Fic: Sleeping With Ghosts (part I)
Title:Sleeping With Ghosts
Author: elfladyarwen
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: 5x04: The End
Word Count: ~7,900
Warnings: Angst, gunplay, dub-con, bottom!Cas, partner betrayal (but not really), canon character death (end!verse)
Rating: NC-17
Author’s Note: This was originally supposed to be a PWP prequel to signalfire's awesome story, Right Where You Left Me, but ended up a lot longer with more dark plot then I anticipated. So now, let's just call it a tribute companion piece. If you haven't read her story yet, I highly recommend doing so before you read this one! It's possible my story can stand alone, but you'll miss all the good context and set up unless you read her's first.
Also, mucho thanks to my alpha on this one, swordofmymouth. She fixed so much and ultimately made it better then I could have hoped for, considering this is my first end!verse fic and I was being whiny the entire way. And as always, thanks to my trusty beta, lefty_spit.
Let me tell you about an exquisite captivity.
It has no ropes, no chains. No cages. It is as natural and healthy as the ground holding a tree in place by the roots. Have you ever seen a tree complain that it cannot walk? Of course not. That is how a tree must be. The merciful thing, I think, is that most trees have never known what it is to walk; for all they know, their captivity to the soil is better than our constant, restless roaming about.
They would mourn, would they not, if they had strode, ambled, and flown with the agelessness of stars before taking root? Of course they would; they would wilt away from pining for once ways, better ways.
I have noticed a similarity between the trees and myself, rooted in my humanity. I, Castiel the fallen, am the lesser of the two because he, the human, possesses the soul that animates us. I would be his slave, if we were independent beings in the same position, but instead I am called a part of him and have no room for complaint.
The human has become the god between me and other gods before him. There is no life without him. He has crafted me into this thing I am. Do I think? Do I have choice? Yes, but wouldn't, if not for him. Do I have hopes, fears, secrets, and all the rest of the things that make for a whole, sentient being? Yes, and again, all because a young human is still alive and sustaining the soul that is both his and mine. What will I name him? Master? Liberator? Harbinger?
I will tell you a secret -- I wish no less than to be his equal, his everything.
*****
I wrote a letter, Dean. One you will never read and of whose existence you will never know.
I could never bring myself to tell you, coward that I am; only hide behind words penned on stained and musty paper. I will never have the chance now as I bleed out on this pavement but the memories are welcome company because they center around you - you, whom I have loved above all things.
I think about the course of action that has led me to this end. I have tried to outline it, along side my personal sentiments; a sad autobiography of a creature that should have been unable to die, scribbled on an old piece of parchment in the waning light of a single candle. How pathetic. I couldn’t help it, Dean. I have been immortal; some part of me longs for it still. I wished to save a piece of myself, however small and insignificant it might be. That’s why I wrote my story, our story, and sent it back with a young, vivacious man who wore your face and the hope that you have so long since shed.
I liked him enough to do something reckless. But how could I have helped myself? He reminded me of why I fell. He reminded me of you, once.
Do you remember when I fell, Dean?
No, how could you have known -- it was not your gravity that shifted, it was not your punishment to bear. Still, as it was your soul torn asunder and fed into the space where my grace once occupied, I had hoped you might share some sliver of the agony.
I recalled only stumbling and the weight of your arm around my waist keeping me from landing in a heap on the ground as the pain overwhelmed me. I had hoped you might be the one to teach me how to breathe without gasping. I had hoped I might have a sympathetic ally in which to mourn and wail the injustice of my condition. You never even noticed. Lay off the binges, you ordered, as if this were a human hangover that could be cured with a little white pill.
Heaven knows I tried. With a hundred thousand little white pills. They never took away the pain. They never brought me your sympathy.
*****
When the familiar man with your eyes came into the camp, I witnessed what kind of havoc five years could wreak on beauty. He was glorious in a way you used to be. Back before wounds stopped healing. Back when the sun was still warm. Back when I had wings and you had a sleek car and with them, both of us could fly.
You didn’t break when we had to scrap the Impala. I had thought you would, had prepared myself and kept close the whole day as you stood back and watched the shining black metal stripped off her bones to use as reinforcement for the outer barricades. I wondered if watching her die brought back memories of stripping flesh in Hell. I predicted this to be your final straw and reached for your arm, wanting the touch of you more than you wanted my comfort. You pushed me away with dead eyes, telling me “it’s only a damn car, get the fuck back to work.”
We both were grounded that day. No more flying. No more pretending we hadn’t already given up. You refused to confide in me and I felt another year of my limited life drain away into despair.
The same day, I tried heroin for the first time. I sank a needle into my vein and forgot your name, your voice, the color of your eyes for a blissful handful of hours. And I was delirious and proud of myself for finding a drug stronger than you.
Until he walked in.
Oh, Dean. I can’t begin to describe it. It was like knowing the rush of sweet water after suffering decades, parched and shrivelled in endless, cruel deserts. His terrified stare cut into my heart and I know I would have bled myself dry should he have asked it of me. I wanted him with a startling violence, not just his body but his soul, his cocky grin, his essence. I wanted every molecule of him; to wrap him up and shield him from this bitter new earth we’d carved for ourselves. It’s ingrained in me, I guess, this need to save you from Hell, in any fashion.
He was more potent than any drug created. I craved him because he still possessed what you had lost. That glow of hope, the absolute faith in mission; it was contagious and dangerous and I wanted to be infected.
So I went to him and tried to satisfy the burn of withdrawal within me. I had never lied to you before then. I’m sorry. But the drugged out and dope sick will do crazy things in desperate times. I needed a hit of this past you more than I’d ever needed anything. I had become an addict long ago and never realized it.
I told him, Dean. I seduced him, thinking myself powerful again, but in the end I crumbled, spilled all of our secrets into the line of his jaw, confessed the nature of our relationship into the cradle of his hips. You would forbid such honesty after the fact, this I knew; I couldn’t control my defiance and I told him everything. Because it would make you angry. Because I had to taste him, to trust him before he left me alone again.
*****
Do you remember when we first made love?
More than the act, I remember the perfect way your fingers fit into the spaces between my own, how your hands shook and your breath stuttered broken-hot on the back of my neck as you spilled deep inside me, lighting something within us glorious enough to put the glow of the Host to shame. I was a lifeline then; you clung to me just as you did when we fled the dark of perdition. “Don’t let go,” you’d pleaded -- both times.
Never, Dean. I never will.
That’s not the story I told your past self, though. I told him of two hundred times after that, of when it all started to go to ash. That’s what I think of now when I think of making love to you; no trembling, no perfect light. Only ash. And a resentment to which I can’t fully commit.
When I seduced him, I did it with a gun.
*****
I know you remember that time, Dean. The time you lost Sam. The time I lost you.
You shattered, and maybe I should have been more sympathetic. But I had only been human for a few years. You must understand, such emotions are difficult to perfect. Especially when you were on the verge of an alcohol-induced suicide and I fought you for every sip. Seemed like I fought you for most things, those days.
“You’re not going to kill your sorry ass,” I snarled at you, jerking the near empty bottle of whiskey from your hand and smashing it to glitter on the floor of our cabin. “Not on my watch.”
Even close to black-out drunk your reflexes were sharper than human. You pulled your gun from your thigh holster and had it at my head before I knew you reached for it.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” you said, cold. “Get rid of my guardian angel and I can do whatever the hell I want.”
I leaned into the gun, pressed hard enough to leave a circular mark on my temple and sneered at you.
“Do it,” I goaded. I wanted you to blow out the back of my head for many reasons, but most of all to see if it would put a stop to the ache in my bones. “Put me down like you do all the others who care about you. Get in some good practice for when you have to blow your brother away,” I spat nastily, wanting to cut you as deep as you do me, to make a dent in that impenetrable exterior of yours.
I can’t justify why we tried to hurt each other. It was the easiest thing to do at the time, I suppose.
You didn’t even flinch. That should have been enough to send alarm bells reverberating in my head, but I didn’t fear you then. I, callous fool that I am, was convinced you knew what you were doing. You were always in control.
So when you clicked the hammer back and told me get on your knees, I assumed you had planned this from the get-go. How was I supposed to know I was losing you? At that moment you were already slipping through my fingers, even though your skin was hot and solid beneath my hands?
I knelt before you, saddened that you felt compelled to force my affections in this fashion. I would have worshipped you freely, you know. You never asked. You only took.
You flicked the muzzle of the gun away to gesture toward your belt buckle, raising expectant eyebrows and I’m careful to keep my expression as equally stony and neutral. This isn’t intimate. This isn’t sexually charged. It’s a power trip, desperate and unattached. You’ve lost it all; your friends, your home, your faith, your brother, your world. You needed to prove you could still control something, anything. You needed to force something to bend to your will lest you go mad with the overwhelming loss of autonomy and the word ‘destiny’ rips the last of the humanity from your brain.
And I understood.
That’s why I slid your belt free and leaned in to nuzzle your crotch, why I reached to loosen the holster from your thigh.
“Enough foreplay,” you growled, snapping my head back with a fist in my hair and as I gasped, you shoved the gun barrel into my mouth.
I have no gag reflex; but the cold metal on my tongue took me by surprise and I choked on my own saliva, spittle dripping down the length of it and into the barrel. It pleased you, the way you sucked in a sharp breath. So I hollowed my cheeks and sucked the entire barrel in. I’d have much rather liked for it to be the hard cock tenting the front of your jeans, but I did what you wanted without question.
I bobbed up and down on your gun, swirling my tongue over the tip, dipping it in to collect the smokey chemical residue of lead, placing little kitten licks just below the opening I know you favor on your own cock head.
“Jesus Christ,” you whispered.
The hand previously pushing my head down patted my hair as if you’re surprised at how much this arouses you. I moaned around the mouthful of gun, my own cock fattening between my legs as my blood heats from the sparks of your desire. “You have any idea how good you look like this?”
I moaned again, this time for your benefit and peered up at you from beneath heavy lashes. Our gazes collide and from within I recoiled. I didn’t recognize who I saw in your eyes, the green blown out and the blood-lust there making them demon-black. I slid my mouth from your gun uneasily, bracing hands on your thighs thinking maybe real touch would bring you back to me. “Dean,” I started, and I leaned back onto my heels with a frown and a gut full of trepidation.
“I didn’t tell you to stop!” you interrupted, slamming your hands into my chest and toppling me backwards so I landed and knocked the wind from my lungs. I wheezed, clawed at your shoulders as your heavier form pinned me down unmercifully and I struggled, panicked at the inability to draw in air. You managed to wrestle my arms above my head, holding them there with one hand as your gun hand abandoned the weapon just long enough to rip my pants unceremoniously down to my knees.
My vision went blurry with a frustrated sheen and I thrashed beneath you, gaping like a fish out of water, suffocating while you busied yourself trying to revive my flagged erection with thick, clumsy fingers. “Breathe, you stupid son of a bitch,” you growled hotly into my ear, sucking angry red blossoms onto my neck. “Breathe. If I’m not allowed to die, neither are you.”
As if it’s a competition to see which of us gets to become bones in a box first and you want to make sure you win.
“Breathe, angel.”
It’s this soft moniker that relaxed me long enough for my diaphragm to stop spasming and I sucked in a pained lungful of air. I coughed, gasping in relief and I felt the rumble of satisfaction vibrate from your chest against mine and the panic subsided. Knocking out my wind wasn’t enough to deter you for long, and you took advantage of this momentary distraction to maneuver me onto my stomach. Still gasping, I wanted to beg you for a pause, plead for a break from being human where breathing is a weakness and fear of my own delicate mortality can render me incompetent. But I had no air to spare on words.
You were relentless and granted me nothing. With a grunt, I found my cheek pressed to the thin carpet, my bottom thrust up into the air for your inspection. Expecting the calloused warmth of your hands, I flinched and started at the icy touch of metal against my most sensitive skin. You forced me back into place, looming like a dark wall behind me on your knees, ensuring I didn’t wriggle away.
“You scared of me, Cas?” you purred, running the muzzle of your gun over the knobs of my spine and down the cleft of my ass. The dead, unfeeling cold of it made me shiver.
“No,” I wheezed after a moment. This is the first time I had to think about how to answer a question you posed and if I’m honest, I’m not sure if I answered correctly.
“You should be. Do you know how easily I could kill you with this?”
You trailed the gun down, down, over my puckered hole and further still over my balls. I squirmed, but you ran a soothing hand across my flank.
“You’re just a human now after all. You’d bleed out the same color and speed I would.”
“Dean.”
“Shhhhh.”
You leaned over, chest airtight against my back and curled your free hand around the column of my throat. The position implied violence, but your touch was gentle and I tilted my head back, swallowing hard, surrendering. You hummed, pleased.
“You trust me, Cas?”
“Yes.”
“You believe I’ll make it good for you, right?”
“Y-yes. Dean.”
You shushed me again, removing the hand from my neck and replacing it with your lovely mouth. I arched up into your lips, thinking each swipe of your tongue heavenly. You turned away to suck several fingers into your mouth, and I felt my pulse spike, could guess where those digits will go next. There’s a blissfully familiar pressure, wet and warm, at my entrance and I sighed, bracing my knees further apart in preparation. You circled the ring of muscle with slick fingertips, barely breaching the rim, teasing me. I was in no mood to be played with and thrusted back, impatient, seeking more contact. My eagerness made you chuckle, the low deep tone sounding more sinister than amused.
“Don’t worry. I have every intention of filling you up.”
“Then get to it,” I hissed as your fingertips made another dart, in and out.
The intrusion was sudden, biting and agonizingly cold. My entire frame went rigid in shock. There’s the burn of being too roughly penetrated without enough stretch, but it’s dim and fleeting compared to the alien wrongness of being speared open on metal.
“What the hell are you doing?” I yelled, frantically trying to free the steel from my body, but moving against you was like battling a rock wall.
“I wanna see you.”
Your panting was an equal mixture of mania and arousal and my body betrayed itself, swelling with a blood rush quick enough to make me dizzy beneath your ministrations. “I wanna see you work yourself off on my gun. Think you can do that, Cas? Think you can pretend this is me buried inside of you and fuck yourself until you come? I bet you can. Shit, I bet you can take all of this and more. Does it get you hard knowing this thing could go off at any time? It does me.”
A groan ripped from my throat as you worked it another inch into my body, which still clenched in protest and trembled mutinously under your weight. Especially when that free hand snaked down to palm my semi-hard cock, rubbing the paper-thin skin of my sac in a taunt.
I ought to have been disgusted by this. So much more then objectification; this is punishment. Punishment for failing to save Sam, punishment for being less then I was, punishment for staying. I’m being purposefully desecrated, on a machine invented by God’s favorite to extinguish God’s favorite. There’s an irony to be found here if searched for hard enough -- a creature once divine, who loved a human too much, impaled on an instrument with the sole purpose of sending humans into eternity. It’s not lost on me and I cursed at you as you slipped another inch in and out defiantly.
And again. And again. Heaven forgive me, but it’s good. Ecstasy and pain and delicious sin and all manner of things I was never meant to feel. Your viciousness was alarming in its pleasure. Your brutality made my pulse thrum, made me sizzle like a live wire, but this is not the Dean I cherished. There were two strangers sharing a bed with me. The gun became the third party in a twisted ménage à trois and you always did have a thing for exhibitionism. The ridge catches and presses on my prostate and I jolt, moaning as you take the opportunity to press cold circles into it inside me.
“That’s it. Fuck, look at you. Look how you open for me. So pretty, all pink and stretched around my gun. You want me to be your God, Cas? I can do that. Your life and your death belong to me now. All of it, all of you -- mine.”
I used to be holy, you son of a bitch. What am I now, but a tool for your sex and violence? I couldn’t even hate you like I should, too pitiful to do even that. I could only moan like a whore when you pumped a slick fist over my cock, jerking sporadically each time you grazed that gun over my prostate. I could only dig my nails into the meat of my palms when the kisses you pressed to the base of my spine left my skin tingling. You lapped the sweat from my sides and I ordered you to go faster. You bit into the curve of my shoulder and I demanded you go harder. With each passing minute, I succumbed to your rough brand of insanity, thrusting myself back onto the gun with an obscene slap of wet skin, wanting to show what a good slut you’ve trained me to be. I ached, I throbbed, but it’s nothing compared to the raw, elemental want to replace metal with flesh and aggression with tenderness.
The stutter in your rhythm told me you were close and you picked up speed, anchoring your free hand on my hip to impale me backwards, your dripping cock now free to smear a trail along the crease of my thigh as you rutted frenetically against me. How the friction between us hasn’t started a fire, I’m sure I don’t know.
It’s done with no more fanfare then a few animalistic grunts. You bruised fingerprints into my waist and gave a mighty shudder, painting the backs of my thighs with white-hot seed, claiming what’s yours in the archaic of fashions. But I was still heavy and hard, coiled tighter then a spring and I pushed back against you with a guttural growl, desperate for my own release. The smell of your semen hits me, spikes my pulse high enough to make my head spin, and I feel my cock harden impossibly further, the orgasm lingering, waiting, at the base of my spine. There’s no immediate offer for assistance, but you managed to catch your breathe long enough to mouth a promise into the plane of my shoulder blades.
“If you don’t come right now, Castiel, I’m gonna pull this trigger.”
“Dean,” I sobbed dryly, shaking my head, yes or no I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know what I was asking for, but I begged anyway. “Please!”
“Do you want to die, Cas? You want to leave me, too?”
I shook my head vehemently no. No, no, I can’t leave you. Never suggest such a thing, never imagine such a thing. I want to die, Dean. I want to fall asleep and run out of disappointing tomorrows. But not without you. You can’t be somewhere I can’t follow.
I must have babbled this out loud, because you whipped my head back and crushed our lips together in a single, ruthless kiss. I moaned, and bit down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. How is it you managed to taste like damnation and redemption all at once, your blood a bitter ambrosia I sucked down greedily and plundered your mouth in a rabid search for more.
“I got you, angel. I’m right here,” you breathed into my mouth.
And then you pulled the trigger before I could respond.
I screamed, coming so hard I blacked out.
*****
continued... (for spacing issues)
Author: elfladyarwen
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: 5x04: The End
Word Count: ~7,900
Warnings: Angst, gunplay, dub-con, bottom!Cas, partner betrayal (but not really), canon character death (end!verse)
Rating: NC-17
Author’s Note: This was originally supposed to be a PWP prequel to signalfire's awesome story, Right Where You Left Me, but ended up a lot longer with more dark plot then I anticipated. So now, let's just call it a tribute companion piece. If you haven't read her story yet, I highly recommend doing so before you read this one! It's possible my story can stand alone, but you'll miss all the good context and set up unless you read her's first.
Also, mucho thanks to my alpha on this one, swordofmymouth. She fixed so much and ultimately made it better then I could have hoped for, considering this is my first end!verse fic and I was being whiny the entire way. And as always, thanks to my trusty beta, lefty_spit.
Let me tell you about an exquisite captivity.
It has no ropes, no chains. No cages. It is as natural and healthy as the ground holding a tree in place by the roots. Have you ever seen a tree complain that it cannot walk? Of course not. That is how a tree must be. The merciful thing, I think, is that most trees have never known what it is to walk; for all they know, their captivity to the soil is better than our constant, restless roaming about.
They would mourn, would they not, if they had strode, ambled, and flown with the agelessness of stars before taking root? Of course they would; they would wilt away from pining for once ways, better ways.
I have noticed a similarity between the trees and myself, rooted in my humanity. I, Castiel the fallen, am the lesser of the two because he, the human, possesses the soul that animates us. I would be his slave, if we were independent beings in the same position, but instead I am called a part of him and have no room for complaint.
The human has become the god between me and other gods before him. There is no life without him. He has crafted me into this thing I am. Do I think? Do I have choice? Yes, but wouldn't, if not for him. Do I have hopes, fears, secrets, and all the rest of the things that make for a whole, sentient being? Yes, and again, all because a young human is still alive and sustaining the soul that is both his and mine. What will I name him? Master? Liberator? Harbinger?
I will tell you a secret -- I wish no less than to be his equal, his everything.
*****
I wrote a letter, Dean. One you will never read and of whose existence you will never know.
I could never bring myself to tell you, coward that I am; only hide behind words penned on stained and musty paper. I will never have the chance now as I bleed out on this pavement but the memories are welcome company because they center around you - you, whom I have loved above all things.
I think about the course of action that has led me to this end. I have tried to outline it, along side my personal sentiments; a sad autobiography of a creature that should have been unable to die, scribbled on an old piece of parchment in the waning light of a single candle. How pathetic. I couldn’t help it, Dean. I have been immortal; some part of me longs for it still. I wished to save a piece of myself, however small and insignificant it might be. That’s why I wrote my story, our story, and sent it back with a young, vivacious man who wore your face and the hope that you have so long since shed.
I liked him enough to do something reckless. But how could I have helped myself? He reminded me of why I fell. He reminded me of you, once.
Do you remember when I fell, Dean?
No, how could you have known -- it was not your gravity that shifted, it was not your punishment to bear. Still, as it was your soul torn asunder and fed into the space where my grace once occupied, I had hoped you might share some sliver of the agony.
I recalled only stumbling and the weight of your arm around my waist keeping me from landing in a heap on the ground as the pain overwhelmed me. I had hoped you might be the one to teach me how to breathe without gasping. I had hoped I might have a sympathetic ally in which to mourn and wail the injustice of my condition. You never even noticed. Lay off the binges, you ordered, as if this were a human hangover that could be cured with a little white pill.
Heaven knows I tried. With a hundred thousand little white pills. They never took away the pain. They never brought me your sympathy.
*****
When the familiar man with your eyes came into the camp, I witnessed what kind of havoc five years could wreak on beauty. He was glorious in a way you used to be. Back before wounds stopped healing. Back when the sun was still warm. Back when I had wings and you had a sleek car and with them, both of us could fly.
You didn’t break when we had to scrap the Impala. I had thought you would, had prepared myself and kept close the whole day as you stood back and watched the shining black metal stripped off her bones to use as reinforcement for the outer barricades. I wondered if watching her die brought back memories of stripping flesh in Hell. I predicted this to be your final straw and reached for your arm, wanting the touch of you more than you wanted my comfort. You pushed me away with dead eyes, telling me “it’s only a damn car, get the fuck back to work.”
We both were grounded that day. No more flying. No more pretending we hadn’t already given up. You refused to confide in me and I felt another year of my limited life drain away into despair.
The same day, I tried heroin for the first time. I sank a needle into my vein and forgot your name, your voice, the color of your eyes for a blissful handful of hours. And I was delirious and proud of myself for finding a drug stronger than you.
Until he walked in.
Oh, Dean. I can’t begin to describe it. It was like knowing the rush of sweet water after suffering decades, parched and shrivelled in endless, cruel deserts. His terrified stare cut into my heart and I know I would have bled myself dry should he have asked it of me. I wanted him with a startling violence, not just his body but his soul, his cocky grin, his essence. I wanted every molecule of him; to wrap him up and shield him from this bitter new earth we’d carved for ourselves. It’s ingrained in me, I guess, this need to save you from Hell, in any fashion.
He was more potent than any drug created. I craved him because he still possessed what you had lost. That glow of hope, the absolute faith in mission; it was contagious and dangerous and I wanted to be infected.
So I went to him and tried to satisfy the burn of withdrawal within me. I had never lied to you before then. I’m sorry. But the drugged out and dope sick will do crazy things in desperate times. I needed a hit of this past you more than I’d ever needed anything. I had become an addict long ago and never realized it.
I told him, Dean. I seduced him, thinking myself powerful again, but in the end I crumbled, spilled all of our secrets into the line of his jaw, confessed the nature of our relationship into the cradle of his hips. You would forbid such honesty after the fact, this I knew; I couldn’t control my defiance and I told him everything. Because it would make you angry. Because I had to taste him, to trust him before he left me alone again.
*****
Do you remember when we first made love?
More than the act, I remember the perfect way your fingers fit into the spaces between my own, how your hands shook and your breath stuttered broken-hot on the back of my neck as you spilled deep inside me, lighting something within us glorious enough to put the glow of the Host to shame. I was a lifeline then; you clung to me just as you did when we fled the dark of perdition. “Don’t let go,” you’d pleaded -- both times.
Never, Dean. I never will.
That’s not the story I told your past self, though. I told him of two hundred times after that, of when it all started to go to ash. That’s what I think of now when I think of making love to you; no trembling, no perfect light. Only ash. And a resentment to which I can’t fully commit.
When I seduced him, I did it with a gun.
*****
I know you remember that time, Dean. The time you lost Sam. The time I lost you.
You shattered, and maybe I should have been more sympathetic. But I had only been human for a few years. You must understand, such emotions are difficult to perfect. Especially when you were on the verge of an alcohol-induced suicide and I fought you for every sip. Seemed like I fought you for most things, those days.
“You’re not going to kill your sorry ass,” I snarled at you, jerking the near empty bottle of whiskey from your hand and smashing it to glitter on the floor of our cabin. “Not on my watch.”
Even close to black-out drunk your reflexes were sharper than human. You pulled your gun from your thigh holster and had it at my head before I knew you reached for it.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” you said, cold. “Get rid of my guardian angel and I can do whatever the hell I want.”
I leaned into the gun, pressed hard enough to leave a circular mark on my temple and sneered at you.
“Do it,” I goaded. I wanted you to blow out the back of my head for many reasons, but most of all to see if it would put a stop to the ache in my bones. “Put me down like you do all the others who care about you. Get in some good practice for when you have to blow your brother away,” I spat nastily, wanting to cut you as deep as you do me, to make a dent in that impenetrable exterior of yours.
I can’t justify why we tried to hurt each other. It was the easiest thing to do at the time, I suppose.
You didn’t even flinch. That should have been enough to send alarm bells reverberating in my head, but I didn’t fear you then. I, callous fool that I am, was convinced you knew what you were doing. You were always in control.
So when you clicked the hammer back and told me get on your knees, I assumed you had planned this from the get-go. How was I supposed to know I was losing you? At that moment you were already slipping through my fingers, even though your skin was hot and solid beneath my hands?
I knelt before you, saddened that you felt compelled to force my affections in this fashion. I would have worshipped you freely, you know. You never asked. You only took.
You flicked the muzzle of the gun away to gesture toward your belt buckle, raising expectant eyebrows and I’m careful to keep my expression as equally stony and neutral. This isn’t intimate. This isn’t sexually charged. It’s a power trip, desperate and unattached. You’ve lost it all; your friends, your home, your faith, your brother, your world. You needed to prove you could still control something, anything. You needed to force something to bend to your will lest you go mad with the overwhelming loss of autonomy and the word ‘destiny’ rips the last of the humanity from your brain.
And I understood.
That’s why I slid your belt free and leaned in to nuzzle your crotch, why I reached to loosen the holster from your thigh.
“Enough foreplay,” you growled, snapping my head back with a fist in my hair and as I gasped, you shoved the gun barrel into my mouth.
I have no gag reflex; but the cold metal on my tongue took me by surprise and I choked on my own saliva, spittle dripping down the length of it and into the barrel. It pleased you, the way you sucked in a sharp breath. So I hollowed my cheeks and sucked the entire barrel in. I’d have much rather liked for it to be the hard cock tenting the front of your jeans, but I did what you wanted without question.
I bobbed up and down on your gun, swirling my tongue over the tip, dipping it in to collect the smokey chemical residue of lead, placing little kitten licks just below the opening I know you favor on your own cock head.
“Jesus Christ,” you whispered.
The hand previously pushing my head down patted my hair as if you’re surprised at how much this arouses you. I moaned around the mouthful of gun, my own cock fattening between my legs as my blood heats from the sparks of your desire. “You have any idea how good you look like this?”
I moaned again, this time for your benefit and peered up at you from beneath heavy lashes. Our gazes collide and from within I recoiled. I didn’t recognize who I saw in your eyes, the green blown out and the blood-lust there making them demon-black. I slid my mouth from your gun uneasily, bracing hands on your thighs thinking maybe real touch would bring you back to me. “Dean,” I started, and I leaned back onto my heels with a frown and a gut full of trepidation.
“I didn’t tell you to stop!” you interrupted, slamming your hands into my chest and toppling me backwards so I landed and knocked the wind from my lungs. I wheezed, clawed at your shoulders as your heavier form pinned me down unmercifully and I struggled, panicked at the inability to draw in air. You managed to wrestle my arms above my head, holding them there with one hand as your gun hand abandoned the weapon just long enough to rip my pants unceremoniously down to my knees.
My vision went blurry with a frustrated sheen and I thrashed beneath you, gaping like a fish out of water, suffocating while you busied yourself trying to revive my flagged erection with thick, clumsy fingers. “Breathe, you stupid son of a bitch,” you growled hotly into my ear, sucking angry red blossoms onto my neck. “Breathe. If I’m not allowed to die, neither are you.”
As if it’s a competition to see which of us gets to become bones in a box first and you want to make sure you win.
“Breathe, angel.”
It’s this soft moniker that relaxed me long enough for my diaphragm to stop spasming and I sucked in a pained lungful of air. I coughed, gasping in relief and I felt the rumble of satisfaction vibrate from your chest against mine and the panic subsided. Knocking out my wind wasn’t enough to deter you for long, and you took advantage of this momentary distraction to maneuver me onto my stomach. Still gasping, I wanted to beg you for a pause, plead for a break from being human where breathing is a weakness and fear of my own delicate mortality can render me incompetent. But I had no air to spare on words.
You were relentless and granted me nothing. With a grunt, I found my cheek pressed to the thin carpet, my bottom thrust up into the air for your inspection. Expecting the calloused warmth of your hands, I flinched and started at the icy touch of metal against my most sensitive skin. You forced me back into place, looming like a dark wall behind me on your knees, ensuring I didn’t wriggle away.
“You scared of me, Cas?” you purred, running the muzzle of your gun over the knobs of my spine and down the cleft of my ass. The dead, unfeeling cold of it made me shiver.
“No,” I wheezed after a moment. This is the first time I had to think about how to answer a question you posed and if I’m honest, I’m not sure if I answered correctly.
“You should be. Do you know how easily I could kill you with this?”
You trailed the gun down, down, over my puckered hole and further still over my balls. I squirmed, but you ran a soothing hand across my flank.
“You’re just a human now after all. You’d bleed out the same color and speed I would.”
“Dean.”
“Shhhhh.”
You leaned over, chest airtight against my back and curled your free hand around the column of my throat. The position implied violence, but your touch was gentle and I tilted my head back, swallowing hard, surrendering. You hummed, pleased.
“You trust me, Cas?”
“Yes.”
“You believe I’ll make it good for you, right?”
“Y-yes. Dean.”
You shushed me again, removing the hand from my neck and replacing it with your lovely mouth. I arched up into your lips, thinking each swipe of your tongue heavenly. You turned away to suck several fingers into your mouth, and I felt my pulse spike, could guess where those digits will go next. There’s a blissfully familiar pressure, wet and warm, at my entrance and I sighed, bracing my knees further apart in preparation. You circled the ring of muscle with slick fingertips, barely breaching the rim, teasing me. I was in no mood to be played with and thrusted back, impatient, seeking more contact. My eagerness made you chuckle, the low deep tone sounding more sinister than amused.
“Don’t worry. I have every intention of filling you up.”
“Then get to it,” I hissed as your fingertips made another dart, in and out.
The intrusion was sudden, biting and agonizingly cold. My entire frame went rigid in shock. There’s the burn of being too roughly penetrated without enough stretch, but it’s dim and fleeting compared to the alien wrongness of being speared open on metal.
“What the hell are you doing?” I yelled, frantically trying to free the steel from my body, but moving against you was like battling a rock wall.
“I wanna see you.”
Your panting was an equal mixture of mania and arousal and my body betrayed itself, swelling with a blood rush quick enough to make me dizzy beneath your ministrations. “I wanna see you work yourself off on my gun. Think you can do that, Cas? Think you can pretend this is me buried inside of you and fuck yourself until you come? I bet you can. Shit, I bet you can take all of this and more. Does it get you hard knowing this thing could go off at any time? It does me.”
A groan ripped from my throat as you worked it another inch into my body, which still clenched in protest and trembled mutinously under your weight. Especially when that free hand snaked down to palm my semi-hard cock, rubbing the paper-thin skin of my sac in a taunt.
I ought to have been disgusted by this. So much more then objectification; this is punishment. Punishment for failing to save Sam, punishment for being less then I was, punishment for staying. I’m being purposefully desecrated, on a machine invented by God’s favorite to extinguish God’s favorite. There’s an irony to be found here if searched for hard enough -- a creature once divine, who loved a human too much, impaled on an instrument with the sole purpose of sending humans into eternity. It’s not lost on me and I cursed at you as you slipped another inch in and out defiantly.
And again. And again. Heaven forgive me, but it’s good. Ecstasy and pain and delicious sin and all manner of things I was never meant to feel. Your viciousness was alarming in its pleasure. Your brutality made my pulse thrum, made me sizzle like a live wire, but this is not the Dean I cherished. There were two strangers sharing a bed with me. The gun became the third party in a twisted ménage à trois and you always did have a thing for exhibitionism. The ridge catches and presses on my prostate and I jolt, moaning as you take the opportunity to press cold circles into it inside me.
“That’s it. Fuck, look at you. Look how you open for me. So pretty, all pink and stretched around my gun. You want me to be your God, Cas? I can do that. Your life and your death belong to me now. All of it, all of you -- mine.”
I used to be holy, you son of a bitch. What am I now, but a tool for your sex and violence? I couldn’t even hate you like I should, too pitiful to do even that. I could only moan like a whore when you pumped a slick fist over my cock, jerking sporadically each time you grazed that gun over my prostate. I could only dig my nails into the meat of my palms when the kisses you pressed to the base of my spine left my skin tingling. You lapped the sweat from my sides and I ordered you to go faster. You bit into the curve of my shoulder and I demanded you go harder. With each passing minute, I succumbed to your rough brand of insanity, thrusting myself back onto the gun with an obscene slap of wet skin, wanting to show what a good slut you’ve trained me to be. I ached, I throbbed, but it’s nothing compared to the raw, elemental want to replace metal with flesh and aggression with tenderness.
The stutter in your rhythm told me you were close and you picked up speed, anchoring your free hand on my hip to impale me backwards, your dripping cock now free to smear a trail along the crease of my thigh as you rutted frenetically against me. How the friction between us hasn’t started a fire, I’m sure I don’t know.
It’s done with no more fanfare then a few animalistic grunts. You bruised fingerprints into my waist and gave a mighty shudder, painting the backs of my thighs with white-hot seed, claiming what’s yours in the archaic of fashions. But I was still heavy and hard, coiled tighter then a spring and I pushed back against you with a guttural growl, desperate for my own release. The smell of your semen hits me, spikes my pulse high enough to make my head spin, and I feel my cock harden impossibly further, the orgasm lingering, waiting, at the base of my spine. There’s no immediate offer for assistance, but you managed to catch your breathe long enough to mouth a promise into the plane of my shoulder blades.
“If you don’t come right now, Castiel, I’m gonna pull this trigger.”
“Dean,” I sobbed dryly, shaking my head, yes or no I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know what I was asking for, but I begged anyway. “Please!”
“Do you want to die, Cas? You want to leave me, too?”
I shook my head vehemently no. No, no, I can’t leave you. Never suggest such a thing, never imagine such a thing. I want to die, Dean. I want to fall asleep and run out of disappointing tomorrows. But not without you. You can’t be somewhere I can’t follow.
I must have babbled this out loud, because you whipped my head back and crushed our lips together in a single, ruthless kiss. I moaned, and bit down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. How is it you managed to taste like damnation and redemption all at once, your blood a bitter ambrosia I sucked down greedily and plundered your mouth in a rabid search for more.
“I got you, angel. I’m right here,” you breathed into my mouth.
And then you pulled the trigger before I could respond.
I screamed, coming so hard I blacked out.
*****
continued... (for spacing issues)