[FIC] Howl 1/1
Title: Howl
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Cas
Spoilers: S5- The End
Warnings: M/M, dubcon, rough sex, angst, jackass!Dean, 2014 verse
Word Count: 1800
Summary: Dean howls for the angels and Castiel can do not a thing.
Reposting this here;;;; SORRY GUYS ITS TERRIBLY ANGSTY AND ROUGH AND W/E BRO sometimes I can't believe I write shit like this.
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In his mind, he can hear the screaming.
He can feel it.
His lone figure stands bellowing into the air; head thrown back. Dean Winchester has never looked as miniscule and hopeless as he does now, standing in a clearing of wire fences and toppled trees, Lilliputian. His face is in shadows, but Castiel can imagine the wrecked expression, the slack, bared mouth and his Adam’s apple bobbing in the taut skin of his throat like a jackhammer.
He is screaming. Cursing God, Michael, Lucifer, Sam, everyone who he feels that has done him wrong, abandoned him and failed him. He bows for a moment, figure shuddering as he takes gasping breaths. Cas watches this like it’s a bad TV show on mute.
His fingers curl on the window, about the silhouette of the destitute man. He mimics lifting him up as if he were a rag doll, and putting him in the pocket of his battered coat for a rainy day. Whatever ebbs of grace left in his vessel is gone. He is trapped in Jimmy Novak’s body. The angels have left the world, and they are both powerless. He would go outside, into the cold, but it is obvious that the person Dean would least want to see would be him- the living reminder of his failure.
That small tendril of comfort he wants to reach out, to acknowledge that he shares the same pain he has hidden away. Castiel can imagine the look he would receive for a hopeful touch; a mix of pure hate and desperation, the ingredients of the concoction for a broken human being. They both have lost everything; family, friends, power, whatever shred of respect they have for humanity. They have nothing but each other, although in their mind’s eye, it seems a pittance.
He opens the cabin door somewhat tentatively. Camp Chitaqua is silent witness to their fearless leader’s monologue. Dean’s voice is rasping, distant and reverberating in the cold night air, laudable for the profanity and vehemence of his colourful words. Cas leans against the door frame, easing his fingers into the warmth of his combat jacket and listens.
The moon is huge tonight, all the more fitting for Dean’s wolfish display, and the dark-haired man sighs into the cold air, feeling chills unrelated to temperature as Dean begins to beg the sky for forgiveness.
I forgive you, Dean, he thinks, clutching his jacket to himself, feeling a wet heat blossom behind his eyes as the voice breaks, hitching a huge breath before giving a barely audible sob.
He can’t stand his after a while, the fortitude he kept from his angelic disposition crumbling away, chipped down by the barrage of painful words, the hopelessness of it all. He retires inside, next to the dying log fire and draws himself a glass of whiskey, sipping gingerly and attempting to block out the persistence that is Dean, lingering just on the edge of his thoughts.
His head is in his arms when Dean saunters in a good half hour later. The man’s face is blue from the chill, and from the strain of the uninhibited emotions- a good three year’s worth, or more. A moue of tension is his mouth, brows furrowed and eyes red rimmed and shadowed by bags, he seems to have aged a decade. Leaning against the wall he surveys the room with little interest, green irises falling on the skinny heap of Castiel.
“The angels didn’t come, Cas,” he whispers, his voice a ragged croak, worn by the force of his prayer; the sound of despair. It strikes Cas as bloody ironic that he is talking to him.
Cas peers at him through the web of his fingers. “I know, Dean.”
He watches the man take a swig from the whiskey decanter, firming his battered resolve.
“Why don’t you go home, Cas?” he asks. It’s puerile, but there is no mistaking the soft crack of malice from Dean’s mouth.
“Dean… I don’t have a home anymore. The closest thing I have to home is here, with you.”
“No, Cas, why didn’t you go? You should have gone too,” his back faces Castiel, he takes a draught from the bottle in earnest.
“Dean. I-” He is not afraid of Dean, he never was. But he had never seen him like this; simmering with frustration, ready to lash out in his blindness to reason.
“Dean,” he begins again, slowly, “I stayed, because we are friends. Because you needed me; I wasn’t going to abandon you when there would have been no one else left for-“
“I don’t need you.”
His back hunches slightly. “You’re useless.”
Castiel bristles. “You have no right, to say that, to me.” The words leave him slightly breathless, and he gets up; anticipation curdles through his gut and shoots a bullet straight through his heart.
There is a clatter as Dean drops the bottle back onto the table, empty. He makes his way towards Cas, oblivious to the slight stagger he poses and the glare full of injured resentment from Castiel’s eyes.
“How does it feel to be human? Fucking incredible isn’t it? I bet there’s not a day you go by that you weren’t wishing for it to be over. You don’t have the mojo to make me hurt anymore, Cas,” he pauses, eyeing the ex-angel’s balled fists indulgently. Castiel whips his right across Dean’s jaw, earning a small grunt of surprise.
“Clipped my lip there,” Dean says, mild amusement in his eyes. He responds with a fist in Cas’ gut, and a backhand along his cheek. Cas grunts in protest, kicking out at Dean’s shins, grappling the stronger man’s arms, but to little avail as he feels himself shoved hard up against the wall.
“You little bitch,” Dean hisses, spittle flecking his face.
“Dean. Stop,” Castiel cringes, out of both disgust and newfound fear.
To his surprise he lets go the grip on the smaller man, watching him sink to the floor with a predatory glee.
“This… this isn’t you, Dean. Go… go back to your cabin, leave me alone.”
“Why? What are you scared of-?”
You, is on his lips, and Dean seems to know it. Smiling, he towers over Castiel, won over by whiskey and pain. His eyes are a hard emerald, glinting his scared reflection back at him.
Castiel stands, composing himself, and makes a small gesture for Dean to move aside. He doesn’t. Instead he leans closer, pressing his side into his, and laying his arm up against the wood panels.
“Dean.”
“Don’t ‘Dean’ me; you know you have an extensive vocab.”
“You, are an asshole.” He grits back.
“Excuse me?”
He side steps Dean, “So pathetic, drowning yourself in your self-loathing. Bloodshed, alcohol and women won’t cover up the fact that you’re so fucking down trodden the only thing that keeps you going is the thought of killing Sam.”
Dean laughs, and it’s cruel, cold, and Castiel presses on.
“You don’t want anything, anymore. You’ve lost it- you’re nothing. Don’t call me useless, because I know you’ll break in a heartbeat.”
Dean has stooped low now, making small, dark chuckles of some bastardized mirth.
“Oh, oh Cas.” He snorts- his hand curling like a vice about his bicep. “You stupid, stupid, son of a bitch.” His other hand fingers the side of Castiel’s face, him flinching slightly from the cold touch.
For a while, he just leans into the former angel, his head pressed against the crook of Cas’ neck and shoulder, his mouth moving silently.
“You can’t save yourself a place in Heaven, Dean. You broke Heaven.”
He just leans back and Castiel, his green eyes unreadable as the meets those equally unfathomable blue ones. The top of his lip draws back slightly, revealing his pearly whites bared in a grimace.
“Don’t say I can’t fix anything Cas. Anything broken can be fixed.”
“You’re just a man.”
The words seem to ring clear to Dean, and the reaction is immediate. Anger flashes across his hawk eyes, and his mouth draws taut again.
“Have faith, Cas.”
Castiel suddenly finds his mouth crushed against Dean’s, the wind pushed out of his diaphragm as the larger man wraps his arms tight about him, their bodies slotting together like the pieces of a jigsaw. He is instinctively pushing, struggling against the man, a beating heart in a fist. But he begins to be aware of the glowing warmth from the contact; the way his mouth suddenly gives in and how Dean’s tongue prises up against his and how the shameful, acquiescing sighs escape muffled from his lips.
He breaks free, enough to gasp, “Dean- I-” only to squirm against the hot body as Dean’s icy fingers wrench off his belt and sliver down the hollows of his hips.
“Don’t say a word,” he hisses in response, tugging the seersucker shorts down Castiel’s thighs; reaching out and taking his girth into his mouth, feeling it grow plump in his touch and moistness. They form a small rhythm, the sighing and systematic thump on the walls as Cas twists and twitches in embarrassment and pleasure, intermingling with that most wicked sucking noise from Dean’s encircling lips.
He feels himself slumping down to the floor through Dean’s ministrations, whining softly as Dean lifts his mouth off his cock, pulling his bare legs up and licking interestedly at the flesh of his buttocks and the soft opening there.
There is only a small grunt from Castiel as Dean enters him, fast and raw with only saliva to wet the way. The burn of his flesh quickly dissipates into an experienced, tight gratification. Castiel thinks he can hear him groaning his name into the nape of his neck, but he can’t hear him over the dirty slap of their skin. He feels full to the brim, sensations pounding inside him with the furious piston of Dean’s hips thrusting deep and hard. The pressure in his cock becomes too much for him, and he comes, hitching gasps, his body rattling with the tension’s release, he slumps over as his semen paints lines over the floor and his jacket, some wetting the corner of his jaw.
Dean growls low and thrusts harder into Cas’ orgasm, drawing more flushed moans from his wet, pink lips. He marvels at how easily he splits him open, how his pucker pulses with each movement, and he is amazed at the little resistance he is receiving- Castiel has degenerated to little more than a whore in his eyes. Cas is whining again, scratching the walls piteously when Dean finally comes, filling him up with his seed, defiling him further, feeling his inners passage become even more slick with the man’s sperm.
They breathe hard, in silence, staring at the ceiling. Dean feels nothing in his afterglow; the miasma of emptiness in his chest expanding with each steady breath he takes. He knows Cas’ eyes are on him, boring holes into his soul with those cornflower blues, but he cannot look at him, he cannot acknowledge him. He doesn’t want to.
Eventually he mops the stains of white from his legs, dressing quickly and looping his belt through the straps with abandon. It’s not till he leaves the room when he hears Castiel give a wrecked sob.
But he doesn’t look back.