[Fic] Essence of Appeal (SPN) Dean, Castiel
Title: Essence of Appeal
Author: arccie
Characters/Pairing(s): Dean, Castiel (preslash?)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Low level cursing, spoilers for all of season 4 (to be safe), blood.
Summary: Every swallow drives him higher, each breath drives him deeper. (Prompt: blood)
Word Count: 2100
Disclaimer: Not mine, never mine. *sobs*
A/N: Written for spn_teamfic Set sometime post-4x22.
Sooo, this was supposed to be about 200 words, then it was 2000. It ran away with me. I actually had a longer, more plotty idea, but hey, no time.
Enjoy.
Essence of Appeal
A rich flavour floods his tongue, impressively strong and surprisingly sweet. He swallows it, almost instantly regretting that a weak aftertaste is all that remains.
Tongue flicking out in search of even a single drop more, it lingers at the slight sticky residue edging his bottom lip. Then it too is gone.
He wants more.
Mouth parted in undeniable anticipation, Dean leans forward for another taste.
The next taste is better than the first.
It slides wet and smooth down his throat. Slides deep down, pooling in the pit of his stomach.
A mouthful of a gourmet’s delight splashed across his taste buds. Chased down by a dozen more.
More and more. He’s greedy for it.
Every taste, each swallow adding to the liquid settling in his stomach. Adding to the sensation expanding out from his gut.
Warmth and light. Comfort and happiness. Endurance and strength.
Spreading out, delving in.
Filling him to the brim.
Good, so, so good. But not enough.
(Never enough?)
Drink it deep. Gulp it down.
Nothing but the flavour.
Tastes of nothing but the essence of emotion.
Everything overwhelmed and drowned under this sensation.
Blissed out and foggy.
Just him and these all encompassing emotions
The touch of skin to skin shrieks through him. A whisper edge of fingers skim his neck, slide into his hair, cups his neck.
Too much. Too much!
Body -still strangely his- pushing into that touch, cringing away.
Nerves shriek and blister, burnt out in overload.
The sensation remains, lessened, dulled. Existing, but now a part of the whole experience. It joins with all the other feeling, adding to every other feeling.
Comforting, wonderful, needed.
Every swallow drives him higher, each breath drives him deeper.
Every drop of himself…
His entirety…
…enjoyed, warmed, satisfied, embraced.
Loved.
Loved and loved and loved and loved and loved and loved and loved.
Dean reels.
Mouth open, breathing unsteady and harsh. Inhales. Counts the seconds until he exhales. Then does it again.
Realises his knees hurt from kneeling on the dirty motel carpet. They’ll be worse when he tries to get up. He’ll walk like he’s crippled once he’s up and moving, left knee cracking with every step. He’ll look damn ridiculous when he stands up.
If he stands up.
He stares at the source of the heady fluid. Stares at the cut in Castiel’s arm.
Stares at his goddamn meal.
Seeping red, droplets gliding across pink flesh, and falling (wasted) to the floor.
Resists leaning forward once more, for just one more mouthful. One more second of that feeling.
He doesn’t need it. Wants, craves, but doesn’t need.
It’s mesmerising knowing what exists within those drops, in those veins.
A whole body full. Not even a metre away.
Shuddering, he pushes Castiel’s arm away, folding over on himself.
What is he thinking? What has it done to him?
“…Dean.” The tone makes it obvious that Castiel has been repeating his name for a while now and he didn’t notice. Didn’t hear his name being said from right beside him, from less than an arm’s length away.
He shivers in disgust.
“Don’t…” The word scrapes out of his throat, hoarse and barely there. Tries again. “Don’t touch me.”
Castiel complies, the fingers he’d forgotten were tangled in his hair slowly (regretfully?) drawing away.
He shivers and can’t seem to stop.
So it really is just him now, pathetically curled on the floor with an angel watching him. With Castiel watching him
What a sight he must be, a wretched ball of shivering man.
Wonders if this is the usual effect of snacking on angel mojo. Possibly. But if so, the only people who’d know are long dead saintly warriors or some-such. He could ask Castiel if this was a normal side effect. He should ask, but how do you explain to the nice angel who was only trying to help that Dean now had to resist the urge to hack at Castiel with the nearest sharp object in the hopes of getting at more of his blood. Possibly his throat. Nice fountain of it right there, enough that he could probably bathe in it…
Damn.
“Dean, let me help you” It was strange that even though Castiel’s voice was filled with the usual soft note of command, he could have sworn the angel was pleading with him. Pleading with Dean to let him help.
“You can ‘help me’ by backing the hell off.” When Castiel didn’t immediately begin moving he went for the more direct approach. “Seriously, go hover in the bathroom.”
It takes a second, but Castiel moves to stand in the bathroom as directed. Just inside the bathroom, filling the doorway, his eyes dark and fixed on Dean.
Not perfect, but definitely better.
Dean might be able to breathe now without the thought of what he craves being within reach. Without the tang of fresh blood scenting the air.
“And plug that damn leak in your arm!” Probably a redundant demand with angel healing being what it is, but he’ll make it anyway. That way he can be sure that there’s no dripping temptation when he next catches sight of Castiel. No delicious red fluid ready to be licked off Castiel’s skin. It will be there, of course, running slow and steady under that seemingly thin skin. Just there, ready to be spilt by Ruby’s demon slaying knife. Right there…
He slams his fists into the carpet.
This is going to take a while.
Obviously he doesn’t really want to rip a hole in Castiel for easy access purposes. He genuinely doesn’t want to go on a blood diet, even if Sam would recommend it for the demon slaying power boost.
He thinks about Sam, remembers his erratic behaviour, the desperation for more any which way he could get it. He remembers Sam shoving his mouth over some demon girl’s wound, face covered in blood and so sure he was fine and damn-well dandy. So high on demon blood he barely remembered what was happening around him, as long as he could get more.
Dean doesn’t want to be that guy.
He’s got all the addictions he can handle thank you very much.
Halfway decent booze, heart-attack diner food and a never-ending supply of pie and he’s good, possibly great. His thoughts linger on pie a few more moments. Yep, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t need any supplement to his diet, and as long as he doesn’t think about just how fulfilling drinking Castiel’s blood was it will be alright.
Gradually, he allows his fists to uncurl. He waits a few moments to ascertain how hard it is to resist the urge to grope towards the demon knife. When he manages a full five minutes without imagining Castiel on the other side of the knife’s point, he leverages himself over onto his side, finally allowing his legs to stretch out.
No doubt Castiel is still watching him from the bathroom doorway, waiting for the all clear or possibly for Dean to go right off the deep end. Either way, he’s sort of surprised that the angel hasn’t tried to speak to him since Dean banished him to the bathroom. Then again, with all the time he spent hanging around with the Winchesters these days he’d gotten better at following the boundaries Dean imposed.
Given that he hasn’t had any really bloodthirsty thoughts in the last few minutes and he was lying on carpet that really wasn’t hiding the fact that there was a concrete floor beneath it; he could probably manage standing up.
As expected, getting up was an exercise in ridiculousness and he had to use the bed to push off the floor as his left knee decided it didn’t want to participate in the exercise.
Dean doesn’t look at Castiel as he says, “Show’s over. You can unblock the bathroom door anytime now.”
Castiel is almost instantly by his side, staring hard into Dean’s eyes. Checking for what exactly, Dean’s not sure. Then again, maybe he’s not exactly looking at Dean’s eyes. He probably can’t ask the angel to stop trying to read his soul.
Looking away, Castiel bows his head briefly. “I’m sorry Dean. My blood should not have affected you like that.”
He scowls. Apparently he gets the freaky reaction to drinking angel blood, possibly a Winchester thing. “Should have remembered what Sam’s like doped up on blood. You can’t expect me to be any better.”
“I am at fault for the way you reacted, if-“
“Whatever.” Dean cuts him off. “Next time I get whammied by a demon like that, even if it’s poisoning me to the very depths of my soul, if the only cure is another dose of angel blood I don’t want it. In fact, I so very much do not want it, that I don’t even want you to show up for the party. Got it?”
“It’s not that simple. If you are wounded in such a way, I need to do everything in my power to fix you. If something such as a lowly imp of pestilence prevents you from fulfilling your role in stopping the apocalypse…you must be alive to stop Lucifer. If it’s the only way…“
Shaking his head, Dean’s finger stabs into Castiel’s chest. “I’m not going to be that guy. I’m not going to be hanging out to get my next fix. Even if it is Angel Mojo.”
“It…” Castiel hesitates. “My blood is not addictive Dean.”
He snorts. “Yeah, like that skank Ruby’s blood wasn’t every druggie’s dream. Look, just agree that you won’t be offering up your blood to me again.”
Cocking his head, Castiel studies him a moment before stiffly shrugging his shoulders. Taking that for agreement, Dean nods sharply.
“Great, glad that we’ve resolved the matter. And since we’re done, I am going to get some hard zees.” He turns towards the bed, shrugging off his shirt, hands already moving towards his belt. “Sam will be back soon so you can take off back to wherever you were before I got juiced by some back water demon. Just make sure you don’t break the salt lines when you do.”
Castiel probably ignores the implication of carelessness, though his voice is stiff with what could possibly be offence. “I will wait for Samuel and guard your rest until his return.”
He shrugs one shoulder as he face plants into the pillow. “Fine, whatever floats your boat. But don’t stare at me. It’s creepy dude.”
The demand is clearly ignored as he can feel where the angel’s eyes are burning into his back. Despite what he said, it’s an almost familiar feeling now. After months of Castiel popping in and out of his dreams, staring at him until he wakes up, watching him when he speaks, it’s sort of expected by now. He relaxes into the bed, into the feeling of being watched over.
Apparently demon death juice and angel mojo take a lot out of a guy. He’s a sleep within minutes, falling into dreams of warmth and safety and love.
X----------X----------X----------X----------X
Castiel watches Dean relax into slumber, observes stiff muscles unclench, body slackening in sleep. Looks deeper. Studies the glowing soul within.
Despite Dean’s negative reaction to the experience, Castiel can see no damage has been done to the man. In fact, his souls blazes brighter than it has since he dragged it out of the pit. The light it emits stronger and more even.
It pulses with gentle warmth; places that have been dark with anger and despair lightened and smoothed over. Freed in sleep, it reaches out searching for the existence it touched before. Seeking out Castiel’s true self.
Bathed in the depths of an angel’s purpose and devotion. Touching Castiel’s very being.
It’s rare for humans to even comprehend an angel’s emotions, let alone desire more of them. Never crave them and encompass them completely.
Castiel may not be part of the Heavenly Host anymore, but he is just as strong as he ever was. Dean should not have been able to feel him so deeply.
He shakes his head. Dean will cite weakness, cry human frailty, but his soul will be on the front lines. It will reach out again and again for something greater than a normal human life, no matter how it is hurt.
Keys jingle in the door’s lock. Sam returning; relieving Castiel of his self-imposed duty.
He steps off the human plane of existence. Away from Dean’s bright existence.
Filled with uncertainty, but sure of his choice at least.
Confident about choosing Dean Winchester.
X----------X----------X----------X----------X
Comments appreciated. Criticisms considered.
Author: arccie
Characters/Pairing(s): Dean, Castiel (preslash?)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Low level cursing, spoilers for all of season 4 (to be safe), blood.
Summary: Every swallow drives him higher, each breath drives him deeper. (Prompt: blood)
Word Count: 2100
Disclaimer: Not mine, never mine. *sobs*
A/N: Written for spn_teamfic Set sometime post-4x22.
Sooo, this was supposed to be about 200 words, then it was 2000. It ran away with me. I actually had a longer, more plotty idea, but hey, no time.
Enjoy.
Essence of Appeal
A rich flavour floods his tongue, impressively strong and surprisingly sweet. He swallows it, almost instantly regretting that a weak aftertaste is all that remains.
Tongue flicking out in search of even a single drop more, it lingers at the slight sticky residue edging his bottom lip. Then it too is gone.
He wants more.
Mouth parted in undeniable anticipation, Dean leans forward for another taste.
The next taste is better than the first.
It slides wet and smooth down his throat. Slides deep down, pooling in the pit of his stomach.
A mouthful of a gourmet’s delight splashed across his taste buds. Chased down by a dozen more.
More and more. He’s greedy for it.
Every taste, each swallow adding to the liquid settling in his stomach. Adding to the sensation expanding out from his gut.
Warmth and light. Comfort and happiness. Endurance and strength.
Spreading out, delving in.
Filling him to the brim.
Good, so, so good. But not enough.
(Never enough?)
Drink it deep. Gulp it down.
Nothing but the flavour.
Tastes of nothing but the essence of emotion.
Everything overwhelmed and drowned under this sensation.
Blissed out and foggy.
Just him and these all encompassing emotions
The touch of skin to skin shrieks through him. A whisper edge of fingers skim his neck, slide into his hair, cups his neck.
Too much. Too much!
Body -still strangely his- pushing into that touch, cringing away.
Nerves shriek and blister, burnt out in overload.
The sensation remains, lessened, dulled. Existing, but now a part of the whole experience. It joins with all the other feeling, adding to every other feeling.
Comforting, wonderful, needed.
Every swallow drives him higher, each breath drives him deeper.
Every drop of himself…
His entirety…
…enjoyed, warmed, satisfied, embraced.
Loved.
Loved and loved and loved and loved and loved and loved and loved.
Dean reels.
Mouth open, breathing unsteady and harsh. Inhales. Counts the seconds until he exhales. Then does it again.
Realises his knees hurt from kneeling on the dirty motel carpet. They’ll be worse when he tries to get up. He’ll walk like he’s crippled once he’s up and moving, left knee cracking with every step. He’ll look damn ridiculous when he stands up.
If he stands up.
He stares at the source of the heady fluid. Stares at the cut in Castiel’s arm.
Stares at his goddamn meal.
Seeping red, droplets gliding across pink flesh, and falling (wasted) to the floor.
Resists leaning forward once more, for just one more mouthful. One more second of that feeling.
He doesn’t need it. Wants, craves, but doesn’t need.
It’s mesmerising knowing what exists within those drops, in those veins.
A whole body full. Not even a metre away.
Shuddering, he pushes Castiel’s arm away, folding over on himself.
What is he thinking? What has it done to him?
“…Dean.” The tone makes it obvious that Castiel has been repeating his name for a while now and he didn’t notice. Didn’t hear his name being said from right beside him, from less than an arm’s length away.
He shivers in disgust.
“Don’t…” The word scrapes out of his throat, hoarse and barely there. Tries again. “Don’t touch me.”
Castiel complies, the fingers he’d forgotten were tangled in his hair slowly (regretfully?) drawing away.
He shivers and can’t seem to stop.
So it really is just him now, pathetically curled on the floor with an angel watching him. With Castiel watching him
What a sight he must be, a wretched ball of shivering man.
Wonders if this is the usual effect of snacking on angel mojo. Possibly. But if so, the only people who’d know are long dead saintly warriors or some-such. He could ask Castiel if this was a normal side effect. He should ask, but how do you explain to the nice angel who was only trying to help that Dean now had to resist the urge to hack at Castiel with the nearest sharp object in the hopes of getting at more of his blood. Possibly his throat. Nice fountain of it right there, enough that he could probably bathe in it…
Damn.
“Dean, let me help you” It was strange that even though Castiel’s voice was filled with the usual soft note of command, he could have sworn the angel was pleading with him. Pleading with Dean to let him help.
“You can ‘help me’ by backing the hell off.” When Castiel didn’t immediately begin moving he went for the more direct approach. “Seriously, go hover in the bathroom.”
It takes a second, but Castiel moves to stand in the bathroom as directed. Just inside the bathroom, filling the doorway, his eyes dark and fixed on Dean.
Not perfect, but definitely better.
Dean might be able to breathe now without the thought of what he craves being within reach. Without the tang of fresh blood scenting the air.
“And plug that damn leak in your arm!” Probably a redundant demand with angel healing being what it is, but he’ll make it anyway. That way he can be sure that there’s no dripping temptation when he next catches sight of Castiel. No delicious red fluid ready to be licked off Castiel’s skin. It will be there, of course, running slow and steady under that seemingly thin skin. Just there, ready to be spilt by Ruby’s demon slaying knife. Right there…
He slams his fists into the carpet.
This is going to take a while.
Obviously he doesn’t really want to rip a hole in Castiel for easy access purposes. He genuinely doesn’t want to go on a blood diet, even if Sam would recommend it for the demon slaying power boost.
He thinks about Sam, remembers his erratic behaviour, the desperation for more any which way he could get it. He remembers Sam shoving his mouth over some demon girl’s wound, face covered in blood and so sure he was fine and damn-well dandy. So high on demon blood he barely remembered what was happening around him, as long as he could get more.
Dean doesn’t want to be that guy.
He’s got all the addictions he can handle thank you very much.
Halfway decent booze, heart-attack diner food and a never-ending supply of pie and he’s good, possibly great. His thoughts linger on pie a few more moments. Yep, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t need any supplement to his diet, and as long as he doesn’t think about just how fulfilling drinking Castiel’s blood was it will be alright.
Gradually, he allows his fists to uncurl. He waits a few moments to ascertain how hard it is to resist the urge to grope towards the demon knife. When he manages a full five minutes without imagining Castiel on the other side of the knife’s point, he leverages himself over onto his side, finally allowing his legs to stretch out.
No doubt Castiel is still watching him from the bathroom doorway, waiting for the all clear or possibly for Dean to go right off the deep end. Either way, he’s sort of surprised that the angel hasn’t tried to speak to him since Dean banished him to the bathroom. Then again, with all the time he spent hanging around with the Winchesters these days he’d gotten better at following the boundaries Dean imposed.
Given that he hasn’t had any really bloodthirsty thoughts in the last few minutes and he was lying on carpet that really wasn’t hiding the fact that there was a concrete floor beneath it; he could probably manage standing up.
As expected, getting up was an exercise in ridiculousness and he had to use the bed to push off the floor as his left knee decided it didn’t want to participate in the exercise.
Dean doesn’t look at Castiel as he says, “Show’s over. You can unblock the bathroom door anytime now.”
Castiel is almost instantly by his side, staring hard into Dean’s eyes. Checking for what exactly, Dean’s not sure. Then again, maybe he’s not exactly looking at Dean’s eyes. He probably can’t ask the angel to stop trying to read his soul.
Looking away, Castiel bows his head briefly. “I’m sorry Dean. My blood should not have affected you like that.”
He scowls. Apparently he gets the freaky reaction to drinking angel blood, possibly a Winchester thing. “Should have remembered what Sam’s like doped up on blood. You can’t expect me to be any better.”
“I am at fault for the way you reacted, if-“
“Whatever.” Dean cuts him off. “Next time I get whammied by a demon like that, even if it’s poisoning me to the very depths of my soul, if the only cure is another dose of angel blood I don’t want it. In fact, I so very much do not want it, that I don’t even want you to show up for the party. Got it?”
“It’s not that simple. If you are wounded in such a way, I need to do everything in my power to fix you. If something such as a lowly imp of pestilence prevents you from fulfilling your role in stopping the apocalypse…you must be alive to stop Lucifer. If it’s the only way…“
Shaking his head, Dean’s finger stabs into Castiel’s chest. “I’m not going to be that guy. I’m not going to be hanging out to get my next fix. Even if it is Angel Mojo.”
“It…” Castiel hesitates. “My blood is not addictive Dean.”
He snorts. “Yeah, like that skank Ruby’s blood wasn’t every druggie’s dream. Look, just agree that you won’t be offering up your blood to me again.”
Cocking his head, Castiel studies him a moment before stiffly shrugging his shoulders. Taking that for agreement, Dean nods sharply.
“Great, glad that we’ve resolved the matter. And since we’re done, I am going to get some hard zees.” He turns towards the bed, shrugging off his shirt, hands already moving towards his belt. “Sam will be back soon so you can take off back to wherever you were before I got juiced by some back water demon. Just make sure you don’t break the salt lines when you do.”
Castiel probably ignores the implication of carelessness, though his voice is stiff with what could possibly be offence. “I will wait for Samuel and guard your rest until his return.”
He shrugs one shoulder as he face plants into the pillow. “Fine, whatever floats your boat. But don’t stare at me. It’s creepy dude.”
The demand is clearly ignored as he can feel where the angel’s eyes are burning into his back. Despite what he said, it’s an almost familiar feeling now. After months of Castiel popping in and out of his dreams, staring at him until he wakes up, watching him when he speaks, it’s sort of expected by now. He relaxes into the bed, into the feeling of being watched over.
Apparently demon death juice and angel mojo take a lot out of a guy. He’s a sleep within minutes, falling into dreams of warmth and safety and love.
X----------X----------X----------X----------X
Castiel watches Dean relax into slumber, observes stiff muscles unclench, body slackening in sleep. Looks deeper. Studies the glowing soul within.
Despite Dean’s negative reaction to the experience, Castiel can see no damage has been done to the man. In fact, his souls blazes brighter than it has since he dragged it out of the pit. The light it emits stronger and more even.
It pulses with gentle warmth; places that have been dark with anger and despair lightened and smoothed over. Freed in sleep, it reaches out searching for the existence it touched before. Seeking out Castiel’s true self.
Bathed in the depths of an angel’s purpose and devotion. Touching Castiel’s very being.
It’s rare for humans to even comprehend an angel’s emotions, let alone desire more of them. Never crave them and encompass them completely.
Castiel may not be part of the Heavenly Host anymore, but he is just as strong as he ever was. Dean should not have been able to feel him so deeply.
He shakes his head. Dean will cite weakness, cry human frailty, but his soul will be on the front lines. It will reach out again and again for something greater than a normal human life, no matter how it is hurt.
Keys jingle in the door’s lock. Sam returning; relieving Castiel of his self-imposed duty.
He steps off the human plane of existence. Away from Dean’s bright existence.
Filled with uncertainty, but sure of his choice at least.
Confident about choosing Dean Winchester.
X----------X----------X----------X----------X
Comments appreciated. Criticisms considered.