SPN Fic: Misery of This Age, NC-17, Dean/Castiel
Title: The Misery of This Age
Author: altyronsmaker
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Through 5.10
Warnings: blood, self-deprecation, cussing, and explicit almost angry sex
Word Count: 3,355
Summary: Castiel forces a comfort on Dean
Author's Note: unbeta'd but by me, so concrit is definitely welcome. :) Written for my good friend, vichan who's having a tough time of it right now, and I wanted to make her a prezzie. Hope you feel better soon, chickie!
He can still smell the coppery tang of blood in the air, mingled with the fetid smell of exposed and sliced intestines. Gut wounds stink to high heaven. He thinks someone should have mentioned that to him, considering his line of work. He'd never had to smell the rotten stink of open and exposed intestines in hell; it's been souls more than bodies he'd had to torture.
But the blood and loose gut smell of Jo's wounds he doesn't think he'll ever forget. Or the heavy salt smell of tears.
He glares at himself in the mirror. There had to be signs, some marks on his body from the hell he'd raised, caused, and suffered in his life, but there's nothing. Just the stupid scar on his chin from when he was a kid, and the dark haunted look that had been in his eyes since September 18, 2008. Maybe even since he'd kissed that sorry hell-spawn demon bitch at the crossroads. He doesn't even know anymore how long he's had it.
"Fuck," he says, and scrubs a callused hand over his face, blocking it from view.
He turns on the water, lets it get hot and the steam fogs up the mirror before he glances back into it, his face now obscured. "That's more like it," he says.
He splashes hot water on his face, then works the soap into a lather in his hands, and scrubs the hell out of his face. He hasn't shaved in several days, and the stubbly whiskers abrade his palms. He'll shave later.
He scrubs and scrubs, rubbing the remnants of his own blood off his face, wincing when he presses too hard at the wound on his temple. There's blood dried in the creases of his palms and under his fingernails, blood from Jo, from holding her guts inside her body, from picking her up and carrying her into the hardware store after the hell hounds had a go at her. Had a go at her for trying to rescue him. Jesus fucking Christ.
He punches the mirror. He doesn’t feel the shards slicing his skin, but he smiles in grim satisfaction when the spider web of cracks forms under his fist.
His hand stings from the harsh hotel soap oozing into new cuts. More blood.
At least this time it's his own.
The water's cooled off. And the steam that fogged the mirror has faded.
He looks into it again, sees a hundred faces staring back at him. Jagged images of what he feels like now - fragmented, scattered, broken.
He still has soap all over his face, tinged pink and grey with blood and dirt.
There are two streaks cutting through the lather on his cheeks. His eyes burn. He blinks, sniffs hard. "Fuck," he says again, and dips his head to rinse the soap, tears, blood and dirt off.
But he can't help thinking, Two more dead. Two more of my family.
He rinses his hands under cool running water until the oozing blood stops. Then he splashes his face one last time and grabs the towel from the rack to blot the water off his face. When he's finished, he looks into the shattered mirror again, and glares.
"Any time you wanna not just sneak up on me, that'd be dandy, Cas."
"Hello, Dean." Cas’ equanimous voice sounds rough and unused.
Dean doesn’t care.
"Fuck you," he says.
Cas offers his own glare, pursed lips included, and turns away from him to glanc about the room. "Where is Sam?"
"The fuck should I know? He took off earlier."
Castiel frowns at him. "You are splitting up again? Is that wise?"
Dean sighs. "No, Cas. We're just...We handle shit different. He's doin' what he knows to do when the gig gets too heavy for him. And he's left me to do what I do."
"Ah." Castiel says, folding himself into one of the dining chairs. "What is it that you do?"
Dean laughs humorlessly. "What any other normal red blooded male does when faced with mortality. I get loaded and get laid."
Castiel rakes a gaze over Dean's hard scrubbed figure. "Yet you are doing neither of those."
Dean heaves another sigh and feels the sting of tears behind his eyes. "No."
"I'm sorry about your friends. Our friends. Ellen, and the young one, Jo."
Dean nods, opens his mouth so say something, but his breath stops in his throat, unable to force a word out.
Castiel looks at him again, frowning, confused. "I..." he starts, then seems to be searching for the right words.
"What, Cas? What?"
"I dislike seeing you this way, Dean."
Another dry chuckle and Dean agrees. "You ain't the only one."
"I find myself wanting..." Castiel frowns again, tilting his head as though figuring something in his head. "I feel something unfamiliar. I see you this way and need to comfort you."
"Don't worry about it, Cas. It'll go away."
"I said that incorrectly. I've felt this before, when I pulled you out of hell. When I said unfamiliar, I meant...unidentified. I am only now coming to understand what this feeling means."
"You want to comfort me?"
Castiel crosses the room to kneel before Dean. "Yes."
Swallowing, Dean lays a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "You can't, Cas. This...I need this. Don't want it washed away or eased or comforted."
"But you're hurting."
"Yeah. And when I see that son of bitch Lucifer again, I'll use it. I'll remember every smell, sound, color, and feel of Jo slowly dying in front of me. I'll remember every word I said to her and every one she said to me. I'll remember the look in her eye. And how it broke me just that little bit more than I knew I could be. And I'll beat him."
Castiel searches his face, and Dean lets him, meeting him eye to eye, steady under his gaze.
"And if I said comforting you would give me solace?"
"I'd say welcome to the family. And you're even more fucked up than I thought," Dean says with a grimace. Then, ragged, stuttered, "Don't do that, Cas. Don't give me another burden to bear. I'm being crushed under the weight of what I already carry."
Dean hates the waver in his voice, the way it nearly breaks under the strain of speaking.
"Then let me ease it for you, Dean," Castiel says, and Dean breaks.
When Castiel's mouth closes over his, when the angel's arms go around his shoulders, and that warm body lines up flush with his, Dean can't remember blood or tears or dirt or sweat. He doesn't hear the screams of the souls he's tortured or the fights he's had with Sam; he can't feel the burden of the apocalypse that he and Sam started with their deals and their choices and their lies.
All he feels is cushioned, refreshed, sheltered, and renewed.
There's a life to Castiel that’s new and untainted by the shit the world has handed to Dean and Sam, and dammit all if Dean doesn't want to grab onto it with both hands and suck some of it into himself. If he has to do it by osmosis, letting the pores of his skin absorb Cas' innocence and vitality, then god damn him, but that's what he's gonna do.
It means he has to get naked. He has to get Cas naked, and he makes short work of it, peeling Cas out of his trench coat, tie, oxford shirt and trousers in no time then snatching off his own threadbare towel.
There's no time for shyness or being coy. He's got a mouth full of Castiel in the time it takes to push him back onto the bed. Hot and hard and heavy in his mouth, Castiel's a flavor Dean could get used to, but that'll be for later.
He wants to be buried in that heat, and he preps Cas perfunctorily, a spit slick finger, then two, then three, and Cas is arching off the bed, eyes wide and blue blown to black, and Dean's inside, rutting hard and unforgiving into his vessel.
Castiel wants to ease Dean's burden, then he's gonna get it. Dean's thrusting deeper and deeper, biting Cas on his collarbone, his shoulder, his Adam's apple, the divot at his sternum, and his nipples.
He's quiet, Cas is, wonder and consternation taking turns on his face. Dean knows he wants, too, but Dean can't give anything right now other than the misery he's carrying. When he's better, when he's spent, he thinks he might be able to take a moment and give Cas what he wants, but right now is catharsis.
He grabs Cas' hands and shoves them above his head, locks both wrists in one of his large hands, and starts stripping Cas' dick, hard tugs and twists that wring out little breaths of pleasure or pain, Dean's not sure which, and he's not sure he gives a damn.
Cas feels good under him, around him, and the heat of his skin burns away a lot of Dean's fear and worry and hardness. Dean feels himself close to coming, so he thrusts deeper, shoving Cas bodily into the headboard of the bed, the rhythmic knocking he's sure will bring management running. But then he remembers the hotel rents by the hour, and he doesn't care anymore, thrusts into Cas again, hard enough to arch his angel's body up underneath his own, and Cas hisses out a breath between clenched teeth, and whispers, "Dean."
Dean comes, hard and stultifying into Cas' body, and shivers when the last drop of his release is spilt. He slides out carefully and collapses onto Cas, who fuckin' pets him, running a hand over Dean’s back in comforting gestures, fingers light over heated, sweat slick skin.
Dean's forehead rests in the crook of Cas' shoulder, and if there are tears leaking from his eyes, shudders racking his body, well, he's not gonna admit it. He's just gonna lie here for a minute, get his bearings then he's gonna get dressed, order something from one of the take out menus on the table, and ignore Cas' presence until he leaves.
But Castiel apparently has other plans, because he threads his fingers into Dean's hair and lifts him up to face him.
"That could not have been satisfying. Cathartic, maybe, and definitely a release, but it was not what I wanted to give you."
And he slides out from under Dean, turns Dean over onto his back, and lays his fingers over Dean's mouth when he would have protested the gentle treatment.
"Let me," Cas says, and Dean, wide open and vulnerable and terrified, can only nod slightly, like he'd done before in Heaven's greenroom, trusting this creature in a man's body with his life.
Cas leans over him, kisses him, soft, closed-mouthed, and settles over Dean's body. It's calm, and soothing, and Dean closes his eyes against the onslaught of tenderness. Wants to speak, but Cas shakes his head, his lips still covering Dean's.
He's brushed his hand over Dean's forehead and scalp, pushing Dean's damp, spiky hair back. He kisses Dean's cheek, right, then left, then nips a kiss on the end of Dean's nose, on his chin, his mouth, then, on his closed eyes. It's too tender, too intimate, and Dean tries to turn his head, but those fucking hands are there, holding him still, and Cas kisses his eyes again, his forehead, and his mouth again.
He pulls Dean's hair, tilting his head back, and plants a trail of kisses down Dean's neck, and back up to his jaw which he kisses from beneath one ear to the other.
There's no frottage, there's only Cas' lips on every inch of skin on his face, until it's all been touched by his mouth. After that, he pulls away to watch Dean's expression as he trails one hand over Dean's face, down his neck to his chest. He pinches one of Dean's nipples lightly between his index and middle fingers, just adding pressure, not pain, and Dean hisses a breath.
"Cas," he says, pleading.
"Shhh," Cas says.
And Dean's quiet again. He thinks he gets the picture now. Cas had been a vessel first, taking all of the anger, sadness, and misery Dean had locked away. And now he was giving back that energy converted. This was tenderness and solace, love.
Dean closes his eyes against it, and feels the betraying heat of tears slide from beneath his eyelashes.
"Son of a bitch," he says.
And Castiel leans down, breath cool and sweet against Dean's skin, and dammit all if Cas doesn't lick the tears from Dean's skin and eyes.
Dean throws his arms around Cas' waist and holds him there. He turns his face into the kiss Cas is giving him, and in an instant, they're on the same page.
Dean's spent; he's empty and needs to be quickened, and Cas is willing to do it, wants to do it, and Dean says "Yes," and "please," and "help me" with no words, just the slide of his lips on Cas', the curl of his tongue around Cas', the grip of his hands on Cas' waist and hips and buttocks.
Cas is gentle; he pulls away from the kiss and lets his fingers trace the contours of Dean's wide mouth. Dean opens to him, slips his tongue out to pull Cas' fingers into his mouth, and Cas smiles.
Dean laves the digits with his tongue, making sure they're wet and slippery before he pulls them out of his mouth, and places Cas' hand at his entrance. "Cas," he says, and hopes he doesn't have to say more.
Cas smiles and pushes one finger into Dean. Then two. He frowns when Dean hisses at the second, but Dean shakes his head and says, "Three," and Cas pushes the third finger in.
Dean's breath is coming is shallow gasps, but he's taking it, and wanting more. So he moves, rocking his hips back onto Cas' fingers, clenching his ass around the invading fingers. "Move, Cas, please," he says, and Cas does, scissoring his fingers, and twirling them, playing with Dean, occasionally offering a quick rub on his prostate, only to withdraw, retreat-a vicious tease.
"Fuck, Cas, please," Dean said, eyes closed, brow marred with frustration.
And Cas plunges back in, fingers on target to hit Dean's prostate with each thrust in.
Dean's panting, hands flailing over Cas' skin, and he opens his eyes, begging, pleading silently for Cas to fuck him, fuck him now.
Cas kisses him and pulls his fingers out of Dean's ass. Dean's stretched wide, and Cas pushes at his entrance, but it's not wide enough, and Dean hisses in pain. Cas puts his fingers at Dean's mouth again, "Dean," he says, and Dean sucks them in, gets them soaking wet again, and Cas smiles at him, pulls his fingers out of Dean's mouth, and slicks his cock with Dean's saliva. Then he's pushing into Dean.
"Yes, fuck, Oh god," Dean says, borderline incoherent. He wraps his legs around Cas' waist and thrusts up, taking Castiel all the way inside his body. "Fuck me, Cas," he says.
But Cas holds back. "Dean," he says, brushing Dean's hair back again. "Easy." And he fucks into Dean slowly, pressing in deep, bottoming out against the smooth pale skin of Dean's ass.
Dean's not hard, not really capable of getting it up right now, but Cas feels good inside him, and he hooks his ankles behind Cas' back and lifts his hips, encouraging.
Cas smiles down at him, and begins to move, slow and steady, the drag and friction of Cas' spit sticky cock in his ass makes Dean shiver. But he still doesn't get hard. Cas caresses his dick, wraps his warm hand around it, and Dean stays soft. But god, Cas feels good inside him, against him, around him. He reaches up and tugs Cas down, kisses him, jerking with each thrust of Cas' hips, but he maintains mouth to mouth contact. It's closed-mouthed and honest and exactly what Dean needs, and he arches again into Cas' thrusts.
Cas pulls away from the kiss, rests his forehead against Dean's mouth, and begins to really fuck Dean in earnest, hard and hot, pounding into Dean as though the end was nigh, and Dean chuckled, because it really was. Then his body seized up into a graceful arch, Cas' fuckin too much for him to withstand, and for the first time in his life that he could recall, Dean came, dry and hard with his mouth open in a silent cry and his eyes closed in divine ecstasy.
Before he was finished and back on Earth in the land of the living, Cas shudders to a top above him, and collapses. He kisses Dean's chest and shoulders before chasing the gooseflesh up Dean's neck to land a solid, open-mouthed kiss on Dean's mouth.
They nuzzle each other like sleep-warm puppies, and the wet smack of lazy kissing fills the silence of the hotel room.
For the first time in a few months, Dean feels a genuine, honest to goodness, smile crease his cheeks.
Cas smiles back. "I've missed this," he says, tracing his fingers over Dean's lips.
Dean snorts. "What? Us fucking?"
Cas swats at him, frowning. "No, Dean," he says, sounding exasperated. "I wouldn't call that fucking. Such an ugly word for so beautiful and spiritual a thing. I meant you smiling"
Dean shrugs. He didn't see a problem with 'fucking'.
"Fucking is crass, Dean. Two people simply alleviating tension, sex without emotion. That is what fucking is."
"And that's not what we just did?"
Cas frowns at him again, and Dean's beginning to hate that expression on Cas' face. "If you truly believe that, then there is no need for me to linger."
Dean grabs his arms, thinking Cas was gearing up to leave. "No! No, I understand, okay. Cut me some slack, here, Cas."
"Why should I?"
"Because you know me, and you know I do this shit for the wrong reasons. I want you to stay. And I get it. We weren't just fucking."
"No."
"Okay. So was that...” Dean shakes his head, eyes rolling derisively. “I’m not callin’ it ‘making love’."
Cas smiles indulgently down at him. "It is what you make it," he says, "But remember, Dean. Angels, even fallen ones, do not engage in this activity indiscriminately. Eons pass between one angelic charge and the next. We don't know of sex the way humans do. We certainly do not take it so lightly."
Dean's eyes are wide. "Okay."
"But you must know, Dean, that any encounter between you and I will be about love."
The knowledge terrifies Dean, but it makes a sort of sense. Dean figures, however, that it's Cas, so the terror isn't about who but about what and Dean's lived enough, learned enough, done enough to scoff at terror when it's over love. He swallows, realizing with Cas' words that this more than likely isn't a one off, and says, "Fine, but we're not talking about it."
Cas gives his usual enigmatic smile and says, "No. That wouldn't be you."
Dean searches Cas’ face for mockery, but doesn’t find any. He pulls Cas back down to the bed. "Here, just, go to sleep. Think I'd like it if you were here in the morning," he says. He turns onto his side and wraps an arm around Cas' waist and carefully pulls him over.
He doesn't say why, not trusting his voice or reasoning, but Cas is the only thing keeping the memories at bay. Not even Sam is proof against the blood and pain that surface when Dean's sleeping now. Just Cas. And his comfort is rare.
Cas lays a hand on the arm Dean has stretched over his middle, and says into the darkness, "I'll be here."
Dean offers up a silent prayer of thanks to the god that has disappeared for bringing him Castiel. He pulls the covers up over them. They sleep.
The End
end
Author: altyronsmaker
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Through 5.10
Warnings: blood, self-deprecation, cussing, and explicit almost angry sex
Word Count: 3,355
Summary: Castiel forces a comfort on Dean
Author's Note: unbeta'd but by me, so concrit is definitely welcome. :) Written for my good friend, vichan who's having a tough time of it right now, and I wanted to make her a prezzie. Hope you feel better soon, chickie!
He can still smell the coppery tang of blood in the air, mingled with the fetid smell of exposed and sliced intestines. Gut wounds stink to high heaven. He thinks someone should have mentioned that to him, considering his line of work. He'd never had to smell the rotten stink of open and exposed intestines in hell; it's been souls more than bodies he'd had to torture.
But the blood and loose gut smell of Jo's wounds he doesn't think he'll ever forget. Or the heavy salt smell of tears.
He glares at himself in the mirror. There had to be signs, some marks on his body from the hell he'd raised, caused, and suffered in his life, but there's nothing. Just the stupid scar on his chin from when he was a kid, and the dark haunted look that had been in his eyes since September 18, 2008. Maybe even since he'd kissed that sorry hell-spawn demon bitch at the crossroads. He doesn't even know anymore how long he's had it.
"Fuck," he says, and scrubs a callused hand over his face, blocking it from view.
He turns on the water, lets it get hot and the steam fogs up the mirror before he glances back into it, his face now obscured. "That's more like it," he says.
He splashes hot water on his face, then works the soap into a lather in his hands, and scrubs the hell out of his face. He hasn't shaved in several days, and the stubbly whiskers abrade his palms. He'll shave later.
He scrubs and scrubs, rubbing the remnants of his own blood off his face, wincing when he presses too hard at the wound on his temple. There's blood dried in the creases of his palms and under his fingernails, blood from Jo, from holding her guts inside her body, from picking her up and carrying her into the hardware store after the hell hounds had a go at her. Had a go at her for trying to rescue him. Jesus fucking Christ.
He punches the mirror. He doesn’t feel the shards slicing his skin, but he smiles in grim satisfaction when the spider web of cracks forms under his fist.
His hand stings from the harsh hotel soap oozing into new cuts. More blood.
At least this time it's his own.
The water's cooled off. And the steam that fogged the mirror has faded.
He looks into it again, sees a hundred faces staring back at him. Jagged images of what he feels like now - fragmented, scattered, broken.
He still has soap all over his face, tinged pink and grey with blood and dirt.
There are two streaks cutting through the lather on his cheeks. His eyes burn. He blinks, sniffs hard. "Fuck," he says again, and dips his head to rinse the soap, tears, blood and dirt off.
But he can't help thinking, Two more dead. Two more of my family.
He rinses his hands under cool running water until the oozing blood stops. Then he splashes his face one last time and grabs the towel from the rack to blot the water off his face. When he's finished, he looks into the shattered mirror again, and glares.
"Any time you wanna not just sneak up on me, that'd be dandy, Cas."
"Hello, Dean." Cas’ equanimous voice sounds rough and unused.
Dean doesn’t care.
"Fuck you," he says.
Cas offers his own glare, pursed lips included, and turns away from him to glanc about the room. "Where is Sam?"
"The fuck should I know? He took off earlier."
Castiel frowns at him. "You are splitting up again? Is that wise?"
Dean sighs. "No, Cas. We're just...We handle shit different. He's doin' what he knows to do when the gig gets too heavy for him. And he's left me to do what I do."
"Ah." Castiel says, folding himself into one of the dining chairs. "What is it that you do?"
Dean laughs humorlessly. "What any other normal red blooded male does when faced with mortality. I get loaded and get laid."
Castiel rakes a gaze over Dean's hard scrubbed figure. "Yet you are doing neither of those."
Dean heaves another sigh and feels the sting of tears behind his eyes. "No."
"I'm sorry about your friends. Our friends. Ellen, and the young one, Jo."
Dean nods, opens his mouth so say something, but his breath stops in his throat, unable to force a word out.
Castiel looks at him again, frowning, confused. "I..." he starts, then seems to be searching for the right words.
"What, Cas? What?"
"I dislike seeing you this way, Dean."
Another dry chuckle and Dean agrees. "You ain't the only one."
"I find myself wanting..." Castiel frowns again, tilting his head as though figuring something in his head. "I feel something unfamiliar. I see you this way and need to comfort you."
"Don't worry about it, Cas. It'll go away."
"I said that incorrectly. I've felt this before, when I pulled you out of hell. When I said unfamiliar, I meant...unidentified. I am only now coming to understand what this feeling means."
"You want to comfort me?"
Castiel crosses the room to kneel before Dean. "Yes."
Swallowing, Dean lays a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "You can't, Cas. This...I need this. Don't want it washed away or eased or comforted."
"But you're hurting."
"Yeah. And when I see that son of bitch Lucifer again, I'll use it. I'll remember every smell, sound, color, and feel of Jo slowly dying in front of me. I'll remember every word I said to her and every one she said to me. I'll remember the look in her eye. And how it broke me just that little bit more than I knew I could be. And I'll beat him."
Castiel searches his face, and Dean lets him, meeting him eye to eye, steady under his gaze.
"And if I said comforting you would give me solace?"
"I'd say welcome to the family. And you're even more fucked up than I thought," Dean says with a grimace. Then, ragged, stuttered, "Don't do that, Cas. Don't give me another burden to bear. I'm being crushed under the weight of what I already carry."
Dean hates the waver in his voice, the way it nearly breaks under the strain of speaking.
"Then let me ease it for you, Dean," Castiel says, and Dean breaks.
When Castiel's mouth closes over his, when the angel's arms go around his shoulders, and that warm body lines up flush with his, Dean can't remember blood or tears or dirt or sweat. He doesn't hear the screams of the souls he's tortured or the fights he's had with Sam; he can't feel the burden of the apocalypse that he and Sam started with their deals and their choices and their lies.
All he feels is cushioned, refreshed, sheltered, and renewed.
There's a life to Castiel that’s new and untainted by the shit the world has handed to Dean and Sam, and dammit all if Dean doesn't want to grab onto it with both hands and suck some of it into himself. If he has to do it by osmosis, letting the pores of his skin absorb Cas' innocence and vitality, then god damn him, but that's what he's gonna do.
It means he has to get naked. He has to get Cas naked, and he makes short work of it, peeling Cas out of his trench coat, tie, oxford shirt and trousers in no time then snatching off his own threadbare towel.
There's no time for shyness or being coy. He's got a mouth full of Castiel in the time it takes to push him back onto the bed. Hot and hard and heavy in his mouth, Castiel's a flavor Dean could get used to, but that'll be for later.
He wants to be buried in that heat, and he preps Cas perfunctorily, a spit slick finger, then two, then three, and Cas is arching off the bed, eyes wide and blue blown to black, and Dean's inside, rutting hard and unforgiving into his vessel.
Castiel wants to ease Dean's burden, then he's gonna get it. Dean's thrusting deeper and deeper, biting Cas on his collarbone, his shoulder, his Adam's apple, the divot at his sternum, and his nipples.
He's quiet, Cas is, wonder and consternation taking turns on his face. Dean knows he wants, too, but Dean can't give anything right now other than the misery he's carrying. When he's better, when he's spent, he thinks he might be able to take a moment and give Cas what he wants, but right now is catharsis.
He grabs Cas' hands and shoves them above his head, locks both wrists in one of his large hands, and starts stripping Cas' dick, hard tugs and twists that wring out little breaths of pleasure or pain, Dean's not sure which, and he's not sure he gives a damn.
Cas feels good under him, around him, and the heat of his skin burns away a lot of Dean's fear and worry and hardness. Dean feels himself close to coming, so he thrusts deeper, shoving Cas bodily into the headboard of the bed, the rhythmic knocking he's sure will bring management running. But then he remembers the hotel rents by the hour, and he doesn't care anymore, thrusts into Cas again, hard enough to arch his angel's body up underneath his own, and Cas hisses out a breath between clenched teeth, and whispers, "Dean."
Dean comes, hard and stultifying into Cas' body, and shivers when the last drop of his release is spilt. He slides out carefully and collapses onto Cas, who fuckin' pets him, running a hand over Dean’s back in comforting gestures, fingers light over heated, sweat slick skin.
Dean's forehead rests in the crook of Cas' shoulder, and if there are tears leaking from his eyes, shudders racking his body, well, he's not gonna admit it. He's just gonna lie here for a minute, get his bearings then he's gonna get dressed, order something from one of the take out menus on the table, and ignore Cas' presence until he leaves.
But Castiel apparently has other plans, because he threads his fingers into Dean's hair and lifts him up to face him.
"That could not have been satisfying. Cathartic, maybe, and definitely a release, but it was not what I wanted to give you."
And he slides out from under Dean, turns Dean over onto his back, and lays his fingers over Dean's mouth when he would have protested the gentle treatment.
"Let me," Cas says, and Dean, wide open and vulnerable and terrified, can only nod slightly, like he'd done before in Heaven's greenroom, trusting this creature in a man's body with his life.
Cas leans over him, kisses him, soft, closed-mouthed, and settles over Dean's body. It's calm, and soothing, and Dean closes his eyes against the onslaught of tenderness. Wants to speak, but Cas shakes his head, his lips still covering Dean's.
He's brushed his hand over Dean's forehead and scalp, pushing Dean's damp, spiky hair back. He kisses Dean's cheek, right, then left, then nips a kiss on the end of Dean's nose, on his chin, his mouth, then, on his closed eyes. It's too tender, too intimate, and Dean tries to turn his head, but those fucking hands are there, holding him still, and Cas kisses his eyes again, his forehead, and his mouth again.
He pulls Dean's hair, tilting his head back, and plants a trail of kisses down Dean's neck, and back up to his jaw which he kisses from beneath one ear to the other.
There's no frottage, there's only Cas' lips on every inch of skin on his face, until it's all been touched by his mouth. After that, he pulls away to watch Dean's expression as he trails one hand over Dean's face, down his neck to his chest. He pinches one of Dean's nipples lightly between his index and middle fingers, just adding pressure, not pain, and Dean hisses a breath.
"Cas," he says, pleading.
"Shhh," Cas says.
And Dean's quiet again. He thinks he gets the picture now. Cas had been a vessel first, taking all of the anger, sadness, and misery Dean had locked away. And now he was giving back that energy converted. This was tenderness and solace, love.
Dean closes his eyes against it, and feels the betraying heat of tears slide from beneath his eyelashes.
"Son of a bitch," he says.
And Castiel leans down, breath cool and sweet against Dean's skin, and dammit all if Cas doesn't lick the tears from Dean's skin and eyes.
Dean throws his arms around Cas' waist and holds him there. He turns his face into the kiss Cas is giving him, and in an instant, they're on the same page.
Dean's spent; he's empty and needs to be quickened, and Cas is willing to do it, wants to do it, and Dean says "Yes," and "please," and "help me" with no words, just the slide of his lips on Cas', the curl of his tongue around Cas', the grip of his hands on Cas' waist and hips and buttocks.
Cas is gentle; he pulls away from the kiss and lets his fingers trace the contours of Dean's wide mouth. Dean opens to him, slips his tongue out to pull Cas' fingers into his mouth, and Cas smiles.
Dean laves the digits with his tongue, making sure they're wet and slippery before he pulls them out of his mouth, and places Cas' hand at his entrance. "Cas," he says, and hopes he doesn't have to say more.
Cas smiles and pushes one finger into Dean. Then two. He frowns when Dean hisses at the second, but Dean shakes his head and says, "Three," and Cas pushes the third finger in.
Dean's breath is coming is shallow gasps, but he's taking it, and wanting more. So he moves, rocking his hips back onto Cas' fingers, clenching his ass around the invading fingers. "Move, Cas, please," he says, and Cas does, scissoring his fingers, and twirling them, playing with Dean, occasionally offering a quick rub on his prostate, only to withdraw, retreat-a vicious tease.
"Fuck, Cas, please," Dean said, eyes closed, brow marred with frustration.
And Cas plunges back in, fingers on target to hit Dean's prostate with each thrust in.
Dean's panting, hands flailing over Cas' skin, and he opens his eyes, begging, pleading silently for Cas to fuck him, fuck him now.
Cas kisses him and pulls his fingers out of Dean's ass. Dean's stretched wide, and Cas pushes at his entrance, but it's not wide enough, and Dean hisses in pain. Cas puts his fingers at Dean's mouth again, "Dean," he says, and Dean sucks them in, gets them soaking wet again, and Cas smiles at him, pulls his fingers out of Dean's mouth, and slicks his cock with Dean's saliva. Then he's pushing into Dean.
"Yes, fuck, Oh god," Dean says, borderline incoherent. He wraps his legs around Cas' waist and thrusts up, taking Castiel all the way inside his body. "Fuck me, Cas," he says.
But Cas holds back. "Dean," he says, brushing Dean's hair back again. "Easy." And he fucks into Dean slowly, pressing in deep, bottoming out against the smooth pale skin of Dean's ass.
Dean's not hard, not really capable of getting it up right now, but Cas feels good inside him, and he hooks his ankles behind Cas' back and lifts his hips, encouraging.
Cas smiles down at him, and begins to move, slow and steady, the drag and friction of Cas' spit sticky cock in his ass makes Dean shiver. But he still doesn't get hard. Cas caresses his dick, wraps his warm hand around it, and Dean stays soft. But god, Cas feels good inside him, against him, around him. He reaches up and tugs Cas down, kisses him, jerking with each thrust of Cas' hips, but he maintains mouth to mouth contact. It's closed-mouthed and honest and exactly what Dean needs, and he arches again into Cas' thrusts.
Cas pulls away from the kiss, rests his forehead against Dean's mouth, and begins to really fuck Dean in earnest, hard and hot, pounding into Dean as though the end was nigh, and Dean chuckled, because it really was. Then his body seized up into a graceful arch, Cas' fuckin too much for him to withstand, and for the first time in his life that he could recall, Dean came, dry and hard with his mouth open in a silent cry and his eyes closed in divine ecstasy.
Before he was finished and back on Earth in the land of the living, Cas shudders to a top above him, and collapses. He kisses Dean's chest and shoulders before chasing the gooseflesh up Dean's neck to land a solid, open-mouthed kiss on Dean's mouth.
They nuzzle each other like sleep-warm puppies, and the wet smack of lazy kissing fills the silence of the hotel room.
For the first time in a few months, Dean feels a genuine, honest to goodness, smile crease his cheeks.
Cas smiles back. "I've missed this," he says, tracing his fingers over Dean's lips.
Dean snorts. "What? Us fucking?"
Cas swats at him, frowning. "No, Dean," he says, sounding exasperated. "I wouldn't call that fucking. Such an ugly word for so beautiful and spiritual a thing. I meant you smiling"
Dean shrugs. He didn't see a problem with 'fucking'.
"Fucking is crass, Dean. Two people simply alleviating tension, sex without emotion. That is what fucking is."
"And that's not what we just did?"
Cas frowns at him again, and Dean's beginning to hate that expression on Cas' face. "If you truly believe that, then there is no need for me to linger."
Dean grabs his arms, thinking Cas was gearing up to leave. "No! No, I understand, okay. Cut me some slack, here, Cas."
"Why should I?"
"Because you know me, and you know I do this shit for the wrong reasons. I want you to stay. And I get it. We weren't just fucking."
"No."
"Okay. So was that...” Dean shakes his head, eyes rolling derisively. “I’m not callin’ it ‘making love’."
Cas smiles indulgently down at him. "It is what you make it," he says, "But remember, Dean. Angels, even fallen ones, do not engage in this activity indiscriminately. Eons pass between one angelic charge and the next. We don't know of sex the way humans do. We certainly do not take it so lightly."
Dean's eyes are wide. "Okay."
"But you must know, Dean, that any encounter between you and I will be about love."
The knowledge terrifies Dean, but it makes a sort of sense. Dean figures, however, that it's Cas, so the terror isn't about who but about what and Dean's lived enough, learned enough, done enough to scoff at terror when it's over love. He swallows, realizing with Cas' words that this more than likely isn't a one off, and says, "Fine, but we're not talking about it."
Cas gives his usual enigmatic smile and says, "No. That wouldn't be you."
Dean searches Cas’ face for mockery, but doesn’t find any. He pulls Cas back down to the bed. "Here, just, go to sleep. Think I'd like it if you were here in the morning," he says. He turns onto his side and wraps an arm around Cas' waist and carefully pulls him over.
He doesn't say why, not trusting his voice or reasoning, but Cas is the only thing keeping the memories at bay. Not even Sam is proof against the blood and pain that surface when Dean's sleeping now. Just Cas. And his comfort is rare.
Cas lays a hand on the arm Dean has stretched over his middle, and says into the darkness, "I'll be here."
Dean offers up a silent prayer of thanks to the god that has disappeared for bringing him Castiel. He pulls the covers up over them. They sleep.
The End
end