the broken or the holy hallelujah (girl!dean/castiel)
Title: the broken or the holy hallelujah
Pairing: girl!Dean/Castiel
Rating: Hard R or light NC-17? It's porn, is what it is
Notes: For theladyscribe who wanted girl!Dean/Castiel, it's not what you're thinking (Uh, the way I wrote it, it's probably totally what you're thinking. Sorry?)
Notes the second: Having not seen pretty much all of SPN season 4, this is probably wildly AU and very possibly quite OC, just a warning.
Notes the third: How many points do I get for "obvious title is obvious"? (And if it's not obvious, get thee to here!)
It’s a motel room in El Paso.
Not the first time and maybe not the last time, but it’s a motel room in El Paso that he remembers.
She moves constantly, he notices. Dean has to have something in her hands at all times: a knife, a cigarette, a shotgun, Castiel’s cock. Hands empty and her fingers will start to tremble and shake, only steadied when they serve some sort of purpose. Even as she sleeps, her hands twist into the sheets, gripping and pulling.
“Side effect,” she says once. “Hellfire singed my nerves.”
Castiel never corrects her. Dean thanks him with her mouth.
“You know that El Paso means The Gateway?” she asks conversationally around the cigarette stuck between her lips. Her teeth lightly bite into the filter and she smiles around the smoke. “Our own little fucked up version of heaven.”
She’s awake now, lazily leaning against the headboard and looking like she could be on the cover of some seedy skin magazine. Her knees are almost up to her chest and a sheet is loosely draped around her thighs, naked tits and the slope of her shoulders and the smooth curve of her ass all on display. With one hand, she pulls her hair over her shoulder and then plucks the cigarette out of her mouth and blows out a puff of thick and grey smoke.
“What, you only talk when we fuck now?” Her tone is light and teasing, because he never says anything when they fuck.
“El Paso means The Steps.”
Dean rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
“You should really look into expanding your vocabulary.”
“And maybe you should really look into getting yourself a toga and a harp,” she tells him with an almost angry point of the two fingers that hold her still-burning cigarette, smoke curling around her hand.
He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Really? Is that what you think?”
“Look, I ain’t here to reinforce any clichés but my own, sweetheart.” Dean smiles and blinks slowly, long lashes touching her cheeks. She reaches an arm over to grab at an ashtray, stubs out her cigarette, and says, “Pretty girl with the bad habits? I get it. And I know what it looks like. I used to blow guys in bathroom stalls and I could probably construct an entire sentence only using the word ‘fuck’. And I smoke too much and I drink more than that and my knuckles are always bruised, because I usually keep the wrong kind of company.”
Castiel sighs heavily. “Is there a point to this diatribe?”
“My brother fucks a demon, so I fuck an angel. And from where I’m sitting, that means I’m trying to change. What the hell are you doing?”
It’s rare that he smiles, having seen and done the things required of him, it seems only reasonable, but Dean has this way about her, that makes him not only want to smile, but sit down next to her and press his mouth to hers, hot heat of his tongue sliding past her lips. His hand fits onto her shoulder, spread fingers perfectly covering the one scar on her body that she still has.
Dean grabs at the collar of his shirt, her thumbs catching on the buttons, and breathes out, “Not good enough.”
He holds her hands above her head, fingers tightly wrapped around her wrists. He can feel buck beneath him, either urging him on or pissed off that she can’t touch him. And when her hands start to shake with the quiver of need, he twists his fingers together with hers. It’s not quite enough, he knows.
“You’re such an asshole,” she says, breath heavy and hot against his neck.
Hands still twined with his, Dean digs her heels into the small of his back, and with her knees bow-bent and spread open and wide, Castiel pushes into her harder. She stiffens, adjusts to the new angle, the fullness of his cock inside of her, and then lifts her ass off of the mattress to meet his next thrust. And the next one after that. And the one after that, both of their muscles screaming with the strain.
He licks a hard and firm path from her sternum to her collarbone, lays a soft kiss in the crease where her neck meets her shoulder, and frees her hands from his to tangle his fingers in her hair and messily work his tongue into her mouth. Without Castiel’s grip to hold her back, she greedily reaches out to touch him. Lets her fingers and her knuckles press to every part of him: the nape of his neck, sharp shoulder blades with hidden wings beneath them, thin and hard knobs of his spine. She cuts her nails on his back and with flattened palms hard on his ass, makes him fuck her faster.
“Oh, god. Fuck.”
God is not part of this.
Castiel stills for a moment, his body pressed together with hers, their hips and bellies, and her tits against his chest, all warm and wet and slick with sweat. Dean lifts her mouth to his, tugs on his lower lip with her teeth-wants to make him move again, because she’s not even close to coming-and she tastes like smoke. And if neither of them had ever been to hell, he might say that she tasted like that, too.
“Please,” she whispers, all bare and honest and open.
Castiel closes his eyes and kisses her mouth and then spills himself inside of her.
After, he uses his fingers to get her off. A slow and circling stroke of this thumb on her clit and three fingers sliding through the hot and messy slick of her, rough and hard and gentle all at the same time.
Dean fists her hands into the pillow above her head, then slides her fingers down her stomach and moves them over Castiel’s.
In a motel room in El Paso, Dean taps her fingers against her thigh, and then flicks a lighter open and shut; constantly moving. She smiles at him. Their own little fucked up version of heaven.
That’s what he remembers.
Pairing: girl!Dean/Castiel
Rating: Hard R or light NC-17? It's porn, is what it is
Notes: For theladyscribe who wanted girl!Dean/Castiel, it's not what you're thinking (Uh, the way I wrote it, it's probably totally what you're thinking. Sorry?)
Notes the second: Having not seen pretty much all of SPN season 4, this is probably wildly AU and very possibly quite OC, just a warning.
Notes the third: How many points do I get for "obvious title is obvious"? (And if it's not obvious, get thee to here!)
It’s a motel room in El Paso.
Not the first time and maybe not the last time, but it’s a motel room in El Paso that he remembers.
She moves constantly, he notices. Dean has to have something in her hands at all times: a knife, a cigarette, a shotgun, Castiel’s cock. Hands empty and her fingers will start to tremble and shake, only steadied when they serve some sort of purpose. Even as she sleeps, her hands twist into the sheets, gripping and pulling.
“Side effect,” she says once. “Hellfire singed my nerves.”
Castiel never corrects her. Dean thanks him with her mouth.
“You know that El Paso means The Gateway?” she asks conversationally around the cigarette stuck between her lips. Her teeth lightly bite into the filter and she smiles around the smoke. “Our own little fucked up version of heaven.”
She’s awake now, lazily leaning against the headboard and looking like she could be on the cover of some seedy skin magazine. Her knees are almost up to her chest and a sheet is loosely draped around her thighs, naked tits and the slope of her shoulders and the smooth curve of her ass all on display. With one hand, she pulls her hair over her shoulder and then plucks the cigarette out of her mouth and blows out a puff of thick and grey smoke.
“What, you only talk when we fuck now?” Her tone is light and teasing, because he never says anything when they fuck.
“El Paso means The Steps.”
Dean rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
“You should really look into expanding your vocabulary.”
“And maybe you should really look into getting yourself a toga and a harp,” she tells him with an almost angry point of the two fingers that hold her still-burning cigarette, smoke curling around her hand.
He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Really? Is that what you think?”
“Look, I ain’t here to reinforce any clichés but my own, sweetheart.” Dean smiles and blinks slowly, long lashes touching her cheeks. She reaches an arm over to grab at an ashtray, stubs out her cigarette, and says, “Pretty girl with the bad habits? I get it. And I know what it looks like. I used to blow guys in bathroom stalls and I could probably construct an entire sentence only using the word ‘fuck’. And I smoke too much and I drink more than that and my knuckles are always bruised, because I usually keep the wrong kind of company.”
Castiel sighs heavily. “Is there a point to this diatribe?”
“My brother fucks a demon, so I fuck an angel. And from where I’m sitting, that means I’m trying to change. What the hell are you doing?”
It’s rare that he smiles, having seen and done the things required of him, it seems only reasonable, but Dean has this way about her, that makes him not only want to smile, but sit down next to her and press his mouth to hers, hot heat of his tongue sliding past her lips. His hand fits onto her shoulder, spread fingers perfectly covering the one scar on her body that she still has.
Dean grabs at the collar of his shirt, her thumbs catching on the buttons, and breathes out, “Not good enough.”
He holds her hands above her head, fingers tightly wrapped around her wrists. He can feel buck beneath him, either urging him on or pissed off that she can’t touch him. And when her hands start to shake with the quiver of need, he twists his fingers together with hers. It’s not quite enough, he knows.
“You’re such an asshole,” she says, breath heavy and hot against his neck.
Hands still twined with his, Dean digs her heels into the small of his back, and with her knees bow-bent and spread open and wide, Castiel pushes into her harder. She stiffens, adjusts to the new angle, the fullness of his cock inside of her, and then lifts her ass off of the mattress to meet his next thrust. And the next one after that. And the one after that, both of their muscles screaming with the strain.
He licks a hard and firm path from her sternum to her collarbone, lays a soft kiss in the crease where her neck meets her shoulder, and frees her hands from his to tangle his fingers in her hair and messily work his tongue into her mouth. Without Castiel’s grip to hold her back, she greedily reaches out to touch him. Lets her fingers and her knuckles press to every part of him: the nape of his neck, sharp shoulder blades with hidden wings beneath them, thin and hard knobs of his spine. She cuts her nails on his back and with flattened palms hard on his ass, makes him fuck her faster.
“Oh, god. Fuck.”
God is not part of this.
Castiel stills for a moment, his body pressed together with hers, their hips and bellies, and her tits against his chest, all warm and wet and slick with sweat. Dean lifts her mouth to his, tugs on his lower lip with her teeth-wants to make him move again, because she’s not even close to coming-and she tastes like smoke. And if neither of them had ever been to hell, he might say that she tasted like that, too.
“Please,” she whispers, all bare and honest and open.
Castiel closes his eyes and kisses her mouth and then spills himself inside of her.
After, he uses his fingers to get her off. A slow and circling stroke of this thumb on her clit and three fingers sliding through the hot and messy slick of her, rough and hard and gentle all at the same time.
Dean fists her hands into the pillow above her head, then slides her fingers down her stomach and moves them over Castiel’s.
In a motel room in El Paso, Dean taps her fingers against her thigh, and then flicks a lighter open and shut; constantly moving. She smiles at him. Their own little fucked up version of heaven.
That’s what he remembers.