(no subject)
Title: Chemical Reactions
Author: acreativemess
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel and Dean/Alistair
Warnings: Violence, voyeurism, and masturbation
Summary: For purely selfish reasons, Castiel is tempted to reunite his Dean with the part he left in Hell, just to see the chemical reaction.
Dean only ever chokes on one word, one name - Alistair. It scrapes against his tongue, bleeds the muscle dry and laughs at the way it can bring a Winchester to his knees. Dean always prays when the name surfaces, always begs someone to take it way, replace it with something else. Castiel always hears him. And he always obeys.
But this time it’s different, because this time Dean does not pray. This time Dean keeps himself asleep and welcomes the violation. He lies still as sweat beads on his skin, sticking his clothes to his body. Castiel watches from very far away, wishing he could stop the way Dean seems to be enjoying the brutal visions. But Dean has not asked him to.
So Castiel cannot interfere.
But he can see. Can witness the memory Dean is replaying in his head like it’s something important. And Castiel wishes he couldn’t, but at the same time he doesn’t want to look away for fear that Dean will lose himself to the madness.
Castiel whispers, Dean. The hunter flinches. Because the way Castiel says his name is not how Alistair would say it. Castiel does not soak Dean’s name in acid so he can later use it as a weapon, reminding the man of what he once was.
Castiel cannot be so cruel.
Still Dean has not uttered his name, has not begged Cas…please…
So the angel does nothing.
And it hurts. Like a fourth degree burn, right down to his vessel’s bones - he is powerless. All Castiel can do is sit back and watch as Alistair digs his fingers into Dean’s fleshless hips and thrusts so hard that Dean vomits. The demon does it again and again until the man beneath him is not longer saying stop, but has added the words don’t and please, usually in the reverse order.
Dean moans in his memory, in his sleep. Castiel finds himself mimicking the sound, letting the vibrations in his throat fall from his lips, strained and desperate. He should feel embarrassed, he thinks. Should feel ashamed for wanting what Alistair once had; for wanting Dean like that. But he doesn’t and he isn’t.
Dean in the memory is nothing like Dean of the present. That Dean is selfish and greedy, wanton and lustful. He asks for himself and no one else; asks to be taken, begs to be fucked while he’s being ripped apart. Castiel doesn’t enjoy that part. He doesn’t take pleasure in the perversions he has witnessed every day since he pulled Dean from Hell.
But he does want that Dean because that Dean isn’t afraid.
That Dean doesn’t walk on eggshells or hide everything behind a cheap mask of rose-tinted cellophane. That Dean was left behind. And for purely selfish reasons, Castiel is tempted to reunite his Dean with that Dean just to see the chemical reaction.
The memory has changed now. It is no less vulgar, yet it is different. Alistair is sitting naked on a stool, one foot hooked behind a leg and the other digging into Dean’s scrotum. He says words that don’t make sense to Castiel, spits obscenities in a dead language through gritted teeth. He pushes his heel farther into the hunter’s balls, treating them like a lever, making Dean raise his shoulders off the ground and beg for some kind of release.
Castiel hears the word no. That much he understands. He reaches his hand out almost as if he can touch the dream, but he stops short. He remembers that Dean still hasn’t called out to him, hasn’t asked him to make it stop.
So Castiel touches himself instead. Snakes his fingers beneath his pants and grabs hold of his cock. He’s only half hard. With his free hand Castiel undoes his belt, the way he’s seen Dean do it, pulls the tongue until he hears the clink of the prongs hitting the buckle. He undoes the button and zipper next and then maneuvers his pants down to his thighs without ever letting go of his dick.
Castiel is still very aware of the memory playing in front of him. He can’t afford to lose the images; doesn’t think he’d be able to even if he tried. So he molds his being to Dean’s, fits his own image to Hell Dean in the memory. And he almost believes that what he is seeing in not a memory because Hell Dean moans when their bodies click together. A grin curls his lips and he growls. Finally.
Castiel doesn’t have time to back out. Doesn’t get the chance to change his mind ‘cause Hell Dean lifts his ass and bucks against Alistair’s blackened toes. Castiel’s body does the same, except instead of a foot, he grinds into his own hand.
The Real Dean rolls over to his side, smiling like he knows Castiel is intruding, like he knows an Angel is masturbating to thoughts of him - the old him.
But Castiel can’t care less. He’s lost now, so far in that he can hardly see the light.
Hell Dean thrusts himself up again, this time begging Alistair to do something else besides bursting his balls with his heel. He wants to be fucked. Says, do it now or I’ll cut your fucking head off.
Alistair smirks and says, I love it when you talk dirty to me.
Dean fires back with a strangled, Fuck you!
Oh we’ll get to that, pretty boy.
Castiel strokes himself, hard as the men continue their banter. Throwing insults back and forth, Hell Dean threatening violence as Alistair promises to make their time mean something.
Alistair never lies, their times always mean something.
Castiel just wishes they didn’t.
Because every time they discover the moral of their story, Castiel craves the secret. Grabs for their silver lining and rips it away only to press it against his palms until it dissolves into his flesh. Castiel knows this is wrong. But this is Dean and Dean is everything but.
Hell Dean has switched his position, now on his knees taking Alistair down his throat and humming Metallica as he does so. Castiel thumbs the head of his cock, arching his back as the chorus line vibrates against Hell Dean’s vocal chords.
He keeps in time with the memory, squeezing himself as Hell Dean clenches his throat muscles to accommodate Alistair’s size. The angel can’t help but moan in Dean’s place, taking the lead where the figment is unable. Carrying on their perverted song like he is in some kind of filthy choir. He doesn’t mind, though. Castiel doesn’t examine the sordidness of it all because that would mean he’d have to stop what he’s doing. And he’s too close to stop now. He's never been one to not follow through with what he started and he isn't about to start now.
It's Hell Dean who doesn't finish.
Alistair grabs a fistful of Hell Dean's hair and yanks his head away from his dick. Hell Dean glares.
What are you going to do? he asks.
His voice is low, but not angry. A smirk plays on his lips and Castiel is reminded of the way the real Dean had challenged him in front of Uriel. It was similar to this, to the way Hell Dean is egging Alistair on, hoping to elicit the only thing he wants. The only thing he has wanted since this nightmare started. And Castiel can't help but want the same thing.
Castiel is beyond caring whether or not the real Dean will catch on to his voyeurism or if his brothers can hear his not-so quiet moans. Castiel needs this. He needs Alistair to fuck Hell Dean. Has to stick around for the show and its finale.
Alistair grins down at Hell Dean. He scrapes a long broken thumbnail across Hell Dean's bottom lip, ripping a jagged gash into the burnt flesh.
Your daddy never gave me this kind of opportunity, Alistair says, pushing a string of goosebumps across Castiel's borrowed skin.
Hell Dean grins back, angling his head so he is looking up at his tormentor through his lashes. My dad was an obsessed bastard, he hisses. Then a deep bellowing laugh erupts from the figment's mouth and there’s only so much Cas can do to not come right then. Because the laugh is not different then the real Dean's laugh. Louder, yes, but exactly the same. Because his Dean - the real Dean - has not yet rebuilt his walls against Hell's influences. And the darkness in the sound, in his laugh, has not yet let go.
So Castiel digs his thumb into the head of his cock and he indulges in the similarities between his Dean and Hell Dean. Castiel lifts his ass and shoves the middle finger of his free hand inside himself as deep as he can. He's seen his Dean do this before. Though it was purely accidental that time and not at all like now.
Castiel is still fitted to Hell Dean, can still feel everything the figment does. So when Alistair throws Hell Dean against a volcanic-like rock, Castiel can feel the way it cuts Hell Dean's side open. The angel can also feel the way Alistair bruises Hell Dean's lips and nips that the figment's tongue. It burns, everything in Hell burns, Castiel is not fool enough to assume that false passion should be any different.
Alistair shoves Hell Dean's legs to his chest and cuts lines into Hell Dean's skin, from his ribs to his hips. Hell Dean only laughs again.
Castiel jerks himself harder, quicker. He is at the brink of his orgasm, teetering on the edge of the cliff and just waiting for a sign that tells him to jump.
The signal happens like clockwork. Hell Dean spits in Alistair's face and yells, fuck me like you mean it!
Alistair growls, deep, like a Hell Hound that's just staked its claim. He wraps his fingers around Hell Dean's throat and squeezes. Alistair chuckles at the gasps he is rewarded with. The demon doesn't use lubrication or give any warning of his next movements, just thrusts all the way in as Hell Dean tries to scream through the pressure collapsing his esophagus.
When Alistair pulls all the way out and rams his cock back into Hell Dean, Castiel loses it completely. He comes too hard over his hand. Body shaking violently, mind racing too quickly. He thinks for a minute that he may have screamed out loud when Hell Dean could not, but he cannot recall so he lets the thought fade.
Castiel rides out the aftershocks of his orgasm, letting his muscles spasm until they finally settle down. He pulls himself, with difficulty, from Hell Dean and leaves the nightmare.
He lies spent on his back. He isn't sure where he is, can't remember if he teleported there a moment ago, or if he had been at this location before Dean's nightmare had started. Castiel figures that it really does not matter because he suddenly feels a pull in his borrowed stomach.
Dean is calling him.
Castiel stands and pulls his slacks back up, fastening the belt again and straightening anything that is out of place. He can easily 'mojo' himself back to perfection, as Dean would put it, but Castiel has come to enjoy the simplicities that most humans take for granted.
Castiel hears his nickname being spoken. Dean is begging for him to stop the nightmare now. And Castiel can do nothing but obey.
The angel is at Dean's side in a moment. At first he does nothing but watch Dean toss and turn on the bed. Castiel knows exactly what Dean is dreaming of without even looking inside his head. Castiel has been part of that nightmare more times than he would like to admit. It’s only when Dean whimpers Castiel's name in such a broken and painful way, that he finally moves and touches the hunter's forehead with careful fingers.
He replaces the nightmare with a dream of Dean being a father to a boy named Ben. Castiel knows nothing of this child; just that Dean dotes on him every now and again. So Castiel figures he is safe with this kind of dream.
Dean calms almost instantly.
Castiel sits on the second bed in the motel and watches his Dean sleep for a moment. It is a peaceful sight, Castiel thinks. Dean is relaxed more than he usually his, a small, barely visible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Dean looks younger when he sleeps.
Castiel smiles at that revelation. He stands and touches Dean's forehead once more, this time a hundred times more careful than the first time because Dean is fragile and beautiful and nothing at all like Hell's version of him. His Dean, this Dean, is real. He is not Alistair's property anymore. And Castiel is more than grateful for that.
Dean turns over on the bed, onto his back. Castiel sees the mark he gave the hunter. He touches it too gently, feels a pulse runs through it. Dean whispers something, then says groggily, is that how you get your rocks off? Watching people?
Castiel removes his hand from Dean's shoulder, not completely convinced that Dean isn't talking about tonight instead of just repeating old lines from distant encounters. Castiel does not wish to find out which one it is. So he puts his hand to Dean's forehead for a third time and changes the dream again. This time it is of Sam and Dean when they were younger, playing a game of baseball in the woods behind an old dilapidated house they’d been squatting in.
Dean mutters something and Castiel thinks it might have been a thank you.
Castiel isn't sure but regardless, he whispers a small, you're welcome. Leaving soundlessly before Dean has a chance to stir.
* * * *
It is an echo by the time it reaches Heaven's ears. A boisterous claim, laced with a poison, absent of an antidote.
As the angel falls prey to the sins of the flesh so to shall the forgotten savior, leaving the world in a state of darkness that will never be lit.
Author: acreativemess
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel and Dean/Alistair
Warnings: Violence, voyeurism, and masturbation
Summary: For purely selfish reasons, Castiel is tempted to reunite his Dean with the part he left in Hell, just to see the chemical reaction.
Dean only ever chokes on one word, one name - Alistair. It scrapes against his tongue, bleeds the muscle dry and laughs at the way it can bring a Winchester to his knees. Dean always prays when the name surfaces, always begs someone to take it way, replace it with something else. Castiel always hears him. And he always obeys.
But this time it’s different, because this time Dean does not pray. This time Dean keeps himself asleep and welcomes the violation. He lies still as sweat beads on his skin, sticking his clothes to his body. Castiel watches from very far away, wishing he could stop the way Dean seems to be enjoying the brutal visions. But Dean has not asked him to.
So Castiel cannot interfere.
But he can see. Can witness the memory Dean is replaying in his head like it’s something important. And Castiel wishes he couldn’t, but at the same time he doesn’t want to look away for fear that Dean will lose himself to the madness.
Castiel whispers, Dean. The hunter flinches. Because the way Castiel says his name is not how Alistair would say it. Castiel does not soak Dean’s name in acid so he can later use it as a weapon, reminding the man of what he once was.
Castiel cannot be so cruel.
Still Dean has not uttered his name, has not begged Cas…please…
So the angel does nothing.
And it hurts. Like a fourth degree burn, right down to his vessel’s bones - he is powerless. All Castiel can do is sit back and watch as Alistair digs his fingers into Dean’s fleshless hips and thrusts so hard that Dean vomits. The demon does it again and again until the man beneath him is not longer saying stop, but has added the words don’t and please, usually in the reverse order.
Dean moans in his memory, in his sleep. Castiel finds himself mimicking the sound, letting the vibrations in his throat fall from his lips, strained and desperate. He should feel embarrassed, he thinks. Should feel ashamed for wanting what Alistair once had; for wanting Dean like that. But he doesn’t and he isn’t.
Dean in the memory is nothing like Dean of the present. That Dean is selfish and greedy, wanton and lustful. He asks for himself and no one else; asks to be taken, begs to be fucked while he’s being ripped apart. Castiel doesn’t enjoy that part. He doesn’t take pleasure in the perversions he has witnessed every day since he pulled Dean from Hell.
But he does want that Dean because that Dean isn’t afraid.
That Dean doesn’t walk on eggshells or hide everything behind a cheap mask of rose-tinted cellophane. That Dean was left behind. And for purely selfish reasons, Castiel is tempted to reunite his Dean with that Dean just to see the chemical reaction.
The memory has changed now. It is no less vulgar, yet it is different. Alistair is sitting naked on a stool, one foot hooked behind a leg and the other digging into Dean’s scrotum. He says words that don’t make sense to Castiel, spits obscenities in a dead language through gritted teeth. He pushes his heel farther into the hunter’s balls, treating them like a lever, making Dean raise his shoulders off the ground and beg for some kind of release.
Castiel hears the word no. That much he understands. He reaches his hand out almost as if he can touch the dream, but he stops short. He remembers that Dean still hasn’t called out to him, hasn’t asked him to make it stop.
So Castiel touches himself instead. Snakes his fingers beneath his pants and grabs hold of his cock. He’s only half hard. With his free hand Castiel undoes his belt, the way he’s seen Dean do it, pulls the tongue until he hears the clink of the prongs hitting the buckle. He undoes the button and zipper next and then maneuvers his pants down to his thighs without ever letting go of his dick.
Castiel is still very aware of the memory playing in front of him. He can’t afford to lose the images; doesn’t think he’d be able to even if he tried. So he molds his being to Dean’s, fits his own image to Hell Dean in the memory. And he almost believes that what he is seeing in not a memory because Hell Dean moans when their bodies click together. A grin curls his lips and he growls. Finally.
Castiel doesn’t have time to back out. Doesn’t get the chance to change his mind ‘cause Hell Dean lifts his ass and bucks against Alistair’s blackened toes. Castiel’s body does the same, except instead of a foot, he grinds into his own hand.
The Real Dean rolls over to his side, smiling like he knows Castiel is intruding, like he knows an Angel is masturbating to thoughts of him - the old him.
But Castiel can’t care less. He’s lost now, so far in that he can hardly see the light.
Hell Dean thrusts himself up again, this time begging Alistair to do something else besides bursting his balls with his heel. He wants to be fucked. Says, do it now or I’ll cut your fucking head off.
Alistair smirks and says, I love it when you talk dirty to me.
Dean fires back with a strangled, Fuck you!
Oh we’ll get to that, pretty boy.
Castiel strokes himself, hard as the men continue their banter. Throwing insults back and forth, Hell Dean threatening violence as Alistair promises to make their time mean something.
Alistair never lies, their times always mean something.
Castiel just wishes they didn’t.
Because every time they discover the moral of their story, Castiel craves the secret. Grabs for their silver lining and rips it away only to press it against his palms until it dissolves into his flesh. Castiel knows this is wrong. But this is Dean and Dean is everything but.
Hell Dean has switched his position, now on his knees taking Alistair down his throat and humming Metallica as he does so. Castiel thumbs the head of his cock, arching his back as the chorus line vibrates against Hell Dean’s vocal chords.
He keeps in time with the memory, squeezing himself as Hell Dean clenches his throat muscles to accommodate Alistair’s size. The angel can’t help but moan in Dean’s place, taking the lead where the figment is unable. Carrying on their perverted song like he is in some kind of filthy choir. He doesn’t mind, though. Castiel doesn’t examine the sordidness of it all because that would mean he’d have to stop what he’s doing. And he’s too close to stop now. He's never been one to not follow through with what he started and he isn't about to start now.
It's Hell Dean who doesn't finish.
Alistair grabs a fistful of Hell Dean's hair and yanks his head away from his dick. Hell Dean glares.
What are you going to do? he asks.
His voice is low, but not angry. A smirk plays on his lips and Castiel is reminded of the way the real Dean had challenged him in front of Uriel. It was similar to this, to the way Hell Dean is egging Alistair on, hoping to elicit the only thing he wants. The only thing he has wanted since this nightmare started. And Castiel can't help but want the same thing.
Castiel is beyond caring whether or not the real Dean will catch on to his voyeurism or if his brothers can hear his not-so quiet moans. Castiel needs this. He needs Alistair to fuck Hell Dean. Has to stick around for the show and its finale.
Alistair grins down at Hell Dean. He scrapes a long broken thumbnail across Hell Dean's bottom lip, ripping a jagged gash into the burnt flesh.
Your daddy never gave me this kind of opportunity, Alistair says, pushing a string of goosebumps across Castiel's borrowed skin.
Hell Dean grins back, angling his head so he is looking up at his tormentor through his lashes. My dad was an obsessed bastard, he hisses. Then a deep bellowing laugh erupts from the figment's mouth and there’s only so much Cas can do to not come right then. Because the laugh is not different then the real Dean's laugh. Louder, yes, but exactly the same. Because his Dean - the real Dean - has not yet rebuilt his walls against Hell's influences. And the darkness in the sound, in his laugh, has not yet let go.
So Castiel digs his thumb into the head of his cock and he indulges in the similarities between his Dean and Hell Dean. Castiel lifts his ass and shoves the middle finger of his free hand inside himself as deep as he can. He's seen his Dean do this before. Though it was purely accidental that time and not at all like now.
Castiel is still fitted to Hell Dean, can still feel everything the figment does. So when Alistair throws Hell Dean against a volcanic-like rock, Castiel can feel the way it cuts Hell Dean's side open. The angel can also feel the way Alistair bruises Hell Dean's lips and nips that the figment's tongue. It burns, everything in Hell burns, Castiel is not fool enough to assume that false passion should be any different.
Alistair shoves Hell Dean's legs to his chest and cuts lines into Hell Dean's skin, from his ribs to his hips. Hell Dean only laughs again.
Castiel jerks himself harder, quicker. He is at the brink of his orgasm, teetering on the edge of the cliff and just waiting for a sign that tells him to jump.
The signal happens like clockwork. Hell Dean spits in Alistair's face and yells, fuck me like you mean it!
Alistair growls, deep, like a Hell Hound that's just staked its claim. He wraps his fingers around Hell Dean's throat and squeezes. Alistair chuckles at the gasps he is rewarded with. The demon doesn't use lubrication or give any warning of his next movements, just thrusts all the way in as Hell Dean tries to scream through the pressure collapsing his esophagus.
When Alistair pulls all the way out and rams his cock back into Hell Dean, Castiel loses it completely. He comes too hard over his hand. Body shaking violently, mind racing too quickly. He thinks for a minute that he may have screamed out loud when Hell Dean could not, but he cannot recall so he lets the thought fade.
Castiel rides out the aftershocks of his orgasm, letting his muscles spasm until they finally settle down. He pulls himself, with difficulty, from Hell Dean and leaves the nightmare.
He lies spent on his back. He isn't sure where he is, can't remember if he teleported there a moment ago, or if he had been at this location before Dean's nightmare had started. Castiel figures that it really does not matter because he suddenly feels a pull in his borrowed stomach.
Dean is calling him.
Castiel stands and pulls his slacks back up, fastening the belt again and straightening anything that is out of place. He can easily 'mojo' himself back to perfection, as Dean would put it, but Castiel has come to enjoy the simplicities that most humans take for granted.
Castiel hears his nickname being spoken. Dean is begging for him to stop the nightmare now. And Castiel can do nothing but obey.
The angel is at Dean's side in a moment. At first he does nothing but watch Dean toss and turn on the bed. Castiel knows exactly what Dean is dreaming of without even looking inside his head. Castiel has been part of that nightmare more times than he would like to admit. It’s only when Dean whimpers Castiel's name in such a broken and painful way, that he finally moves and touches the hunter's forehead with careful fingers.
He replaces the nightmare with a dream of Dean being a father to a boy named Ben. Castiel knows nothing of this child; just that Dean dotes on him every now and again. So Castiel figures he is safe with this kind of dream.
Dean calms almost instantly.
Castiel sits on the second bed in the motel and watches his Dean sleep for a moment. It is a peaceful sight, Castiel thinks. Dean is relaxed more than he usually his, a small, barely visible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Dean looks younger when he sleeps.
Castiel smiles at that revelation. He stands and touches Dean's forehead once more, this time a hundred times more careful than the first time because Dean is fragile and beautiful and nothing at all like Hell's version of him. His Dean, this Dean, is real. He is not Alistair's property anymore. And Castiel is more than grateful for that.
Dean turns over on the bed, onto his back. Castiel sees the mark he gave the hunter. He touches it too gently, feels a pulse runs through it. Dean whispers something, then says groggily, is that how you get your rocks off? Watching people?
Castiel removes his hand from Dean's shoulder, not completely convinced that Dean isn't talking about tonight instead of just repeating old lines from distant encounters. Castiel does not wish to find out which one it is. So he puts his hand to Dean's forehead for a third time and changes the dream again. This time it is of Sam and Dean when they were younger, playing a game of baseball in the woods behind an old dilapidated house they’d been squatting in.
Dean mutters something and Castiel thinks it might have been a thank you.
Castiel isn't sure but regardless, he whispers a small, you're welcome. Leaving soundlessly before Dean has a chance to stir.
* * * *
It is an echo by the time it reaches Heaven's ears. A boisterous claim, laced with a poison, absent of an antidote.
As the angel falls prey to the sins of the flesh so to shall the forgotten savior, leaving the world in a state of darkness that will never be lit.