moar fic
Title: Dark Sacred Night
Rating: R?
Genre and/or Pairing: always-a-girl!Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: General through the end of season five
Warnings: Swears and sex
Word Count: 3375
Summary: It’s the end of the world once more. Dean and Castiel have some things to settle.
Note: I barely write outside of school (on the internet, I prefer the lurking) but my little sister mainlined me the first five seasons of the show in as many weeks and this popped out of my head. Since I haven’t seen any of season six and since I’ve probably forgotten more than I remember, this is most likely wildly AU (and Dean’s a girl, so there’s that).
Outside, the world is burning (again), the end is nigh (again), the actual factual devil is walking (again) and Dean wishes there were some Mayans around somewhere because she’d like to give them a piece of her mind via shotgun. Not that she doesn’t have plenty of things to kill, what with Ragnarok, Armageddon Remixed and a couple of other apocalypses all going off at the same time. Twenty-twelve has not been her year.
She slides her newly sharpened knife back into the sheath at her ankle, grabbing the bottle of cheap whiskey off of the exam bed and clambering up onto the old plastic chair to see out of the high, narrow windows. An old family practice isn’t the worst place to hole up on the night before the end of the world. It’s got a shit ton of supplies, for one thing, and all the coffee Dean could ask for. She knew there was a reason she liked nurses. The fact that it’s not on fire counts for a lot too.
Outside the town is smoldering. The firefighters are giving it their all, but the flames won’t be smothered and it seems pretty clear to Dean that it’s a lost cause. This town will be gone by morning, but then, so will they. Just as soon as Sam and Bobby finish the spell they’ve been working on for the last week and a half while Dean stomps around, cleans the guns, sharpens the knives and does it all over again to keep her hands busy. They’d said that her energy ‘disrupted the flow’. Fucking old magic was apparently picky about her vagina. Whatever.
Dean raises the bottle to her lips, swallows and hisses at the burn. Her lower lip stings, swollen from their last run in with a bunch of pissy demons led by the devil himself. She turns from the window, jumps off of the chair and stomps out of the room to make sure the front door is still barricaded, that the salt lines are unbroken, that the devil’s traps are in place. It’s the end of the world and she’s crawling out of her skin with frustrated boredom. Somewhere down the hall Bobby and Sam are chanting, and she raises the moonshine in their general direction. Then she goes back to her room, hoping vaguely to conk out for an hour or two.
Castiel is waiting in the middle of the room, and she finds herself grinning, just a bit.
He’s staring at the poster on the wall of the human nervous system, head cocked to one side, arms loose by his sides. He says, “Deanna,” softly, the only person she knows who calls her by her full name. It probably says something that she doesn’t even bother trying to correct him anymore. She relaxes from her automatic flinch, easing her hand away from the Glock tucked into her waistband.
“How is it out there?” Her voice is rough from the whiskey, and, okay, maybe a little from the screams because gee-golly-whiz but Lucifer had not been happy to see her again. She looks away as he looks to her, only catching the movement out of the corner of her eyes. She takes another drink, holding it in her mouth while it burns and burns and burns before she swallows it down.
Castiel sounds rough himself, and he does not answer her, “You are still injured.” Before Dean can open her mouth to point out that she’s fine, he’s crowding into her space, palm on her forehead. There’s a rush of warmth under her skin all the way down to her toes, and she can’t decide whether to be resentful or grateful for the fact that she does feel steadier. He lowers his hand but does not step back, staring, “There was not enough time to be thorough when we found you. I--” A muscle is Cas’s face actually twitches, right by his jaw, and it’s freaky enough that Dean huffs out a nervous laugh. One more reason to avoid the subject of her fun night with Lucifer and friends.
“Shut up, man,” she nudges him with the whiskey bottle against his sternum and he just stares some more. She rolls her eyes, puts the bottle and her Glock on the counter beside a biohazard container and turns back to packing and unpacking the gun duffles. Castiel doesn’t move, and she thinks, for a split second, about the warehouse they found her in, barb wire around her wrists, swinging slowly side to side from the ceiling. She chambers a round in the shotgun and it’s too loud in the little room. She clears her throat, blurts, “So, look, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say.”
Dean fiddles with the shotgun for another minute, sets it down and picks it up again. Castiel never interrupts when she actually wants him to. There’s a dozen ways she’s thought about having this conversation since they found out that, hey, there was another apocalypse and yes, they were going to have to stop it, surprise!, and not one of them ever seems like a good idea. It’s just that this is it, quite probably the end of the world, the last night, right here right now and she’s not going to get another chance.
She still doesn’t know what to say. It’s not made easier by the fact that Castiel is well inside her personal space bubble and apparently staring firmly at her ear. She turns over her different strategies of attack in her head. There’s, ‘You shouldn’t risk going out as a virgin (again)’. There’s, ‘I don’t want to be alone on the last night of my life and you’re the only one I trust (who isn’t related to me, or Bobby)’. There’s, ‘You lost your shit when you found me in that warehouse in a pretty major way and I was wondering what that was about’. There are a lot more. Maybe she’s been thinking about it too much. Whatever, anything is preferable to thinking about it anymore, right? Right.
Dean smiles her biggest smile, turning to face him, and repeating, “So look,” and that’s all the farther she gets before she turns chicken shit and realizes that there’s no way she’s ever going to be able to say any of those things and, also, if she did, she’d just fuck them all up. Castiel tilts his head at her, opens his mouth, and she just knows he’s about to say that he has to go, or tell her that everyone is counting on them, something she just can’t handle hearing right now.
So she just grabs a handful of trench coat, more for the look of the thing than any real ability to, you know, pull him, and presses her lips to his. Dean pulls back after a second, expecting him to disappear or get all frowny and disapproving at her, maybe. Instead, he sucks in a breath through his nose, his eyes wide and dark. He leans in to kiss her again without moving his arms, without moving anything but his shoulders, just leaning down into it. Dean’s so surprised that her brain signs off, leaving her body on its own which seems like a shitty thing to do but she can’t bring herself to care.
She brings her other hand up, touches his cheek, breath stuttering out against his mouth. His skin is warm against her fingertips, and he tilts into the touch, groaning. Want curls hot and sudden in Dean’s gut, she feels one side of her mouth quirk up against his and when she leans into him, turning the brush of their lips into something more like an actual kiss, it’s like she flipped a switch.
Castiel reaches for her, the movement just on the weird side of too fast, one hand fisting in the thin cotton of her old tank top, cupping her cheek with the other and he’s copying her and it surprises a laugh out of her throat. He sweeps his fingers across the curve of her cheek, back into her tangled hair, pulling her close, holding her tight. This isn’t quite how she saw it going, somehow, but it’s something and she kisses his mouth, sucking at his bottom lip, sweet and dirty as she knows how until the hard line of it relaxes. He groans, a rumble she feels through her entire body, when she sucks his tongue into her mouth.
This isn’t his first kiss and maybe there’s a part of her, a teeny tiny part, that’s still a bit pissed about that. But if she can’t be first she can damn well be the best. He surprises her by pulling away, his eyes so dark she can barely see the blue, nostrils flaring. He grits, “Deanna, I have wanted--” he cuts himself off, brings both hands up to cup her face and stares at her so hard she can almost feel him sorting through her thoughts. She should probably complain and she probably will, later, but honestly, if this gets them out of having to talk about it, she’s all for it.
Whatever he sees in her head makes his eyes flutter and his fingers tense against her skin. He hisses, “Yes,” barely audible, and pulls her back close. He kisses like it’s going out of style, like some of the same exhausting desperation that’s been dogging her has been twisted up inside of his skin. His tongue slides against her busted lip and their teeth knock and she pushes into him, wanting more, always more.
Dean slides her hands under his heavy coat, soft cotton against her palms. His body is radiating heat like a furnace, and she bows her back away from him, working her hands between the press of their bodies, undoing buttons by touch. He makes a sharp sound against her mouth, never breaking the kiss as he tears the trench coat off, shaking it down his arms and leaving it where it lands. It’s a good thing she’s gotten most of his buttons undone, because the shirt goes the same way, the buttons she hadn’t reached yet flying off to roll across the floor.
They’re breathing each other’s air, all over each other, and Dean feels vaguely the way she had the first time she rode a rollercoaster. It’s great and terrifying and she knows with everything she is that the only way to get through it is to give in, go faster, fly. Cas still has a freaking undershirt on, and Dean rucks it up, puts her hands on his skin and feels goosebumps rise against her palms. He groans her name, collapsing into her, head falling to her shoulder. For a beat she thinks that’s it, that he’s out, but then he’s turning his mouth to her neck, breath a tickle against her throat, just a hint of stubble to rub rough against her skin while she slides her hands up his back, tracing lean muscle, learning the feel of him.
Cas’s hands come up to her sides, up her back, the imitation again, so unexpectedly sweet that she grins. She gasps when his fingers slide across her shoulders, his hand fitting into the brand there with a swell of heat she feels in her chest and racing lower. He raises his head, looking mightily ravished for an angel, and stares at her when he grips two handfuls of her tank top and pulls. Dean exhales a curse, the tattered remnants of her shirt falling around her feet, and turns her attention to squirming out of her sport’s bra before he tries to shred that, too. She’s just wrestling it over her head--damndamndamn--when his hands close on her hips and he lifts her bodily onto the counter. Dean throws the bra towards the door, which, wow, still open, she should totally fix that, and he steps into the cradle of her thighs, pressed against her from hips to shoulders, and kisses her again.
This close she can feel the heat and length of his cock against her. There’s a sharp tingle of childish, giddy joy up her spine, because she, Dean Winchester, got her angel hard. It makes her hitch her legs up, wrap them around his waist and hook her ankles. Cas pushes against her, hips thrusting, his hands on her waist, fingers gripping so hard that it’s gonna bruise. There’s a look of surprised awe on his face, and Dean laughs, “Oh, baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Dean expects him to come back with something about how he has indeed seen something. Instead his whole body jerks and he grits out, “Show me,” and his voice makes her shiver and lick her lips as she reaches for his stupid undershirt, yanking before he bats her hands away and...well, there’s another shirt meeting an untimely end. He’s too close for her to really look at him, but she can feel the heat of his skin against hers now, shifting against each other with every breath. He breathes something that doesn’t sound English against her cheek, gripping her shoulders while she works on toeing off her boots.
Cas is shaking a little bit, and she wonders if maybe this is too much. He’s like, the world’s oldest virgin, and she’s not exactly letting him ease into it. Then again, he ain’t complaining, rocking against her again, his hands sliding down her arms, thumbs brushing the sides of her tits. The contact makes her gasp, the noise covered by the twin bangs of her boots hitting the floor. Cas hears anyway, gaze locking on her face as he strokes his thumbs up and then down, his hips still pushing at her, like he can’t stop himself.
He leans back, enough to get his hands between them, and Dean grips at his shoulders and neck, looking down so she can see his hands on her. His fingers are so warm, stroking down the curve of her breast, hesitating over her nipples and then, carefully, brushing across. She has to close her eyes, look away, back to his face and the concentration there, the complete focus. He leans down abruptly, hands curling around her ribs, fingertips meeting over her spine. Cas’s mouth is hot and wet, and she winds her fingers into his hair, tilts her head back and groans when he sucks and kisses her skin, wanting to shake apart at the feel of it.
When he pulls back his mouth is red and his voice so gruff she barely knows it, “I will return to this later. I--I need--” She has a pretty good idea what he needs. Dean grins, arching up to kiss his red, red mouth, her hands sliding down his neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, fingers curling into the waistband of his pants. One tug to undo the button, and a twist of her wrist to pull down the zipper. She gives the pants a shove to get them started down his hips and takes a moment to be amused by his tighty-whities. It’s not really a surprise when he tears them off too, standing before her naked and so hard it’s got to be uncomfortable.
Dean watches when she wraps a hand around his cock, grins when it jerks in her grip, when he exhales hard and curves his entire body towards her. He grips her thigh with one hand, presses his forehead against hers, shoving his dick into the circle of her fingers. She raises her other hand to lick her palm and really show him the meaning of jerking off, and he pulls her hands away, gripping her under the ass and lifting her again. She tightens her legs around him automatically and he rumbles in his chest, turning and sinking to his knees with no preamble.
The floor is hard, with nothing but torn clothes and his trench coat to cover it, but beggars can’t be choosers and there’s something in Cas’s eyes that looks a lot like desperation. Dean slides away from him, working her belt buckle and shoving her pants down with a shimmy of her hips that gets Cas’s attention and keeps it. He says, “You are beautiful,” with a stupid, aching sincerity that makes her look to the side and shove her hair back. Then he is kissing her again, pressed skin to skin as he draws her into his lap, his cock caught between their bellies and she already feels split open and aching for him.
His hands are all over her, palms sliding over skin and gripping at shoulders, hips, thighs. She can feel the beat of his heart against her breast, the strain of his muscles everywhere she touches. Dean grins, using his shoulders to pull herself up, legs fitting around his hips, hesitating, for a moment, above him. And then she kisses him as gently as she can, and sinks down onto him.
It’s been too long since she was with someone like this. She swallows at the slide of his cock into her, the stretch of it. Cas makes a strangled sound, burying his face against her hair, his hands like steel bands around her waist. Probably she should let him adjust, but this still feels too wild, too out of control, to just sit and hold. She grips his shoulders and squeezes around him and he shudders, wordless sounds falling from his throat as he surges forward, bearing her to the ground. His hand behind her head is probably the only thing that saves her from a concussion, but there’s no time to think about it.
Cas keeps one hand gripping her hip, his other behind her head, his hips snapping hard and without much rhythm. Dean claws at his back, gasping at the feel of him, the knowledge of him, the heat of him over and in her. He is staring at her, still, even now, and she slings her arm around his neck, pulling their mouths together, kissing him when he starts making tiny, hitching, gasping sounds. He groans something that sounds like her name, his hand moving to her shoulder, and the electric jolt of his touch on the scar and his ragged thrusts, and the fact that she’s wanted this for so long that she’s forgotten a time when she didn’t, sends her over the edge.
Cas follows her, always follows her, a glow rising in his skin more literally than figuratively, his hips jerking and stuttering before he just kind of collapses down onto her. Dean feels too mellow to complain, turning her face against his neck and patting him on the ass, which makes him shiver and so she does it again. One of the buttons of his coat is digging into her shoulder blade and she’s pretty sure that Bobby and Sam must have heard some of that and so she really should get up, but it doesn’t seem worth it.
Instead she draws patterns on his shoulders and watches her breath ruffle his hair and feels dangerously affectionate. It doesn’t seem like very long at all before he pushes himself up onto his elbows, to, surprise, stare at her some more. Dean rolls her eyes, stretching up to press a quick kiss to his mouth and trying to roll to the side. Castiel’s hand on her shoulder is a surprise, as is the soft little roll of his hips. Dean blinks, laughs out, “Wow, really? That’s--flattering. Most guys can’t just--”
Dean waves a hand and he thrusts into her, and wow, okay, not most guys, point taken. He grits out, “I am an angel.”
“So, you want to, uh, again?”
She’s not sure what she’s expecting, but it’s not for Cas to lean over and give her a kiss that’s pretty remarkably soft and chaste considering what had come before. She can feel herself grinning like a loon, but what does it matter? It’s the end of the world and it only took them two apocalypses to get here. She braces her heels on the floor and meets his next thrust hard, swallowing his groan and, for just a little while, forgetting everything but this.
Rating: R?
Genre and/or Pairing: always-a-girl!Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: General through the end of season five
Warnings: Swears and sex
Word Count: 3375
Summary: It’s the end of the world once more. Dean and Castiel have some things to settle.
Note: I barely write outside of school (on the internet, I prefer the lurking) but my little sister mainlined me the first five seasons of the show in as many weeks and this popped out of my head. Since I haven’t seen any of season six and since I’ve probably forgotten more than I remember, this is most likely wildly AU (and Dean’s a girl, so there’s that).
Outside, the world is burning (again), the end is nigh (again), the actual factual devil is walking (again) and Dean wishes there were some Mayans around somewhere because she’d like to give them a piece of her mind via shotgun. Not that she doesn’t have plenty of things to kill, what with Ragnarok, Armageddon Remixed and a couple of other apocalypses all going off at the same time. Twenty-twelve has not been her year.
She slides her newly sharpened knife back into the sheath at her ankle, grabbing the bottle of cheap whiskey off of the exam bed and clambering up onto the old plastic chair to see out of the high, narrow windows. An old family practice isn’t the worst place to hole up on the night before the end of the world. It’s got a shit ton of supplies, for one thing, and all the coffee Dean could ask for. She knew there was a reason she liked nurses. The fact that it’s not on fire counts for a lot too.
Outside the town is smoldering. The firefighters are giving it their all, but the flames won’t be smothered and it seems pretty clear to Dean that it’s a lost cause. This town will be gone by morning, but then, so will they. Just as soon as Sam and Bobby finish the spell they’ve been working on for the last week and a half while Dean stomps around, cleans the guns, sharpens the knives and does it all over again to keep her hands busy. They’d said that her energy ‘disrupted the flow’. Fucking old magic was apparently picky about her vagina. Whatever.
Dean raises the bottle to her lips, swallows and hisses at the burn. Her lower lip stings, swollen from their last run in with a bunch of pissy demons led by the devil himself. She turns from the window, jumps off of the chair and stomps out of the room to make sure the front door is still barricaded, that the salt lines are unbroken, that the devil’s traps are in place. It’s the end of the world and she’s crawling out of her skin with frustrated boredom. Somewhere down the hall Bobby and Sam are chanting, and she raises the moonshine in their general direction. Then she goes back to her room, hoping vaguely to conk out for an hour or two.
Castiel is waiting in the middle of the room, and she finds herself grinning, just a bit.
He’s staring at the poster on the wall of the human nervous system, head cocked to one side, arms loose by his sides. He says, “Deanna,” softly, the only person she knows who calls her by her full name. It probably says something that she doesn’t even bother trying to correct him anymore. She relaxes from her automatic flinch, easing her hand away from the Glock tucked into her waistband.
“How is it out there?” Her voice is rough from the whiskey, and, okay, maybe a little from the screams because gee-golly-whiz but Lucifer had not been happy to see her again. She looks away as he looks to her, only catching the movement out of the corner of her eyes. She takes another drink, holding it in her mouth while it burns and burns and burns before she swallows it down.
Castiel sounds rough himself, and he does not answer her, “You are still injured.” Before Dean can open her mouth to point out that she’s fine, he’s crowding into her space, palm on her forehead. There’s a rush of warmth under her skin all the way down to her toes, and she can’t decide whether to be resentful or grateful for the fact that she does feel steadier. He lowers his hand but does not step back, staring, “There was not enough time to be thorough when we found you. I--” A muscle is Cas’s face actually twitches, right by his jaw, and it’s freaky enough that Dean huffs out a nervous laugh. One more reason to avoid the subject of her fun night with Lucifer and friends.
“Shut up, man,” she nudges him with the whiskey bottle against his sternum and he just stares some more. She rolls her eyes, puts the bottle and her Glock on the counter beside a biohazard container and turns back to packing and unpacking the gun duffles. Castiel doesn’t move, and she thinks, for a split second, about the warehouse they found her in, barb wire around her wrists, swinging slowly side to side from the ceiling. She chambers a round in the shotgun and it’s too loud in the little room. She clears her throat, blurts, “So, look, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say.”
Dean fiddles with the shotgun for another minute, sets it down and picks it up again. Castiel never interrupts when she actually wants him to. There’s a dozen ways she’s thought about having this conversation since they found out that, hey, there was another apocalypse and yes, they were going to have to stop it, surprise!, and not one of them ever seems like a good idea. It’s just that this is it, quite probably the end of the world, the last night, right here right now and she’s not going to get another chance.
She still doesn’t know what to say. It’s not made easier by the fact that Castiel is well inside her personal space bubble and apparently staring firmly at her ear. She turns over her different strategies of attack in her head. There’s, ‘You shouldn’t risk going out as a virgin (again)’. There’s, ‘I don’t want to be alone on the last night of my life and you’re the only one I trust (who isn’t related to me, or Bobby)’. There’s, ‘You lost your shit when you found me in that warehouse in a pretty major way and I was wondering what that was about’. There are a lot more. Maybe she’s been thinking about it too much. Whatever, anything is preferable to thinking about it anymore, right? Right.
Dean smiles her biggest smile, turning to face him, and repeating, “So look,” and that’s all the farther she gets before she turns chicken shit and realizes that there’s no way she’s ever going to be able to say any of those things and, also, if she did, she’d just fuck them all up. Castiel tilts his head at her, opens his mouth, and she just knows he’s about to say that he has to go, or tell her that everyone is counting on them, something she just can’t handle hearing right now.
So she just grabs a handful of trench coat, more for the look of the thing than any real ability to, you know, pull him, and presses her lips to his. Dean pulls back after a second, expecting him to disappear or get all frowny and disapproving at her, maybe. Instead, he sucks in a breath through his nose, his eyes wide and dark. He leans in to kiss her again without moving his arms, without moving anything but his shoulders, just leaning down into it. Dean’s so surprised that her brain signs off, leaving her body on its own which seems like a shitty thing to do but she can’t bring herself to care.
She brings her other hand up, touches his cheek, breath stuttering out against his mouth. His skin is warm against her fingertips, and he tilts into the touch, groaning. Want curls hot and sudden in Dean’s gut, she feels one side of her mouth quirk up against his and when she leans into him, turning the brush of their lips into something more like an actual kiss, it’s like she flipped a switch.
Castiel reaches for her, the movement just on the weird side of too fast, one hand fisting in the thin cotton of her old tank top, cupping her cheek with the other and he’s copying her and it surprises a laugh out of her throat. He sweeps his fingers across the curve of her cheek, back into her tangled hair, pulling her close, holding her tight. This isn’t quite how she saw it going, somehow, but it’s something and she kisses his mouth, sucking at his bottom lip, sweet and dirty as she knows how until the hard line of it relaxes. He groans, a rumble she feels through her entire body, when she sucks his tongue into her mouth.
This isn’t his first kiss and maybe there’s a part of her, a teeny tiny part, that’s still a bit pissed about that. But if she can’t be first she can damn well be the best. He surprises her by pulling away, his eyes so dark she can barely see the blue, nostrils flaring. He grits, “Deanna, I have wanted--” he cuts himself off, brings both hands up to cup her face and stares at her so hard she can almost feel him sorting through her thoughts. She should probably complain and she probably will, later, but honestly, if this gets them out of having to talk about it, she’s all for it.
Whatever he sees in her head makes his eyes flutter and his fingers tense against her skin. He hisses, “Yes,” barely audible, and pulls her back close. He kisses like it’s going out of style, like some of the same exhausting desperation that’s been dogging her has been twisted up inside of his skin. His tongue slides against her busted lip and their teeth knock and she pushes into him, wanting more, always more.
Dean slides her hands under his heavy coat, soft cotton against her palms. His body is radiating heat like a furnace, and she bows her back away from him, working her hands between the press of their bodies, undoing buttons by touch. He makes a sharp sound against her mouth, never breaking the kiss as he tears the trench coat off, shaking it down his arms and leaving it where it lands. It’s a good thing she’s gotten most of his buttons undone, because the shirt goes the same way, the buttons she hadn’t reached yet flying off to roll across the floor.
They’re breathing each other’s air, all over each other, and Dean feels vaguely the way she had the first time she rode a rollercoaster. It’s great and terrifying and she knows with everything she is that the only way to get through it is to give in, go faster, fly. Cas still has a freaking undershirt on, and Dean rucks it up, puts her hands on his skin and feels goosebumps rise against her palms. He groans her name, collapsing into her, head falling to her shoulder. For a beat she thinks that’s it, that he’s out, but then he’s turning his mouth to her neck, breath a tickle against her throat, just a hint of stubble to rub rough against her skin while she slides her hands up his back, tracing lean muscle, learning the feel of him.
Cas’s hands come up to her sides, up her back, the imitation again, so unexpectedly sweet that she grins. She gasps when his fingers slide across her shoulders, his hand fitting into the brand there with a swell of heat she feels in her chest and racing lower. He raises his head, looking mightily ravished for an angel, and stares at her when he grips two handfuls of her tank top and pulls. Dean exhales a curse, the tattered remnants of her shirt falling around her feet, and turns her attention to squirming out of her sport’s bra before he tries to shred that, too. She’s just wrestling it over her head--damndamndamn--when his hands close on her hips and he lifts her bodily onto the counter. Dean throws the bra towards the door, which, wow, still open, she should totally fix that, and he steps into the cradle of her thighs, pressed against her from hips to shoulders, and kisses her again.
This close she can feel the heat and length of his cock against her. There’s a sharp tingle of childish, giddy joy up her spine, because she, Dean Winchester, got her angel hard. It makes her hitch her legs up, wrap them around his waist and hook her ankles. Cas pushes against her, hips thrusting, his hands on her waist, fingers gripping so hard that it’s gonna bruise. There’s a look of surprised awe on his face, and Dean laughs, “Oh, baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Dean expects him to come back with something about how he has indeed seen something. Instead his whole body jerks and he grits out, “Show me,” and his voice makes her shiver and lick her lips as she reaches for his stupid undershirt, yanking before he bats her hands away and...well, there’s another shirt meeting an untimely end. He’s too close for her to really look at him, but she can feel the heat of his skin against hers now, shifting against each other with every breath. He breathes something that doesn’t sound English against her cheek, gripping her shoulders while she works on toeing off her boots.
Cas is shaking a little bit, and she wonders if maybe this is too much. He’s like, the world’s oldest virgin, and she’s not exactly letting him ease into it. Then again, he ain’t complaining, rocking against her again, his hands sliding down her arms, thumbs brushing the sides of her tits. The contact makes her gasp, the noise covered by the twin bangs of her boots hitting the floor. Cas hears anyway, gaze locking on her face as he strokes his thumbs up and then down, his hips still pushing at her, like he can’t stop himself.
He leans back, enough to get his hands between them, and Dean grips at his shoulders and neck, looking down so she can see his hands on her. His fingers are so warm, stroking down the curve of her breast, hesitating over her nipples and then, carefully, brushing across. She has to close her eyes, look away, back to his face and the concentration there, the complete focus. He leans down abruptly, hands curling around her ribs, fingertips meeting over her spine. Cas’s mouth is hot and wet, and she winds her fingers into his hair, tilts her head back and groans when he sucks and kisses her skin, wanting to shake apart at the feel of it.
When he pulls back his mouth is red and his voice so gruff she barely knows it, “I will return to this later. I--I need--” She has a pretty good idea what he needs. Dean grins, arching up to kiss his red, red mouth, her hands sliding down his neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, fingers curling into the waistband of his pants. One tug to undo the button, and a twist of her wrist to pull down the zipper. She gives the pants a shove to get them started down his hips and takes a moment to be amused by his tighty-whities. It’s not really a surprise when he tears them off too, standing before her naked and so hard it’s got to be uncomfortable.
Dean watches when she wraps a hand around his cock, grins when it jerks in her grip, when he exhales hard and curves his entire body towards her. He grips her thigh with one hand, presses his forehead against hers, shoving his dick into the circle of her fingers. She raises her other hand to lick her palm and really show him the meaning of jerking off, and he pulls her hands away, gripping her under the ass and lifting her again. She tightens her legs around him automatically and he rumbles in his chest, turning and sinking to his knees with no preamble.
The floor is hard, with nothing but torn clothes and his trench coat to cover it, but beggars can’t be choosers and there’s something in Cas’s eyes that looks a lot like desperation. Dean slides away from him, working her belt buckle and shoving her pants down with a shimmy of her hips that gets Cas’s attention and keeps it. He says, “You are beautiful,” with a stupid, aching sincerity that makes her look to the side and shove her hair back. Then he is kissing her again, pressed skin to skin as he draws her into his lap, his cock caught between their bellies and she already feels split open and aching for him.
His hands are all over her, palms sliding over skin and gripping at shoulders, hips, thighs. She can feel the beat of his heart against her breast, the strain of his muscles everywhere she touches. Dean grins, using his shoulders to pull herself up, legs fitting around his hips, hesitating, for a moment, above him. And then she kisses him as gently as she can, and sinks down onto him.
It’s been too long since she was with someone like this. She swallows at the slide of his cock into her, the stretch of it. Cas makes a strangled sound, burying his face against her hair, his hands like steel bands around her waist. Probably she should let him adjust, but this still feels too wild, too out of control, to just sit and hold. She grips his shoulders and squeezes around him and he shudders, wordless sounds falling from his throat as he surges forward, bearing her to the ground. His hand behind her head is probably the only thing that saves her from a concussion, but there’s no time to think about it.
Cas keeps one hand gripping her hip, his other behind her head, his hips snapping hard and without much rhythm. Dean claws at his back, gasping at the feel of him, the knowledge of him, the heat of him over and in her. He is staring at her, still, even now, and she slings her arm around his neck, pulling their mouths together, kissing him when he starts making tiny, hitching, gasping sounds. He groans something that sounds like her name, his hand moving to her shoulder, and the electric jolt of his touch on the scar and his ragged thrusts, and the fact that she’s wanted this for so long that she’s forgotten a time when she didn’t, sends her over the edge.
Cas follows her, always follows her, a glow rising in his skin more literally than figuratively, his hips jerking and stuttering before he just kind of collapses down onto her. Dean feels too mellow to complain, turning her face against his neck and patting him on the ass, which makes him shiver and so she does it again. One of the buttons of his coat is digging into her shoulder blade and she’s pretty sure that Bobby and Sam must have heard some of that and so she really should get up, but it doesn’t seem worth it.
Instead she draws patterns on his shoulders and watches her breath ruffle his hair and feels dangerously affectionate. It doesn’t seem like very long at all before he pushes himself up onto his elbows, to, surprise, stare at her some more. Dean rolls her eyes, stretching up to press a quick kiss to his mouth and trying to roll to the side. Castiel’s hand on her shoulder is a surprise, as is the soft little roll of his hips. Dean blinks, laughs out, “Wow, really? That’s--flattering. Most guys can’t just--”
Dean waves a hand and he thrusts into her, and wow, okay, not most guys, point taken. He grits out, “I am an angel.”
“So, you want to, uh, again?”
She’s not sure what she’s expecting, but it’s not for Cas to lean over and give her a kiss that’s pretty remarkably soft and chaste considering what had come before. She can feel herself grinning like a loon, but what does it matter? It’s the end of the world and it only took them two apocalypses to get here. She braces her heels on the floor and meets his next thrust hard, swallowing his groan and, for just a little while, forgetting everything but this.