fic: you never had a chance
title: you never had a chance
pairing: dean/castiel. don't look at me like that.
rating: nc-17
warnings: massive angstfest, spoilers for 6.20
notes: ~2900 words, good lord. castiel in the second person is kinda hard, man, my apologies to my twitter followers for the running commentary. coda for "The Man Who Would Be King". mumble mumble insert something about a rushed ending here. for wandersfound who gave me the original prompt that i slapped on as a title and twisted for my own means, and aplethora for telling me my cas actually sounded like cas, and because i told her i'd write her something.
summary: You find you still enjoy it when Dean says things to you that you know he wouldn't dare confess to others. "I miss having you around all the time," he says. You don't know what to say to that. You miss being around all the time, but freedom means sacrifices.
“Your angel-proofing sucks,” Dean says the next morning, after tumbling off the couch and staggering his way into the kitchen, barely missing a collision with the stack of books newly piled in the doorway. You observe from the corner of the room, hidden from their eyes once again. Eavesdropping, you suppose Dean would say now, but you only have the best intentions in mind, something you’re not sure he’ll ever grasp at this point.
The hair on one side of his head is mashed flat and he yawns as he speaks. “Had a visit from Cas last night.”
Bobby frowns a little and then shrugs. “Well, I suppose trying to keep angels out is still a bit of a mystery, even to me.” You want to tell him he did a good job, actually, that a few of the lines faded when the paint dried but otherwise the warding would've held. But telling him that would no doubt lead to more disconnect with the Winchesters, something you don't want to think about. So you stay silent and invisible in your corner.
Dean grunts in acknowledgment, brain still foggy from the sleep deprivation you caused in the night. He gestures halfheartedly to the coffee pot, down to barely a cup left and mostly grounds. “That any good?” You watch Dean pour himself a cup of the tepid liquid then cringe after taking a sip. “How long have you guys been up? This is disgusting.”
“It was disgusting the moment Sam made it,” Bobby says, and the face Sam makes in reply amuses you momentarily, torn between indignation and agreement, his own half-drank cup on the counter beside him. You know for a fact Bobby never even poured himself a cup this morning, too busy drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and pouring over texts in search of answers no man has bothered to write down. "I'll work on beefing up the angel-proofing," he says.
Dean drinks his entire cup in one gulp. "Nah, don't bother. I don't think he's coming back anytime soon."
"Are you sure? I'm not so comfortable anymore with the idea of him just showing up when he pleases," Sam says. You're still not used to the weight regret places on your shoulders, heaviest burden of all still Sam's soul accidentally left in the pit.
Dean shrugs, like it doesn't matter to him anymore one way or another, like you don't matter. But you know better. Coping mechanism, you believe he'd call it. "Any leads on any more demon fodder?"
"Actually, yeah. Got a phone call last night from a hunter in Iowa, some hack who I wish I'd never given my number to." In all truth Bobby wasn't sure how the hunter had gotten his number, a fact you learned while observing their phone conversation. From his tone, you could assess that Bobby hadn't liked the man very much, but to Bobby, you know any information is worth checking out, no matter the source.
Dean sighs heavily, world-weary and you know you caused it this time, wish you could take it back somehow. "Why don't you and Sam go take a look?" he says. "I'll...man the fort. Or something." You wonder why he chooses not to go with them, not to throw himself into the fray like he usually does when he's troubled. You worry the Dean Winchester you have come to care for will become an enigma to you soon.
He sits in the quiet kitchen by himself for awhile after Bobby and Sam leave, clinging to his empty coffee cup and staring into it like perhaps the future will appear in the grounds caked to the bottom. He startles you when he says, "You can come out of hiding now."
You hesitate for a moment before appearing, uncertain of whether or not another confrontation will do any good, but you find it hard to avoid speaking to Dean no matter how uncomfortable the circumstances. "How did you know I was here?"
"I didn't." He shrugs, then looks up and meets your eyes. You watch him take in the sight of you, catalogue the area around you now that you've appeared, like maybe next time he'll be able to see the space you've distorted while hidden from him. You know him too well. "I was hoping." He says it so quietly were you human, it would've been inaudible. You find you still enjoy it when Dean says things to you that you know he wouldn't dare confess to others. "I miss having you around all the time," he says. You don't know what to say to that. You miss being around all the time, but freedom means sacrifices. "What are you doing, Cas?"
"Saving you. Saving everyone, but especially you." It is the simplest answer you could give.
Dean scoffs. "What is it people say, 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions'?"
You've never truly understood where this expression comes from; the road to hell has never been paved. "I assure you I am in control of the situation."
It's not the answer Dean wants to hear. You're not sure you have an answer he wants to hear at this point."There is no controlling the situation, not with Crowley. Not with any demon. Did you just forget Sam's little tryst with Ruby last year?"
You pause, considering the comparison. "It's not the same thing. If you'd let me explain..."
"Fine, explain. Like I'm five."
So you do, in essentially the same words you tried explaining it in less than twenty-four hours ago. He moves around the room as you speak, nervously pacing like he’s trapped in a cage, but he listens. You know his mind is still clouded with hurt and betrayal, but at least this time he tries to understand.
When you've exhausted words this time around, you look at him expectantly and wait for the inevitable.
"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose," he mumbles, digging at one of his fingernails and looking anywhere except directly at you. You're suddenly aware of how close to you he's standing, having stopped pacing when you finished attempting to explain.
"I have plenty to lose."
He looks up at you. "Yes. You do." The room is silent. He picks up what's left of the bottle of whiskey Bobby had discarded earlier and finishes it off. "I still don't like it."
You want to tell him you're not fond of it either, that the more time you spend attached to Crowley makes your skin crawl almost in a literal sense. You're uncomfortable in your own body, certain in your goals but ever wary of the path to reach them. You miss living life in black and white, weary of this perpetual state of gray you picked up from Dean, something he seems to have forgotten these days. "It's too late."
"Yeah, well. Why didn't you just come to me, man? I was there."
"It's complicated," you say. "I didn't want to disturb you."
Dean nods curtly. "Yeah, okay. So instead you make deals with demons. Because that always works out so well." He laughs bitterly, then steps closer to you. You're surprised when he lifts a hand to your face. "Freedom is a beautiful thing but only when used correctly." It's more eloquent than you're used to hearing him speak, but you suppose if there's anyone qualified to speak about freedom these days, it's him.
You've kissed him before, once when he was drunk and lonely, Sam nowhere around and the weight of the world resting heavily on his shoulders. Dean had been too inebriated to react, really, just stared at you dumbfounded when you stepped back. After that incident, you didn’t speak to him for two weeks, too embarrassed and confused to face him, almost hoping he’d forget the moment but certain he hadn’t. You'd kissed others before, long ago, but this had been different, an impulse you couldn't explain, grabbing him and pulling him close just to see something other than defeat in his eyes. Now you're tempted to do it again.
"We can fix this," he whispers, his mouth inches from yours.
"It's not broken," you whisper back, unsure of whom you're trying to convince at this point and certain that this isn’t the way to fix anything.
Dean kisses like he does everything in life, weird combination of steady but unsure that he’s making the right decision. You suppose both your worlds just got a little grayer. He tastes of whiskey and bitter coffee and you wonder briefly if he’s gone a day without either of them in the last three years.
His hand pulls at you, fingers digging into your jaw before sliding down around your neck, distorting your face and probably leaving bruises near your collar that you won’t bother to heal. “Cas,” he whispers when he pulls back, breath heavy against your lips.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you reply, already knowing this is what he’s trying to say.
“No, we shouldn’t.” He wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer, fingers at the collar of your coat, pulling at your tie, untucking your shirt.
“Do you want to stop?” Your arms hang awkwardly at your sides, itching to touch him, but you wait for an answer.
He kisses you again, slowly, hesitant like he’s weighing his options. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want this, that you wouldn’t be praying for it if you thought it’d help. “I’m mad at you, damnit,” he says when he pulls away, face contorted as if he’s not sure whether to be more frustrated at himself or you.
“You sound like a child,” you respond, amused. He frowns deeper and opens his mouth to retort something equally immature. You cut him off, silencing him with another kiss. Slowly, you guide him across the room to the countertop, knocking off the empty whiskey bottle and chipped coffee cup along the way. The sound of both items breaking accompanies Dean’s breathing like an orchestra played only for you. When Dean pulls your coat and shirt the rest of the way off, they fall to a pile in the floor, covering the shattered mess. You stand in front of him half-naked, exposed in more ways than one, and watch as he takes you in, his expression full of want and lust and a little bit of fear. Looking at his face you realize freedom is a beautiful thing indeed.
Your fingers fumble with his jeans, hole half-torn from wear and tear, threads clinging to the shiny metal button and getting caught in the teeth of his zipper. He’s not wearing any underwear and you watch the skin around his neck turn a pale shade of red when he realizes you’ve noticed. “Laundry day?” You can’t resist teasing, raising an eyebrow in the process.
“Shut up,” he mumbles back, giving you a gentle shove. His hands are sweaty when they collide with your chest, and you stumble backward like a colt on new ground. He laughs at you, loud and full, and you can’t remember the last time you’ve heard him laugh this way. You smile in return, forever grateful you can still provide some form of amusement in Dean’s life.
He pulls his shirt off in one graceful move while you’re still a few feet away, adds it to the pile on the floor. He stands fully exposed in front you and you’re certain there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to save him. You step closer and trace the new scars he’s picked up since you raised him from perdition, the last time you saw him completely naked. His skin reads like a fragmented alphabet: a small ‘c’ up near his collarbone, large jagged ‘l’ down below his hip, various other letters in between the two. You think if you looked hard enough, you could probably spell your name.
Your handprint still stands out on his shoulder, faded with years past but still obviously yours. You wonder how he explains it away to the women he meets on the road, then realize you haven’t seen him pick up anyone in several months, choosing instead to stay close to Sam and the bottle in his hand. Let it never be said that Dean Winchester is not a creature of habit.
“Cas,” he says again, fingers steady and sure as he helps you add your pants to the clothing pile, and then there’s nothing between you and him in the balmy kitchen except empty space and broken promises. “I want this,” he says, pulling you in and closing the gap. You can’t resist placing your hand over the handprint, watching his reaction, mixture of awe and remembrance.
“Turn around,” you say, giving his arm a gentle shove in the direction you want him to face. He complies easily, and you’re caught between finding such compliance amusing or dangerous. This is the man who said ‘no’ to the archangel Michael on multiple occasions, who less than a day ago thought you were the enemy. And now he’s trusting you wholeheartedly. It scares you.
“Dean,” you say, suddenly unsure of your actions.
“Do it,” he grits out in reply. “I’m not going to change my mind last minute. Don’t you.”
It takes him a moment to relax when you first slip a finger inside him, and you wait for him to adjust, aware that the lack of proper lubrication will create more friction than either of you would prefer. You’re fairly certain Bobby doesn’t keep anything handier in the kitchen than the copious amount of saliva you’ve already tried to provide and you’re both too impatient to bother looking anywhere else. Dean adjusts quickly enough, bucking back against you with short, quiet grunts. His knuckles grip the countertop so hard they’re turning white, and you can’t resist kissing down his back as he moves. He moans your name when you finally enter him, long and low and quiet, like he’s afraid someone will hear. Right now you feel like you’re the only two souls in the world, war machines and demon alliances forgotten for the time being. You press him up hard against the countertop, certain that it digs into his hips and hinders his erection but not really caring at the moment. It’s a steady pace the two of you share, your thrusts in sync with the sounds he makes, a two-man band in your own time.
It doesn’t last long, and you can almost hear Dean replying in your head, “nothing good ever does” even as he’s pushing himself back into you, sweaty skin sticking to sweaty skin, your hands around his hips, around his waist, around every part of him you can reach. You don’t last long, your orgasm washing over you like the first rays of a morning sun. You stay locked against Dean for a moment before pulling away. Dean sags back into you as you move and you reach around to support him, running your hands down the angry red lines the counter has left on him before wrapping around him and slowly bringing him to his finish. He says your name when he comes, breathing in short gasps and pants.
Neither of you move for awhile, content to just stand naked in the middle of Bobby’s kitchen for the time being, supporting one another equally. Eventually Dean turns around to face you, wraps his arms low around your hips and just looks at you for a bit. The quiet observation makes you uncomfortable.
“Dean,” you say, uncertain where to go from here.
He sighs, and then slowly peels himself out of your grasp, picks up his clothes and starts to get dressed. “You can’t stop working with Crowley this late in the game, can you?”
“It would be unwise.” You’re not sure of anything right now, other than you don’t want the moment to end.
“I don’t think that what you’re doing is the right thing, Cas.”
“One minute you trust me completely and the next you’re judging me for my choices. Is that how this works now?” You think you'd be used to doubt by now, but it still hurts coming from Dean.
“That was -.”
“Don’t say a mistake, Dean. I have been lost from the moment Lucifer and Michael fell into the pit and since then, that was the first moment I have not felt truly alone in the world.” It comes out much more heated than you intend, but it is truth nevertheless.
“I was going to say unexpected.” He smiles slightly at you, his appearance bittersweet and reserved once again.
You nod in response, deciding you’ve exposed enough of yourself to Dean for the moment, afraid of what would happen if you were to continue. “I should get going.”
“Yeah.” He leaves the room as you dress, mumbling about the bathroom. He returns as you’re straightening out your tie. “We’re not going to quit trying to stop Purgatory from being opened.” Let it never be said Winchesters give up easily. You don’t say anything. “I don’t think you should come around anymore.”
It’s where you figured this night’s conversation would end eventually, but it still hurts. “I understand,” you say, but you don’t truly grasp the concept until Dean turns his back on you and walks out of the room with a sense of finality.
“Goodbye, Cas,” he says. You know he won’t return this time.
pairing: dean/castiel. don't look at me like that.
rating: nc-17
warnings: massive angstfest, spoilers for 6.20
notes: ~2900 words, good lord. castiel in the second person is kinda hard, man, my apologies to my twitter followers for the running commentary. coda for "The Man Who Would Be King". mumble mumble insert something about a rushed ending here. for wandersfound who gave me the original prompt that i slapped on as a title and twisted for my own means, and aplethora for telling me my cas actually sounded like cas, and because i told her i'd write her something.
summary: You find you still enjoy it when Dean says things to you that you know he wouldn't dare confess to others. "I miss having you around all the time," he says. You don't know what to say to that. You miss being around all the time, but freedom means sacrifices.
“Your angel-proofing sucks,” Dean says the next morning, after tumbling off the couch and staggering his way into the kitchen, barely missing a collision with the stack of books newly piled in the doorway. You observe from the corner of the room, hidden from their eyes once again. Eavesdropping, you suppose Dean would say now, but you only have the best intentions in mind, something you’re not sure he’ll ever grasp at this point.
The hair on one side of his head is mashed flat and he yawns as he speaks. “Had a visit from Cas last night.”
Bobby frowns a little and then shrugs. “Well, I suppose trying to keep angels out is still a bit of a mystery, even to me.” You want to tell him he did a good job, actually, that a few of the lines faded when the paint dried but otherwise the warding would've held. But telling him that would no doubt lead to more disconnect with the Winchesters, something you don't want to think about. So you stay silent and invisible in your corner.
Dean grunts in acknowledgment, brain still foggy from the sleep deprivation you caused in the night. He gestures halfheartedly to the coffee pot, down to barely a cup left and mostly grounds. “That any good?” You watch Dean pour himself a cup of the tepid liquid then cringe after taking a sip. “How long have you guys been up? This is disgusting.”
“It was disgusting the moment Sam made it,” Bobby says, and the face Sam makes in reply amuses you momentarily, torn between indignation and agreement, his own half-drank cup on the counter beside him. You know for a fact Bobby never even poured himself a cup this morning, too busy drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and pouring over texts in search of answers no man has bothered to write down. "I'll work on beefing up the angel-proofing," he says.
Dean drinks his entire cup in one gulp. "Nah, don't bother. I don't think he's coming back anytime soon."
"Are you sure? I'm not so comfortable anymore with the idea of him just showing up when he pleases," Sam says. You're still not used to the weight regret places on your shoulders, heaviest burden of all still Sam's soul accidentally left in the pit.
Dean shrugs, like it doesn't matter to him anymore one way or another, like you don't matter. But you know better. Coping mechanism, you believe he'd call it. "Any leads on any more demon fodder?"
"Actually, yeah. Got a phone call last night from a hunter in Iowa, some hack who I wish I'd never given my number to." In all truth Bobby wasn't sure how the hunter had gotten his number, a fact you learned while observing their phone conversation. From his tone, you could assess that Bobby hadn't liked the man very much, but to Bobby, you know any information is worth checking out, no matter the source.
Dean sighs heavily, world-weary and you know you caused it this time, wish you could take it back somehow. "Why don't you and Sam go take a look?" he says. "I'll...man the fort. Or something." You wonder why he chooses not to go with them, not to throw himself into the fray like he usually does when he's troubled. You worry the Dean Winchester you have come to care for will become an enigma to you soon.
He sits in the quiet kitchen by himself for awhile after Bobby and Sam leave, clinging to his empty coffee cup and staring into it like perhaps the future will appear in the grounds caked to the bottom. He startles you when he says, "You can come out of hiding now."
You hesitate for a moment before appearing, uncertain of whether or not another confrontation will do any good, but you find it hard to avoid speaking to Dean no matter how uncomfortable the circumstances. "How did you know I was here?"
"I didn't." He shrugs, then looks up and meets your eyes. You watch him take in the sight of you, catalogue the area around you now that you've appeared, like maybe next time he'll be able to see the space you've distorted while hidden from him. You know him too well. "I was hoping." He says it so quietly were you human, it would've been inaudible. You find you still enjoy it when Dean says things to you that you know he wouldn't dare confess to others. "I miss having you around all the time," he says. You don't know what to say to that. You miss being around all the time, but freedom means sacrifices. "What are you doing, Cas?"
"Saving you. Saving everyone, but especially you." It is the simplest answer you could give.
Dean scoffs. "What is it people say, 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions'?"
You've never truly understood where this expression comes from; the road to hell has never been paved. "I assure you I am in control of the situation."
It's not the answer Dean wants to hear. You're not sure you have an answer he wants to hear at this point."There is no controlling the situation, not with Crowley. Not with any demon. Did you just forget Sam's little tryst with Ruby last year?"
You pause, considering the comparison. "It's not the same thing. If you'd let me explain..."
"Fine, explain. Like I'm five."
So you do, in essentially the same words you tried explaining it in less than twenty-four hours ago. He moves around the room as you speak, nervously pacing like he’s trapped in a cage, but he listens. You know his mind is still clouded with hurt and betrayal, but at least this time he tries to understand.
When you've exhausted words this time around, you look at him expectantly and wait for the inevitable.
"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose," he mumbles, digging at one of his fingernails and looking anywhere except directly at you. You're suddenly aware of how close to you he's standing, having stopped pacing when you finished attempting to explain.
"I have plenty to lose."
He looks up at you. "Yes. You do." The room is silent. He picks up what's left of the bottle of whiskey Bobby had discarded earlier and finishes it off. "I still don't like it."
You want to tell him you're not fond of it either, that the more time you spend attached to Crowley makes your skin crawl almost in a literal sense. You're uncomfortable in your own body, certain in your goals but ever wary of the path to reach them. You miss living life in black and white, weary of this perpetual state of gray you picked up from Dean, something he seems to have forgotten these days. "It's too late."
"Yeah, well. Why didn't you just come to me, man? I was there."
"It's complicated," you say. "I didn't want to disturb you."
Dean nods curtly. "Yeah, okay. So instead you make deals with demons. Because that always works out so well." He laughs bitterly, then steps closer to you. You're surprised when he lifts a hand to your face. "Freedom is a beautiful thing but only when used correctly." It's more eloquent than you're used to hearing him speak, but you suppose if there's anyone qualified to speak about freedom these days, it's him.
You've kissed him before, once when he was drunk and lonely, Sam nowhere around and the weight of the world resting heavily on his shoulders. Dean had been too inebriated to react, really, just stared at you dumbfounded when you stepped back. After that incident, you didn’t speak to him for two weeks, too embarrassed and confused to face him, almost hoping he’d forget the moment but certain he hadn’t. You'd kissed others before, long ago, but this had been different, an impulse you couldn't explain, grabbing him and pulling him close just to see something other than defeat in his eyes. Now you're tempted to do it again.
"We can fix this," he whispers, his mouth inches from yours.
"It's not broken," you whisper back, unsure of whom you're trying to convince at this point and certain that this isn’t the way to fix anything.
Dean kisses like he does everything in life, weird combination of steady but unsure that he’s making the right decision. You suppose both your worlds just got a little grayer. He tastes of whiskey and bitter coffee and you wonder briefly if he’s gone a day without either of them in the last three years.
His hand pulls at you, fingers digging into your jaw before sliding down around your neck, distorting your face and probably leaving bruises near your collar that you won’t bother to heal. “Cas,” he whispers when he pulls back, breath heavy against your lips.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you reply, already knowing this is what he’s trying to say.
“No, we shouldn’t.” He wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer, fingers at the collar of your coat, pulling at your tie, untucking your shirt.
“Do you want to stop?” Your arms hang awkwardly at your sides, itching to touch him, but you wait for an answer.
He kisses you again, slowly, hesitant like he’s weighing his options. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want this, that you wouldn’t be praying for it if you thought it’d help. “I’m mad at you, damnit,” he says when he pulls away, face contorted as if he’s not sure whether to be more frustrated at himself or you.
“You sound like a child,” you respond, amused. He frowns deeper and opens his mouth to retort something equally immature. You cut him off, silencing him with another kiss. Slowly, you guide him across the room to the countertop, knocking off the empty whiskey bottle and chipped coffee cup along the way. The sound of both items breaking accompanies Dean’s breathing like an orchestra played only for you. When Dean pulls your coat and shirt the rest of the way off, they fall to a pile in the floor, covering the shattered mess. You stand in front of him half-naked, exposed in more ways than one, and watch as he takes you in, his expression full of want and lust and a little bit of fear. Looking at his face you realize freedom is a beautiful thing indeed.
Your fingers fumble with his jeans, hole half-torn from wear and tear, threads clinging to the shiny metal button and getting caught in the teeth of his zipper. He’s not wearing any underwear and you watch the skin around his neck turn a pale shade of red when he realizes you’ve noticed. “Laundry day?” You can’t resist teasing, raising an eyebrow in the process.
“Shut up,” he mumbles back, giving you a gentle shove. His hands are sweaty when they collide with your chest, and you stumble backward like a colt on new ground. He laughs at you, loud and full, and you can’t remember the last time you’ve heard him laugh this way. You smile in return, forever grateful you can still provide some form of amusement in Dean’s life.
He pulls his shirt off in one graceful move while you’re still a few feet away, adds it to the pile on the floor. He stands fully exposed in front you and you’re certain there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to save him. You step closer and trace the new scars he’s picked up since you raised him from perdition, the last time you saw him completely naked. His skin reads like a fragmented alphabet: a small ‘c’ up near his collarbone, large jagged ‘l’ down below his hip, various other letters in between the two. You think if you looked hard enough, you could probably spell your name.
Your handprint still stands out on his shoulder, faded with years past but still obviously yours. You wonder how he explains it away to the women he meets on the road, then realize you haven’t seen him pick up anyone in several months, choosing instead to stay close to Sam and the bottle in his hand. Let it never be said that Dean Winchester is not a creature of habit.
“Cas,” he says again, fingers steady and sure as he helps you add your pants to the clothing pile, and then there’s nothing between you and him in the balmy kitchen except empty space and broken promises. “I want this,” he says, pulling you in and closing the gap. You can’t resist placing your hand over the handprint, watching his reaction, mixture of awe and remembrance.
“Turn around,” you say, giving his arm a gentle shove in the direction you want him to face. He complies easily, and you’re caught between finding such compliance amusing or dangerous. This is the man who said ‘no’ to the archangel Michael on multiple occasions, who less than a day ago thought you were the enemy. And now he’s trusting you wholeheartedly. It scares you.
“Dean,” you say, suddenly unsure of your actions.
“Do it,” he grits out in reply. “I’m not going to change my mind last minute. Don’t you.”
It takes him a moment to relax when you first slip a finger inside him, and you wait for him to adjust, aware that the lack of proper lubrication will create more friction than either of you would prefer. You’re fairly certain Bobby doesn’t keep anything handier in the kitchen than the copious amount of saliva you’ve already tried to provide and you’re both too impatient to bother looking anywhere else. Dean adjusts quickly enough, bucking back against you with short, quiet grunts. His knuckles grip the countertop so hard they’re turning white, and you can’t resist kissing down his back as he moves. He moans your name when you finally enter him, long and low and quiet, like he’s afraid someone will hear. Right now you feel like you’re the only two souls in the world, war machines and demon alliances forgotten for the time being. You press him up hard against the countertop, certain that it digs into his hips and hinders his erection but not really caring at the moment. It’s a steady pace the two of you share, your thrusts in sync with the sounds he makes, a two-man band in your own time.
It doesn’t last long, and you can almost hear Dean replying in your head, “nothing good ever does” even as he’s pushing himself back into you, sweaty skin sticking to sweaty skin, your hands around his hips, around his waist, around every part of him you can reach. You don’t last long, your orgasm washing over you like the first rays of a morning sun. You stay locked against Dean for a moment before pulling away. Dean sags back into you as you move and you reach around to support him, running your hands down the angry red lines the counter has left on him before wrapping around him and slowly bringing him to his finish. He says your name when he comes, breathing in short gasps and pants.
Neither of you move for awhile, content to just stand naked in the middle of Bobby’s kitchen for the time being, supporting one another equally. Eventually Dean turns around to face you, wraps his arms low around your hips and just looks at you for a bit. The quiet observation makes you uncomfortable.
“Dean,” you say, uncertain where to go from here.
He sighs, and then slowly peels himself out of your grasp, picks up his clothes and starts to get dressed. “You can’t stop working with Crowley this late in the game, can you?”
“It would be unwise.” You’re not sure of anything right now, other than you don’t want the moment to end.
“I don’t think that what you’re doing is the right thing, Cas.”
“One minute you trust me completely and the next you’re judging me for my choices. Is that how this works now?” You think you'd be used to doubt by now, but it still hurts coming from Dean.
“That was -.”
“Don’t say a mistake, Dean. I have been lost from the moment Lucifer and Michael fell into the pit and since then, that was the first moment I have not felt truly alone in the world.” It comes out much more heated than you intend, but it is truth nevertheless.
“I was going to say unexpected.” He smiles slightly at you, his appearance bittersweet and reserved once again.
You nod in response, deciding you’ve exposed enough of yourself to Dean for the moment, afraid of what would happen if you were to continue. “I should get going.”
“Yeah.” He leaves the room as you dress, mumbling about the bathroom. He returns as you’re straightening out your tie. “We’re not going to quit trying to stop Purgatory from being opened.” Let it never be said Winchesters give up easily. You don’t say anything. “I don’t think you should come around anymore.”
It’s where you figured this night’s conversation would end eventually, but it still hurts. “I understand,” you say, but you don’t truly grasp the concept until Dean turns his back on you and walks out of the room with a sense of finality.
“Goodbye, Cas,” he says. You know he won’t return this time.