentions of torture, gore. Angst.
Word count: 3511
Summary: In which sex doesn’t equal love, and Castiel slip-slides gracelessly into humanity.
Notes: PWP, set somewhere within the five-year-timeframe given in The End, somewhat closer to 2014 than 2009. Heavily inspired by Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy’s Strange Form Of Life.
“and a dark little room across the nation, you found myself racing
forgetting the strange and the hard and the soft kiss
in the dark room”
-- Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, Strange Form Of Life
This is the first time they’re touching like this. Dean’s hands on his body feel unfamiliar and new, moving and sliding, drawing heat to the surface of Castiel’s skin wherever they go. His touch is firm and sure, and Castiel trembles under the force of it, trembles so much that he’s grateful for the firmness of the wall against his back.
The cabin is dark around them, only slivers of light creeping in through the curtains, illuminating the sharp curve of Dean’s shoulder where it curls toward Castiel. He holds himself still against the pressure of Dean’s body, the sharp cutting anger of his stance, the restless little motions of Dean’s hips as they roll into his.
Dean’s breath is hot against the side of Castiel’s face, his lips moving slowly, creating more heat in their wake. He turns his head, seeking that heat instinctively. Their mouths fuse, all heat and breath and bone deep need, and Castiel is no longer still under that firm touch as Dean’s hand reaches between his legs, his fingers curling tightly around the hard flesh they find there. Castiel’s hips snap forward, and Dean breathes out a laugh, harsh and low against Castiel’s mouth.
“Just like this, Cas,” he whispers, and Castiel throws himself into that insistent pressure, into Dean hard and hot all around him, again and again, until they both reach completion.
*
As their encounters go, this one stands out to Castiel as quietly desperate. His hand is slick with sweat and spit, and Dean twists his hips restlessly into the tightness of Castiel’s grip. Dean’s mouth is hot and wet on Castiel’s skin, and Castiel yearns for the openness of it. He curls his fingers into Dean’s hair, tipping his head back, those red, glistening lips away from his skin, bringing his lips to the edge of Dean’s mouth. He licks there, barely grazing the fullness of Dean’s lower lip, and Dean groans, bucking his hips hard.
“Oh fuck, yeah, Cas,” he breathes, and Castiel takes another lick, long and slow, along the full length of Dean’s mouth, bracing himself against the harsh thrusting of Dean’s hips. He licks again, and again, licks until he gets past the sharp tang of the whiskey Dean drank earlier, until all he tastes is Dean, until Dean spills himself hot and wet over the tight curl of Castiel’s fist, his breath stuttering harshly into Castiel’s mouth.
*
They lie spent in the late afternoon light filtering in through the curtains, sweat drying slowly on their heated skin. Castiel likes to think that it’s not just the narrowness of the cot that makes Dean curl into him like this, his arm thrown over Castiel’s side like he means to keep him there forever.
Dean’s face is hidden against the curl of Castiel’s shoulder, his breathing slow and even, his body a welcome weight against Castiel’s own. Castiel slides the tips of his fingers lightly over Dean’s back, marveling at the smoothness of his skin, cataloguing the rise and fall of each bone, the knotted hardness of each scar he encounters.
“Let me get some sleep, Cas,” Dean murmurs, and if there’s a trace of impatience in his voice, it still sounds kind to Castiel.
“Yes,” he murmurs back, his own eyes slipping closed in response to the faintest trace of weariness he feels. He should probably tell Dean about it; should tell him that earlier today, when he tried to move himself to where Chuck and the others were harvesting vegetables, he couldn’t.
But he doesn’t, letting Dean rest instead, letting him have this moment of undisturbed quiet, and if that’s a mistake, it’s one he doesn’t mind making.
*
The pain is surprisingly intense for such a small wound; it’s bleeding profusely, and Castiel feels dizzy as he watches the deep red stain in his shirt grow bigger. Dean tears the fabric apart with unnecessary force, revealing the gash underneath. Castiel looks away quickly, both from the sticky red pool of blood on his body and the hard glint in Dean’s eyes.
Dean’s hands move swiftly, and Castiel hisses each time the needle pierces his skin, and again whenever Dean pulls the thread tight. It’s the only sound that breaks the hush between them, and its terrible weight seems to settle on Castiel’s chest, until he can barely breathe around it anymore.
Dean finishes his work in silence; his anger is quiet, and all the more dangerous for it.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” he clenches out, his eyes hard and shining, his bloodstained hands curled into tight fists at his sides.
Castiel doesn’t have an answer for him, none that would satisfy, and so that’s the last he hears from Dean for the next two weeks.
*
It’s not an apology by any means, but it’s all Castiel will get, and he’s having it gladly.
They’re hidden by the deep shadows hanging between the shed and the kitchen; the cool night wind whips around them cruelly, rich with the scent of rain.
Castiel doesn’t feel the cold; he’s burning in the heat of Dean’s hands on him, one palm resting firm and sure against his stomach, the other curled unbearably tight around his cock, squeezing ever tighter with each roll of Castiel’s hips. Dean is moving forcefully against him, moving in him, and that’s still so new that Castiel can barely hold in the noises he wants to make, the raw sounds of pleasure he bites back into the confines of his chest for fear of being discovered.
Dean is breathing harshly against him, each breath washing hotly over the skin of Castiel’s back, where Dean’s pulled down his shirt to rest his face against Castiel’s bare skin. His lips are moving, quietly, endlessly, but Castiel can’t decipher any words, can only guess at the meaning as he loses himself in the press of Dean’s body.
His pleasure crests in silence, marked only by a sharp intake of breath and the curl of his fist where it rests against the wall. Dean follows almost immediately, his mouth hot and wide open against the exposed skin of Castiel’s back. He shudders, then stills, turning his face to rest it for a moment right over the hammering of Castiel’s heart. Castiel barely has time to enjoy the feel of Dean being so still, so pliant against him before he feels Dean slip away. The cold slides sharply over his skin and he turns, his back to the wall, and watches in silence as Dean tucks himself back in.
“You gotta watch out for yourself, Cas, okay? Because I can’t, I-- “ Dean says, then swallows away the rest of the sentence; his jaw clenches, and his gaze flicks down.
“I just can’t,” he whispers roughly, his eyes hard in the darkness, and then he turns and is gone just as suddenly as he appeared.
*
Dean rarely spends the night and when he does, like tonight, Castiel forces himself to stay awake for as long as he can, wanting to prolong the moment. Dean would chide him, if he knew; now that Castiel needs sleep like the rest of them, Dean makes him get as much of it as he can.
“Times have changed, Cas. You rest when you can, because the last thing we need out there is a tired soldier.”
And that’s what he is now: one of Dean’s soldiers, with a body that needs rest and touch and safety and warmth, and as he’s lying awake, with Dean’s body wrapped firmly around his own, he wonders if Dean will see to it that Castiel gets all of that.
*
Even with his powers diminished, Castiel is immune to the virus that’s raging among the last vestiges of humanity.
They find out the hard way, and maybe it’s one of the small mercies of being more human these days that he doesn’t remember much from his days in captivity.
He never asks how long he was gone, never tries to remember anything past the day that Dean appeared in the doorway of the derelict church, his shape outlined sharply against the glare of sunlight behind him. What little else Castiel remembers is already too much: like the way they split him wide open, his skin bursting like ripe fruit under the sharpness of their blades, and the bluntness of their fists.
They left him for dead, strapped to the altar and his first instinct is to hide when the dark shape that resolves itself into Dean moves closer. The sight of him makes Castiel’s heart clench sharply: he’s covered in blood, drenched in it, and his jaw is clenched so tightly that it must hurt.
“Dean,” he croaks out, and almost moans with relief at the flash of recognition in Dean’s eyes, at the wild rush of emotion that flits across his face before he reigns it in again. He is by Castiel’s side in an instant, the hunting knife clattering to the ground uselessly. His eyes are wide and dark; up this close, Castiel can see that he’s deathly pale underneath the blood splattered across his face. For a moment, he looks like he might say something, his lips working soundlessly, and then he crushes his mouth to Castiel’s, his kiss harsh and forceful. His fingers curl into Castiel’s side, right above where his skin will knit itself into a long, ugly scar. He breathes hotly into Castiel’s mouth, making a small, wounded sound, and Castiel lets his lips fall open, tasting copper and salt in the quiet desperation of Dean’s kiss.
It’s a taste Castiel will never be able to forget.
*
It took Castiel the longest time to figure out that this is what Dean needs from him.
He bends over Dean’s prone form, spit-slick fingers moving carefully in and out of Dean’s body. Dean writhes impatiently, pushing himself back into Castiel’s touch, the muscles in his back bunching underneath his flushed skin.
“Now, Cas,” he groans, rolling his hips and gasping when Castiel curls his fingers just so, brushing against that sensitive spot deep inside Dean that makes him buck and hiss with pleasure.
“Please, now, god,” and Castiel gives in to the raw need in Dean’s voice, sliding his fingers out and across the firm muscle of Dean’s lower back. He drapes himself over Dean’s body, and when he pushes in, slow slow slow because he doesn’t want to hurt Dean, it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt, hot and tight and Dean all around him, and oh--
He holds himself still, breathing deeply, dropping his forehead to the broad plane of Dean’s back, grasping for control. Dean’s always been oh so very careful at this point, and Castiel will do the same for him, even though his every instinct tells him to snap his hips forward and into the tight, delicious heat around him.
Underneath him, Dean draws in a sharp breath and lets it out again in a long drawn-out groan.
“Move, Cas, move now, please please,” he grunts, rolling his hips under Castiel’s weight and Castiel’s control snaps at the sharp tug of pleasure in his groin. He does move then, thrusting forward sharply, and Dean hisses loudly, painfully. Castiel stills himself again, trembling slightly with the effort, and Dean shakes his head, bucking up against Castiel’s weight on him.
“Don’t stop, don’t please, it’s good, it’s good, want it like that, please,” and Dean’s voice is hoarse with want, the muscles in his back trembling under Castiel’s mouth. Castiel takes a deep breath, then presses a kiss to Dean’s fevered skin, whispering, “Yes.”
This time, when he starts to move again, he doesn’t stop; keeps moving through his doubts until he feels Dean’s body pliant and open beneath him, submitting himself wholly to Castiel’s pace, breathing small, wounded animal sounds into the mattress, his mouth stretched wide open. They move together, skin to sweat-slick skin, Dean trapped between Castiel’s weight and the tight curl of his own fist tugging sharply at his cock.
Castiel’s climax is blinding; he digs his fingers hard into the flesh of Dean’s shoulders, spilling himself hotly in the tightness of Dean’s body around him even as he hears Dean cry out sharply, his whole body tensing, strung taught with his own rush of pleasure.
It’s minutes until Castiel has caught his breath; Dean pushes him off with an effort, then turns to face him, pressing their sticky-slick bodies together. He slides an arm around Castiel, pulling him closer, his kisses hard and hungry.
“Fuck me again, Cas,” he whispers, and Castiel does, shrouded in the darkness of Dean’s cabin, being as gentle as Dean lets him.
*
Winter’s bitter; the ground’s frozen solid and they’re mostly resorting to sharing body heat to keep themselves warm.
Castiel often sits with the select few that Dean would call among his friends. More often than not, a bottle is passed around, the slow burn of the alcohol creating a pretense of warmth.
Some evenings, Castiel will watch Dean out of the corner of his eyes; will watch and wait for the inevitable curl of Dean’s lips, the spark of warmth that will light up his eyes just enough to make the invitation in them plain. It’s not flirting; even Castiel with his limited experience can tell. This is something cruder, baser: the naked need for company, for the warm curl of a body around his own, to take away all thought for a while.
Castiel sits, and watches, and wonders if Dean finds what he seeks with any of the women that follow him out into the night.
*
“Why are you so bent on punishing yourself for something that isn’t your fault?” Castiel asks, and wishes he hadn’t when Dean looks up from the amber shine of whiskey in his glass, his face hard and distant. He forgot; Dean doesn’t take well to bluntness these days.
“Not my fault, really?” He takes a sip, his lips curling a little at the taste, and leans back in his chair. “Was my plan, wasn’t it, using those kids as a diversion?”
“They were of age, all of them,” Castiel says, sitting up straighter on the couch, already tasting the futility of this argument on his tongue. He shouldn’t have come over, should have avoided Dean in this mood; thing is, he couldn’t, couldn’t stop caring any more than he can stop himself from breathing.
“Barely eighteen, the lot of them. Fucking eager to make a contribution.” Dean spits out the words, his fingers curling dangerously around the glass.
Castiel runs a hand across his face, distracted for a moment by the rub and sting of his beard against his palm.
“Look, you told them to stay out of harm’s way, to keep their heads down once they--“
“Shut up, Cas, okay?” Dean clenches his jaw and looks down, then raises his glass for another sip. He sets the glass down with enough force to make Castiel jump in his seat. Despite his best efforts, he can feel his own anger rise, can feel the words align themselves on his tongue--
-- what about all the things that I lost, Dean, what about what I feel guilty for, what about --
-- and bites them back down, because this isn’t the moment, and it dawns on Castiel that maybe that moment has passed a long time ago, and they will never get it back.
“Maybe I should go,” he says instead, and his voice sounds weary even to himself. Dean looks up at that, a strange intensity in his eyes.
“Maybe,” he says softly, and there, hovering at the edge of his voice, is something Castiel hasn’t heard in a while. It sounds, to him, almost like an invitation. He rises from his seat; Dean watches him move with half-closed eyes, and the trace of that familiar heat shining in them makes Castiel blush.
Dean lets him straddle his lap; lets him draw a kiss from his lips that’s hot and hard and oh so good that Castiel finds himself groaning into the heat of Dean’s mouth.
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, and then Castiel is trapped against the desk, with Dean pressing into him, making it painful to breathe, to do anything but push himself up and into the hardness of Dean’s weight.
“You want this,” Dean murmurs, lips grazing the side of Castiel’s neck, and of course he does, will want it for as long as Dean does, and possibly longer than that.
“Please,” he says, pulling Dean in, down on top of himself, gasping at that first roll of Dean’s hips into his own, his hands grabbing at the firmness of Dean’s back, feeling the push and pull of muscles working as Dean moves against him, slipping into that familiar rhythm that’s theirs, his and Dean’s, and that he won’t ever forget.
He clings to Dean as their passion rises, reminds himself that underneath the angry shift of skin and bone he’s Dean, still Dean, no matter how distant the expression in his eyes might become.
*
Her eyes are as green as the bottle of absinthe she brings with her, and Castiel wonders, just for a moment, if maybe Dean sent her over. In the end, the answer doesn’t matter; they share the sweet flavor of the alcohol between them, Castiel drinking from a glass at first, then licking the taste from her lips as they kiss.
He can’t help comparing her to what he knows, and it’s different, but not worse, just softer somehow, and warmer, and not Dean.
She curls herself around him, all grace and softness and warmth; he marvels at the slick heat of her as he slides into her, gasping at the tight curl of her muscles gripping him as he rocks back and forth, finding a new, a different rhythm with her.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs into the soft skin of her neck, and she laughs, and it feels good, that quiet vibration, that warmth spilling around him.
She reaches her climax before he does, and that, too, is new: the way she shudders and pulses around him, making his pleasure spiral out of control, stringing him tight and crashing over him until he’s thoroughly spent. His climax makes him lazy, but no less curious: he slips out of her, then traces a hand along the inside of her thigh, sliding his fingers into the silken warmth between her legs. She gasps against him, her body tightening in his arms, and before he knows it his hand is trapped in the strong grip of her thighs, his thumb rubbing against her flesh.
“Oh,” she makes, and he watches her face this time, watches that open expression wash over her features that leaves her naked, vulnerable to his gaze.
“You’re beautiful,” he repeats, and she laughs again, her eyes shining with warmth, and he sinks into her softness, molding her warm weight to his body gratefully.
*
This is the last time they’re touching like this. He can tell, can read it in the hardness of Dean’s face, the way his hands move angrily on Castiel’s skin, like maybe he’s trying to make himself forget the feel of it, or how much he needed to touch it, once.
Castiel keeps silent as Dean takes him in his mouth; Dean’s eyes are closed, his mouth working furiously, sucking Castiel hard and fast. It feels like a punishment, somehow; like Dean saying look where this got us and never mind that Castiel didn’t get them started, because he never ended it, either.
Dean’s eyes slip open again, green and hard and angry, and Castiel places a hand in Dean’s hair, threads his fingers through the softness of it, and Dean stiffens for a moment, then lets himself be guided, his hot mouth sliding all over Castiel.
He doesn’t say a word, after; just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at Castiel with a hardness that hurts and Castiel thinks that maybe, somewhere underneath it all, Dean is trying to say sorry.
*
They pass each other on the grounds, each lost in thought. Castiel stops first, a few paces away from Dean, tilting his head in a silent query. Dean stops, too, much closer now; he reaches out and, for just a moment, Castiel is sure that Dean will touch him, will curl his fingers around his arm and pull him into the darkness between the trees; but Dean looks away, empty-handed, his jaw clenching, and strides on into the night.
*
He stands and stares up at the night sky, shivering in the cool breeze.
“Hey, Cas, you out for a walk this late?” Chuck calls, and he nods in greeting, never averting his gaze from the stars.
Cas; and that’s who he is now.
Cas, who’s almost human; who will be watching Dean’s back for as long as he can.
Who will be watching it for as long as Dean lets him.
Fin.
Feedback? Makes me happier than cookies.
This is a break from my usual h/c routine. Hurt? Check. Comfort? Uhm, not so much.
Also, I’m still working on that longer End fic; just felt like taking my porn fu out for a test drive.
Have I mentioned that this is very, very porny?
Title: as we move towards perdition
Author:
ethiaRating: NC-17
Genre/Pairing: Dean/Cas, Dean/OFCs (mentioned), Cas/OFC
Spoilers: 5.04
Warnings: Mentions of torture, gore. Angst.
Word count: 3511
Summary: In which sex doesn’t equal love, and Castiel slip-slides gracelessly into humanity.
Notes: PWP, set somewhere within the five-year-timeframe given in The End, somewhat closer to 2014 than 2009. Heavily inspired by Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy’s Strange Form Of Life.
“and a dark little room across the nation, you found myself racing
forgetting the strange and the hard and the soft kiss
in the dark room”
-- Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, Strange Form Of Life
This is the first time they’re touching like this. Dean’s hands on his body feel unfamiliar and new, moving and sliding, drawing heat to the surface of Castiel’s skin wherever they go. His touch is firm and sure, and Castiel trembles under the force of it, trembles so much that he’s grateful for the firmness of the wall against his back.
The cabin is dark around them, only slivers of light creeping in through the curtains, illuminating the sharp curve of Dean’s shoulder where it curls toward Castiel. He holds himself still against the pressure of Dean’s body, the sharp cutting anger of his stance, the restless little motions of Dean’s hips as they roll into his.
Dean’s breath is hot against the side of Castiel’s face, his lips moving slowly, creating more heat in their wake. He turns his head, seeking that heat instinctively. Their mouths fuse, all heat and breath and bone deep need, and Castiel is no longer still under that firm touch as Dean’s hand reaches between his legs, his fingers curling tightly around the hard flesh they find there. Castiel’s hips snap forward, and Dean breathes out a laugh, harsh and low against Castiel’s mouth.
“Just like this, Cas,” he whispers, and Castiel throws himself into that insistent pressure, into Dean hard and hot all around him, again and again, until they both reach completion.
*
As their encounters go, this one stands out to Castiel as quietly desperate. His hand is slick with sweat and spit, and Dean twists his hips restlessly into the tightness of Castiel’s grip. Dean’s mouth is hot and wet on Castiel’s skin, and Castiel yearns for the openness of it. He curls his fingers into Dean’s hair, tipping his head back, those red, glistening lips away from his skin, bringing his lips to the edge of Dean’s mouth. He licks there, barely grazing the fullness of Dean’s lower lip, and Dean groans, bucking his hips hard.
“Oh fuck, yeah, Cas,” he breathes, and Castiel takes another lick, long and slow, along the full length of Dean’s mouth, bracing himself against the harsh thrusting of Dean’s hips. He licks again, and again, licks until he gets past the sharp tang of the whiskey Dean drank earlier, until all he tastes is Dean, until Dean spills himself hot and wet over the tight curl of Castiel’s fist, his breath stuttering harshly into Castiel’s mouth.
*
They lie spent in the late afternoon light filtering in through the curtains, sweat drying slowly on their heated skin. Castiel likes to think that it’s not just the narrowness of the cot that makes Dean curl into him like this, his arm thrown over Castiel’s side like he means to keep him there forever.
Dean’s face is hidden against the curl of Castiel’s shoulder, his breathing slow and even, his body a welcome weight against Castiel’s own. Castiel slides the tips of his fingers lightly over Dean’s back, marveling at the smoothness of his skin, cataloguing the rise and fall of each bone, the knotted hardness of each scar he encounters.
“Let me get some sleep, Cas,” Dean murmurs, and if there’s a trace of impatience in his voice, it still sounds kind to Castiel.
“Yes,” he murmurs back, his own eyes slipping closed in response to the faintest trace of weariness he feels. He should probably tell Dean about it; should tell him that earlier today, when he tried to move himself to where Chuck and the others were harvesting vegetables, he couldn’t.
But he doesn’t, letting Dean rest instead, letting him have this moment of undisturbed quiet, and if that’s a mistake, it’s one he doesn’t mind making.
*
The pain is surprisingly intense for such a small wound; it’s bleeding profusely, and Castiel feels dizzy as he watches the deep red stain in his shirt grow bigger. Dean tears the fabric apart with unnecessary force, revealing the gash underneath. Castiel looks away quickly, both from the sticky red pool of blood on his body and the hard glint in Dean’s eyes.
Dean’s hands move swiftly, and Castiel hisses each time the needle pierces his skin, and again whenever Dean pulls the thread tight. It’s the only sound that breaks the hush between them, and its terrible weight seems to settle on Castiel’s chest, until he can barely breathe around it anymore.
Dean finishes his work in silence; his anger is quiet, and all the more dangerous for it.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” he clenches out, his eyes hard and shining, his bloodstained hands curled into tight fists at his sides.
Castiel doesn’t have an answer for him, none that would satisfy, and so that’s the last he hears from Dean for the next two weeks.
*
It’s not an apology by any means, but it’s all Castiel will get, and he’s having it gladly.
They’re hidden by the deep shadows hanging between the shed and the kitchen; the cool night wind whips around them cruelly, rich with the scent of rain.
Castiel doesn’t feel the cold; he’s burning in the heat of Dean’s hands on him, one palm resting firm and sure against his stomach, the other curled unbearably tight around his cock, squeezing ever tighter with each roll of Castiel’s hips. Dean is moving forcefully against him, moving in him, and that’s still so new that Castiel can barely hold in the noises he wants to make, the raw sounds of pleasure he bites back into the confines of his chest for fear of being discovered.
Dean is breathing harshly against him, each breath washing hotly over the skin of Castiel’s back, where Dean’s pulled down his shirt to rest his face against Castiel’s bare skin. His lips are moving, quietly, endlessly, but Castiel can’t decipher any words, can only guess at the meaning as he loses himself in the press of Dean’s body.
His pleasure crests in silence, marked only by a sharp intake of breath and the curl of his fist where it rests against the wall. Dean follows almost immediately, his mouth hot and wide open against the exposed skin of Castiel’s back. He shudders, then stills, turning his face to rest it for a moment right over the hammering of Castiel’s heart. Castiel barely has time to enjoy the feel of Dean being so still, so pliant against him before he feels Dean slip away. The cold slides sharply over his skin and he turns, his back to the wall, and watches in silence as Dean tucks himself back in.
“You gotta watch out for yourself, Cas, okay? Because I can’t, I-- “ Dean says, then swallows away the rest of the sentence; his jaw clenches, and his gaze flicks down.
“I just can’t,” he whispers roughly, his eyes hard in the darkness, and then he turns and is gone just as suddenly as he appeared.
*
Dean rarely spends the night and when he does, like tonight, Castiel forces himself to stay awake for as long as he can, wanting to prolong the moment. Dean would chide him, if he knew; now that Castiel needs sleep like the rest of them, Dean makes him get as much of it as he can.
“Times have changed, Cas. You rest when you can, because the last thing we need out there is a tired soldier.”
And that’s what he is now: one of Dean’s soldiers, with a body that needs rest and touch and safety and warmth, and as he’s lying awake, with Dean’s body wrapped firmly around his own, he wonders if Dean will see to it that Castiel gets all of that.
*
Even with his powers diminished, Castiel is immune to the virus that’s raging among the last vestiges of humanity.
They find out the hard way, and maybe it’s one of the small mercies of being more human these days that he doesn’t remember much from his days in captivity.
He never asks how long he was gone, never tries to remember anything past the day that Dean appeared in the doorway of the derelict church, his shape outlined sharply against the glare of sunlight behind him. What little else Castiel remembers is already too much: like the way they split him wide open, his skin bursting like ripe fruit under the sharpness of their blades, and the bluntness of their fists.
They left him for dead, strapped to the altar and his first instinct is to hide when the dark shape that resolves itself into Dean moves closer. The sight of him makes Castiel’s heart clench sharply: he’s covered in blood, drenched in it, and his jaw is clenched so tightly that it must hurt.
“Dean,” he croaks out, and almost moans with relief at the flash of recognition in Dean’s eyes, at the wild rush of emotion that flits across his face before he reigns it in again. He is by Castiel’s side in an instant, the hunting knife clattering to the ground uselessly. His eyes are wide and dark; up this close, Castiel can see that he’s deathly pale underneath the blood splattered across his face. For a moment, he looks like he might say something, his lips working soundlessly, and then he crushes his mouth to Castiel’s, his kiss harsh and forceful. His fingers curl into Castiel’s side, right above where his skin will knit itself into a long, ugly scar. He breathes hotly into Castiel’s mouth, making a small, wounded sound, and Castiel lets his lips fall open, tasting copper and salt in the quiet desperation of Dean’s kiss.
It’s a taste Castiel will never be able to forget.
*
It took Castiel the longest time to figure out that this is what Dean needs from him.
He bends over Dean’s prone form, spit-slick fingers moving carefully in and out of Dean’s body. Dean writhes impatiently, pushing himself back into Castiel’s touch, the muscles in his back bunching underneath his flushed skin.
“Now, Cas,” he groans, rolling his hips and gasping when Castiel curls his fingers just so, brushing against that sensitive spot deep inside Dean that makes him buck and hiss with pleasure.
“Please, now, god,” and Castiel gives in to the raw need in Dean’s voice, sliding his fingers out and across the firm muscle of Dean’s lower back. He drapes himself over Dean’s body, and when he pushes in, slow slow slow because he doesn’t want to hurt Dean, it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt, hot and tight and Dean all around him, and oh--
He holds himself still, breathing deeply, dropping his forehead to the broad plane of Dean’s back, grasping for control. Dean’s always been oh so very careful at this point, and Castiel will do the same for him, even though his every instinct tells him to snap his hips forward and into the tight, delicious heat around him.
Underneath him, Dean draws in a sharp breath and lets it out again in a long drawn-out groan.
“Move, Cas, move now, please please,” he grunts, rolling his hips under Castiel’s weight and Castiel’s control snaps at the sharp tug of pleasure in his groin. He does move then, thrusting forward sharply, and Dean hisses loudly, painfully. Castiel stills himself again, trembling slightly with the effort, and Dean shakes his head, bucking up against Castiel’s weight on him.
“Don’t stop, don’t please, it’s good, it’s good, want it like that, please,” and Dean’s voice is hoarse with want, the muscles in his back trembling under Castiel’s mouth. Castiel takes a deep breath, then presses a kiss to Dean’s fevered skin, whispering, “Yes.”
This time, when he starts to move again, he doesn’t stop; keeps moving through his doubts until he feels Dean’s body pliant and open beneath him, submitting himself wholly to Castiel’s pace, breathing small, wounded animal sounds into the mattress, his mouth stretched wide open. They move together, skin to sweat-slick skin, Dean trapped between Castiel’s weight and the tight curl of his own fist tugging sharply at his cock.
Castiel’s climax is blinding; he digs his fingers hard into the flesh of Dean’s shoulders, spilling himself hotly in the tightness of Dean’s body around him even as he hears Dean cry out sharply, his whole body tensing, strung taught with his own rush of pleasure.
It’s minutes until Castiel has caught his breath; Dean pushes him off with an effort, then turns to face him, pressing their sticky-slick bodies together. He slides an arm around Castiel, pulling him closer, his kisses hard and hungry.
“Fuck me again, Cas,” he whispers, and Castiel does, shrouded in the darkness of Dean’s cabin, being as gentle as Dean lets him.
*
Winter’s bitter; the ground’s frozen solid and they’re mostly resorting to sharing body heat to keep themselves warm.
Castiel often sits with the select few that Dean would call among his friends. More often than not, a bottle is passed around, the slow burn of the alcohol creating a pretense of warmth.
Some evenings, Castiel will watch Dean out of the corner of his eyes; will watch and wait for the inevitable curl of Dean’s lips, the spark of warmth that will light up his eyes just enough to make the invitation in them plain. It’s not flirting; even Castiel with his limited experience can tell. This is something cruder, baser: the naked need for company, for the warm curl of a body around his own, to take away all thought for a while.
Castiel sits, and watches, and wonders if Dean finds what he seeks with any of the women that follow him out into the night.
*
“Why are you so bent on punishing yourself for something that isn’t your fault?” Castiel asks, and wishes he hadn’t when Dean looks up from the amber shine of whiskey in his glass, his face hard and distant. He forgot; Dean doesn’t take well to bluntness these days.
“Not my fault, really?” He takes a sip, his lips curling a little at the taste, and leans back in his chair. “Was my plan, wasn’t it, using those kids as a diversion?”
“They were of age, all of them,” Castiel says, sitting up straighter on the couch, already tasting the futility of this argument on his tongue. He shouldn’t have come over, should have avoided Dean in this mood; thing is, he couldn’t, couldn’t stop caring any more than he can stop himself from breathing.
“Barely eighteen, the lot of them. Fucking eager to make a contribution.” Dean spits out the words, his fingers curling dangerously around the glass.
Castiel runs a hand across his face, distracted for a moment by the rub and sting of his beard against his palm.
“Look, you told them to stay out of harm’s way, to keep their heads down once they--“
“Shut up, Cas, okay?” Dean clenches his jaw and looks down, then raises his glass for another sip. He sets the glass down with enough force to make Castiel jump in his seat. Despite his best efforts, he can feel his own anger rise, can feel the words align themselves on his tongue--
-- what about all the things that I lost, Dean, what about what I feel guilty for, what about --
-- and bites them back down, because this isn’t the moment, and it dawns on Castiel that maybe that moment has passed a long time ago, and they will never get it back.
“Maybe I should go,” he says instead, and his voice sounds weary even to himself. Dean looks up at that, a strange intensity in his eyes.
“Maybe,” he says softly, and there, hovering at the edge of his voice, is something Castiel hasn’t heard in a while. It sounds, to him, almost like an invitation. He rises from his seat; Dean watches him move with half-closed eyes, and the trace of that familiar heat shining in them makes Castiel blush.
Dean lets him straddle his lap; lets him draw a kiss from his lips that’s hot and hard and oh so good that Castiel finds himself groaning into the heat of Dean’s mouth.
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, and then Castiel is trapped against the desk, with Dean pressing into him, making it painful to breathe, to do anything but push himself up and into the hardness of Dean’s weight.
“You want this,” Dean murmurs, lips grazing the side of Castiel’s neck, and of course he does, will want it for as long as Dean does, and possibly longer than that.
“Please,” he says, pulling Dean in, down on top of himself, gasping at that first roll of Dean’s hips into his own, his hands grabbing at the firmness of Dean’s back, feeling the push and pull of muscles working as Dean moves against him, slipping into that familiar rhythm that’s theirs, his and Dean’s, and that he won’t ever forget.
He clings to Dean as their passion rises, reminds himself that underneath the angry shift of skin and bone he’s Dean, still Dean, no matter how distant the expression in his eyes might become.
*
Her eyes are as green as the bottle of absinthe she brings with her, and Castiel wonders, just for a moment, if maybe Dean sent her over. In the end, the answer doesn’t matter; they share the sweet flavor of the alcohol between them, Castiel drinking from a glass at first, then licking the taste from her lips as they kiss.
He can’t help comparing her to what he knows, and it’s different, but not worse, just softer somehow, and warmer, and not Dean.
She curls herself around him, all grace and softness and warmth; he marvels at the slick heat of her as he slides into her, gasping at the tight curl of her muscles gripping him as he rocks back and forth, finding a new, a different rhythm with her.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs into the soft skin of her neck, and she laughs, and it feels good, that quiet vibration, that warmth spilling around him.
She reaches her climax before he does, and that, too, is new: the way she shudders and pulses around him, making his pleasure spiral out of control, stringing him tight and crashing over him until he’s thoroughly spent. His climax makes him lazy, but no less curious: he slips out of her, then traces a hand along the inside of her thigh, sliding his fingers into the silken warmth between her legs. She gasps against him, her body tightening in his arms, and before he knows it his hand is trapped in the strong grip of her thighs, his thumb rubbing against her flesh.
“Oh,” she makes, and he watches her face this time, watches that open expression wash over her features that leaves her naked, vulnerable to his gaze.
“You’re beautiful,” he repeats, and she laughs again, her eyes shining with warmth, and he sinks into her softness, molding her warm weight to his body gratefully.
*
This is the last time they’re touching like this. He can tell, can read it in the hardness of Dean’s face, the way his hands move angrily on Castiel’s skin, like maybe he’s trying to make himself forget the feel of it, or how much he needed to touch it, once.
Castiel keeps silent as Dean takes him in his mouth; Dean’s eyes are closed, his mouth working furiously, sucking Castiel hard and fast. It feels like a punishment, somehow; like Dean saying look where this got us and never mind that Castiel didn’t get them started, because he never ended it, either.
Dean’s eyes slip open again, green and hard and angry, and Castiel places a hand in Dean’s hair, threads his fingers through the softness of it, and Dean stiffens for a moment, then lets himself be guided, his hot mouth sliding all over Castiel.
He doesn’t say a word, after; just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at Castiel with a hardness that hurts and Castiel thinks that maybe, somewhere underneath it all, Dean is trying to say sorry.
*
They pass each other on the grounds, each lost in thought. Castiel stops first, a few paces away from Dean, tilting his head in a silent query. Dean stops, too, much closer now; he reaches out and, for just a moment, Castiel is sure that Dean will touch him, will curl his fingers around his arm and pull him into the darkness between the trees; but Dean looks away, empty-handed, his jaw clenching, and strides on into the night.
*
He stands and stares up at the night sky, shivering in the cool breeze.
“Hey, Cas, you out for a walk this late?” Chuck calls, and he nods in greeting, never averting his gaze from the stars.
Cas; and that’s who he is now.
Cas, who’s almost human; who will be watching Dean’s back for as long as he can.
Who will be watching it for as long as Dean lets him.
Fin.
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Date: 2009-10-21 10:20 am (UTC)