into the furnace
TITLE: Into the Furnace
CHARACTERS INVOLVED: Sam Winchester, Castiel, brief mentions of Dean, Michael, and Chuck.
SUMMARY: A reverse of, "The End," where Dean says yes and Sam stays behind to run Chitaqua.
RATING: NC-17, it's got some smut up in here. (Sassy). Starts about mid way down.
WORD COUNT: One shot. 1193 words.
BETA: No one. I really need to find myself a beta.
Five years. An atom bomb dropping, flames rising, a sweltering heat and a sea of the diseased; carnage and blood lust on their lips. Dean had said yes and Michael had torn apart the world looking for Lucifer in the feint shell of what was still his vessel Nick. North America was no longer a continent but a torn open, infected, puss filled wound; a shadow and a broken mirror of what it had once been. The hills were no longer lush and green but dried beds of crippled ferns and plant life that held no interest for anyone inhabiting the country, croat or hairless ape alike.
At the admission, at the plea to Michael a piece of Sam had died. The more emphatically emotional brother was forced to take yield and build together his own life for Cas and the reisdents of Chitaqua and it was difficult when he wasn’t used to taking the lead. He wasn’t apt to enforcing law or being in charge of thirty heads of people. Being a little brother and then a student for most of his life didn’t prepare him for what he was seeing now. These people’s spirits had been killed, Castiel’s too. He was a shell of what he’d once been. He was frail, weak, immaculate and everything he’d held a candle to before but he had a millennia worth of memories and could never fit in with the rest of them, harem or friends alike. He was stuck in some limbo between divine and normal and Sam could see how much it hurt him. Their lives were a constant dilapidated pull between fighting and falling and the way they stumbled it wasn’t hard to see at all which of the two they were doing most.
That evening Sam entered Castiel’s cabin with a tightened jaw and balled up fists, it wasn’t difficult for Cas to see what was the matter. His former addiction made it very hard for him to go out onto the frontlines to fight and because of breaking his foot on the former raid he wasn’t welcome to go along to this one. It didn’t stop him form standing at attention for his leader, grabbing both of the stolen crutches and limping over to him while inspecting his wounds from a distance. He seemed to be fine, shaken up, damn near starving for attention- but fine. Castiel was shirtless, the summer’s were hot, and he didn’t see a point in making himself sick with heat exhaustion. He could feel Sam’s eyes on him as he limped around his room.
“Do you need a drink?” Castiel was already at his liquor cabinet and Sam watched him pull the dusty bottle of rum off of it.
“Yeah, I need a drink.” Sam couldn’t help his biting sarcasm. Drinking was all Cas seemed to be doing now outside of his drug abuse. The foot was obviously bothering him, and he knew that because the drinking and the drug binging happened in excess.
“How’s the foot?”
“It’s not always physical wounds, physical pain. In my cache I have Xanax, Lithium, and Depakote. Sometimes it does me more justice than the Vicodin or Tramadol. It depends wholly on what I’m facing.”
Sam stared into his cup for a good long time, skeptical, searching for something that he wouldn’t find in the amber liquid and he stayed that way until he felt the trace of finger tips across the bone of his wrist and over the bridge of his hand. His head raised, he met Castiel’s eyes, blue and green tangled and entwined together in a dance of passion, affection, and concern. Castiel’s forehead hit the bow of Sam’s chest and he almost buckled under the emotional weight of it. His large hand reached up and found the wings of his back and he pulled the torn down angel closer to him in a mock embrace full of a lot more than just camaraderie.
“It’ll all be well-- eventually.”
Sam didn’t know if Cas was talking to himself or referring to him but that hand rubbed a knot into his forearm as he swung Cas closer and the crutches buckled and scooted away from them. He could tell that he was hurting and he wasn’t sure how to help outside of a hug.
“I‘d like it if that were true,” he answered. There was anxiety across his brow and Cas couldn’t help his mournful smile against him, he raised his head to meet those hazel green pools again and then something happened that neither of them had expected. A kiss was stolen, and by the time they were both pulling back for air; neither were sure who had instigated it. Sam didn’t sleep with a lot of the denizens of their camp and he was still a man, he had needs, and seeing Cas now here before him so raw and wanting. He wasn’t sure what to do.
He was sure what he wanted, he wanted to take, and so he moved the two of them backward, taking his drink in entirety before he did so, toward the bed. He let Cas fall back down against it once again and set the crutches back to the side where they’d been before so he could let his knees fall against the mattress over him. Cas looked to him with understanding, learning, eyes and Sam studied him back. He knew that Cas was inebriated. He didn’t want any regrets. Their lips met again, Castiel dug his hand into Sam’s hair and pulled hard. It made Sam’s hips buck against him, it felt good. He knew how wrong it was, that Cas was still a child of God, but he wanted to split him open. He’d watched Cas become what he was now and it was only in these moments that he saw what his friend had been before.
Hips met hips, chafing. The younger Winchester, the camp leader, placed biting kisses at the little angel’s throat and was reciprocated by kneading fingers into his back. That felt good, he bristled and met him by removing his pants with caution to his hurt foot. Cas just laughed, he felt nothing. It made his current lover’s throat clot up. It was too bitter, not jovial, dry and lacking the quality it should have had.
Cas’ fingers traced circles in the canal of Sam’s hips before he made any attempt at pulling off his shirt, and when he did it was slow, sensual. As if it was something he deserved and he wanted to take special care in it and pay attention to the chiseled and carved chest he was viewing, the scars, the blemishes. All of it.
Sam watched him watching him and took a stance of uncertainty. It meant more between them, he wasn’t sure why, but with his chest not bare and his skin flushed with want he moved closer to Cas until skin met skin and differences in stature were too obvious to ignore.
He was pulled close by two hands and their lips met again, his tongue slipped out to wholly taste him, only getting a breath full of alcohol when he was pulled closer by forearms and then they were so close to each other that every movement was sending electric shocks to his spine, and energizing his need. He went to kick out of his pants and the former angel stopped him, pulled them down slow, rolled them down the duvet of his hips and bit pink marks into the skin above him as he went. Sam wasn’t sure where Cas learned the enjoyment in apprehension but he went with it, rolled his hips down against his predominantly and Cas cried out. Mission accomplished. It was seconds between them that Sam was looking for some form of lubrication. All he could find was holy oil in the drawer nearest to them but rather than tell Cas about the blasphemy he lathered his hands in it trailed his fingers across the open V of Castiel’s legs before slipping his middle finger in to penetrate him. Castiel stuttered from the feeling and Sam tightened his eyes. A second finger, a third finger, Sam hit Castiel’s prostate and the wingless angel writhed around his digits. A silent sorry, a kiss to his temple, and Sam was leaning forward to prepare him for entry. Castiel dug his nails into the sides of his shoulders at the sheer size of him, his head hit the pillow hard, his hips bucked upward. There was another cry, something feral, a sound an angel never should make and then a rhythmic beat.
“Fuck, Cas,”
“That’s- the point- right?” He smiled again and emitted that same chalky laugh and Sam smiled back because at least he had a sense of humor. It wasn’t something he’d had before and even though it was melancholic it made this better. This the feeling of how tight he was, enough to make him want to swallow his own tongue. He pulled him closer by his knees, Cas bent them into his sides and Sam grunted in appreciation.
Cas reached forward and grabbed his own length pumped himself along with Sam’s ministrations and as if in a moment of sympathy for him, the behemoth of a hunter, his leader, his friend, pulled his good leg up in such a way that with every leer forward he was reaming into his sweet spot and driving him wild. An hour later, he was getting spent, Sam wasn’t done. So much blood lust, the feeling of the holy oil just painful enough along with the pleasure that it made him assert that much more of himself to Cas. He’d reached completion across his chest twice, Sam’s torso was sticky with it. It carried on until the evening, no one bothered them, it was as if they knew, and if a prophet in another cabin was having visions of it. He kept his mouth shut.
Castiel balked when his knees seized, his face blanched, he dug fresh cuts into Sam’s back and bit his shoulder when he hit the bricks that third time and Sam went along with him, desperate for release by that point. Cas could feel it swimming inside of him, pluming heat, thick throbbing, and when Sam removed himself Cas collapsed in a mess of sticky sweat and tired limbs. Sam just looked at him for a long time before letting himself roll onto his back, his eyes finding the ceiling.
The next morning was awkward, as it would be, they ate in the mess together as they usually did, and Cas brought Sam dinner in his cabin but even despite the now thick wall of tension between them, they both know they’d helped and gratified each other in way no one else could. They would be regular bedroom banter regardless of their doubts, they knew that too. So, the touching was more meaningful. The pats on the back, the gestures of confidence. To see each other stripped down to that very basic piece of themselves meant more than the war they were fighting or where they were going, and even though the retired angel was good with words, Sam found it so much easier to exert each other and then talk in exasperated mumbling, because then he didn’t have to look at the pain on his closest friend’s face. The same look he’d gotten the day he’d killed Alastair, just more subtle, and clouded with worry.
CHARACTERS INVOLVED: Sam Winchester, Castiel, brief mentions of Dean, Michael, and Chuck.
SUMMARY: A reverse of, "The End," where Dean says yes and Sam stays behind to run Chitaqua.
RATING: NC-17, it's got some smut up in here. (Sassy). Starts about mid way down.
WORD COUNT: One shot. 1193 words.
BETA: No one. I really need to find myself a beta.
Five years. An atom bomb dropping, flames rising, a sweltering heat and a sea of the diseased; carnage and blood lust on their lips. Dean had said yes and Michael had torn apart the world looking for Lucifer in the feint shell of what was still his vessel Nick. North America was no longer a continent but a torn open, infected, puss filled wound; a shadow and a broken mirror of what it had once been. The hills were no longer lush and green but dried beds of crippled ferns and plant life that held no interest for anyone inhabiting the country, croat or hairless ape alike.
At the admission, at the plea to Michael a piece of Sam had died. The more emphatically emotional brother was forced to take yield and build together his own life for Cas and the reisdents of Chitaqua and it was difficult when he wasn’t used to taking the lead. He wasn’t apt to enforcing law or being in charge of thirty heads of people. Being a little brother and then a student for most of his life didn’t prepare him for what he was seeing now. These people’s spirits had been killed, Castiel’s too. He was a shell of what he’d once been. He was frail, weak, immaculate and everything he’d held a candle to before but he had a millennia worth of memories and could never fit in with the rest of them, harem or friends alike. He was stuck in some limbo between divine and normal and Sam could see how much it hurt him. Their lives were a constant dilapidated pull between fighting and falling and the way they stumbled it wasn’t hard to see at all which of the two they were doing most.
That evening Sam entered Castiel’s cabin with a tightened jaw and balled up fists, it wasn’t difficult for Cas to see what was the matter. His former addiction made it very hard for him to go out onto the frontlines to fight and because of breaking his foot on the former raid he wasn’t welcome to go along to this one. It didn’t stop him form standing at attention for his leader, grabbing both of the stolen crutches and limping over to him while inspecting his wounds from a distance. He seemed to be fine, shaken up, damn near starving for attention- but fine. Castiel was shirtless, the summer’s were hot, and he didn’t see a point in making himself sick with heat exhaustion. He could feel Sam’s eyes on him as he limped around his room.
“Do you need a drink?” Castiel was already at his liquor cabinet and Sam watched him pull the dusty bottle of rum off of it.
“Yeah, I need a drink.” Sam couldn’t help his biting sarcasm. Drinking was all Cas seemed to be doing now outside of his drug abuse. The foot was obviously bothering him, and he knew that because the drinking and the drug binging happened in excess.
“How’s the foot?”
“It’s not always physical wounds, physical pain. In my cache I have Xanax, Lithium, and Depakote. Sometimes it does me more justice than the Vicodin or Tramadol. It depends wholly on what I’m facing.”
Sam stared into his cup for a good long time, skeptical, searching for something that he wouldn’t find in the amber liquid and he stayed that way until he felt the trace of finger tips across the bone of his wrist and over the bridge of his hand. His head raised, he met Castiel’s eyes, blue and green tangled and entwined together in a dance of passion, affection, and concern. Castiel’s forehead hit the bow of Sam’s chest and he almost buckled under the emotional weight of it. His large hand reached up and found the wings of his back and he pulled the torn down angel closer to him in a mock embrace full of a lot more than just camaraderie.
“It’ll all be well-- eventually.”
Sam didn’t know if Cas was talking to himself or referring to him but that hand rubbed a knot into his forearm as he swung Cas closer and the crutches buckled and scooted away from them. He could tell that he was hurting and he wasn’t sure how to help outside of a hug.
“I‘d like it if that were true,” he answered. There was anxiety across his brow and Cas couldn’t help his mournful smile against him, he raised his head to meet those hazel green pools again and then something happened that neither of them had expected. A kiss was stolen, and by the time they were both pulling back for air; neither were sure who had instigated it. Sam didn’t sleep with a lot of the denizens of their camp and he was still a man, he had needs, and seeing Cas now here before him so raw and wanting. He wasn’t sure what to do.
He was sure what he wanted, he wanted to take, and so he moved the two of them backward, taking his drink in entirety before he did so, toward the bed. He let Cas fall back down against it once again and set the crutches back to the side where they’d been before so he could let his knees fall against the mattress over him. Cas looked to him with understanding, learning, eyes and Sam studied him back. He knew that Cas was inebriated. He didn’t want any regrets. Their lips met again, Castiel dug his hand into Sam’s hair and pulled hard. It made Sam’s hips buck against him, it felt good. He knew how wrong it was, that Cas was still a child of God, but he wanted to split him open. He’d watched Cas become what he was now and it was only in these moments that he saw what his friend had been before.
Hips met hips, chafing. The younger Winchester, the camp leader, placed biting kisses at the little angel’s throat and was reciprocated by kneading fingers into his back. That felt good, he bristled and met him by removing his pants with caution to his hurt foot. Cas just laughed, he felt nothing. It made his current lover’s throat clot up. It was too bitter, not jovial, dry and lacking the quality it should have had.
Cas’ fingers traced circles in the canal of Sam’s hips before he made any attempt at pulling off his shirt, and when he did it was slow, sensual. As if it was something he deserved and he wanted to take special care in it and pay attention to the chiseled and carved chest he was viewing, the scars, the blemishes. All of it.
Sam watched him watching him and took a stance of uncertainty. It meant more between them, he wasn’t sure why, but with his chest not bare and his skin flushed with want he moved closer to Cas until skin met skin and differences in stature were too obvious to ignore.
He was pulled close by two hands and their lips met again, his tongue slipped out to wholly taste him, only getting a breath full of alcohol when he was pulled closer by forearms and then they were so close to each other that every movement was sending electric shocks to his spine, and energizing his need. He went to kick out of his pants and the former angel stopped him, pulled them down slow, rolled them down the duvet of his hips and bit pink marks into the skin above him as he went. Sam wasn’t sure where Cas learned the enjoyment in apprehension but he went with it, rolled his hips down against his predominantly and Cas cried out. Mission accomplished. It was seconds between them that Sam was looking for some form of lubrication. All he could find was holy oil in the drawer nearest to them but rather than tell Cas about the blasphemy he lathered his hands in it trailed his fingers across the open V of Castiel’s legs before slipping his middle finger in to penetrate him. Castiel stuttered from the feeling and Sam tightened his eyes. A second finger, a third finger, Sam hit Castiel’s prostate and the wingless angel writhed around his digits. A silent sorry, a kiss to his temple, and Sam was leaning forward to prepare him for entry. Castiel dug his nails into the sides of his shoulders at the sheer size of him, his head hit the pillow hard, his hips bucked upward. There was another cry, something feral, a sound an angel never should make and then a rhythmic beat.
“Fuck, Cas,”
“That’s- the point- right?” He smiled again and emitted that same chalky laugh and Sam smiled back because at least he had a sense of humor. It wasn’t something he’d had before and even though it was melancholic it made this better. This the feeling of how tight he was, enough to make him want to swallow his own tongue. He pulled him closer by his knees, Cas bent them into his sides and Sam grunted in appreciation.
Cas reached forward and grabbed his own length pumped himself along with Sam’s ministrations and as if in a moment of sympathy for him, the behemoth of a hunter, his leader, his friend, pulled his good leg up in such a way that with every leer forward he was reaming into his sweet spot and driving him wild. An hour later, he was getting spent, Sam wasn’t done. So much blood lust, the feeling of the holy oil just painful enough along with the pleasure that it made him assert that much more of himself to Cas. He’d reached completion across his chest twice, Sam’s torso was sticky with it. It carried on until the evening, no one bothered them, it was as if they knew, and if a prophet in another cabin was having visions of it. He kept his mouth shut.
Castiel balked when his knees seized, his face blanched, he dug fresh cuts into Sam’s back and bit his shoulder when he hit the bricks that third time and Sam went along with him, desperate for release by that point. Cas could feel it swimming inside of him, pluming heat, thick throbbing, and when Sam removed himself Cas collapsed in a mess of sticky sweat and tired limbs. Sam just looked at him for a long time before letting himself roll onto his back, his eyes finding the ceiling.
The next morning was awkward, as it would be, they ate in the mess together as they usually did, and Cas brought Sam dinner in his cabin but even despite the now thick wall of tension between them, they both know they’d helped and gratified each other in way no one else could. They would be regular bedroom banter regardless of their doubts, they knew that too. So, the touching was more meaningful. The pats on the back, the gestures of confidence. To see each other stripped down to that very basic piece of themselves meant more than the war they were fighting or where they were going, and even though the retired angel was good with words, Sam found it so much easier to exert each other and then talk in exasperated mumbling, because then he didn’t have to look at the pain on his closest friend’s face. The same look he’d gotten the day he’d killed Alastair, just more subtle, and clouded with worry.