Deleted Scenes: The End [1]. [Supernatural Fic. NC-17]
Title: Deleted Scenes: The End
Author: estas_absentis
Rating: NC-17 for S&M-y themes and sex :)
Characters: Castiel/Dean (future)
Disclaimer: If I owned either of these two, I would NOT waste time on lj...
Summary: The first in a series of standalone fics, 'deleted' Dean/Castiel scenes from episodes of series 5. Pretty much just angsty PWP.
Warnings : SEX. And spoilers for up to S5E4. And violence. And I say 'fuck' too much.
Future Dean (henceforth known simply as Dean) is staring at the demon Belial with an intensity that could melt steel. A kind of self-disgust mingled with joyless satisfaction freezes his face taught, gritty and sweaty and fucking resigned. He grins, and it is mirthless enough to make anyone's soul lean towards the light, or maybe, shrink towards the protection of the dark. Demons tell their children bedtime stories about the Dean Winchester of 2014, to keep them in line until they're ready. Don't stray from the path. Don't go topside, baby. Dean Winchester will get you and he will...
What will he do? There are rumours of every kind of torture imaginable. It would probably reassure plain old 2009 Dean to think that rumours escalate, that people only make shit up to keep their kids in line. But he knows that the things that go bump in the night are real, that the wolves are in the forest... and so, he would, as have all those who have met Dean in this barren land of future, be forced to accept that probably nearly all of these rumours are true. Except those ones he started himself, because, hey, half of torture goes on in the mind anyway.
Dean's face may be set, but his hands are on the verge of shaking from pure exhaustion. The demon is out cold, but only after literal days of furious interrogation. And he's still got more in him; this bastard's close to breaking and if anyone is learned in the art of breaking things, it's Dean Winchester. Just wait for round two, seriously. He may not have gone to college, but hell has this kid got imagination.
Cas watches Dean wash up, all his instruments neatly in holy water. And then his hands - using a silver scrapey-thing to push out all the clotted blood and don't-think-about-whatever-else is caught under his blunt nails, so slow it almost seems like a meditation. An exiting ceremony, a slow comedown from the burnt and saturated heights of cruelty he has reached over the last 48 hours; in a trance and unaware of the fallen angel's observant eyes.
He lets Cas watch the interrogations, when they happen. He can't imagine the winged nerd in a trenchcoat being able to stomach that, or even having the will to request such a thing, but hey - he's changed. They all have. And fallen angel or not, some things never change. And it turns out - but Dean doesn't know this, or does he, actually? But it turns out, then, that as creatures essentially created purely to obey, despite a few instances of rebellion (hence this whole fucking Apocalypse thing, actually...), that angels do generally have such a bone on for authority. And new, liberated Cas doesn't try to fight that. He just knows that watching Dean shove, watching the sinews in his arm twist and shudder with the force of his violence, seeing blood on his face as red as hell and fuck hearing his growl, guttural and inhuman fragments of sentences “son of a bitch... you fucking bastard...” does things to him that no amount of silly giggling women or army boys that should know better or even, hey, that one time, drunk and hiccuping prophets of the fucking lord can ever emulate.
Dean can see him, of course. He sees more than Cas thinks, sees his eyes dark and his cheeks flushed, hears when Cas forgets to breathe through his nose and gasps and it hitches and damned if Dean doesn't hate him, just very slightly, for turning this hideous slide back into hell into something horrible and conflicting, rather than simply something plain old horrible. Cause Dean doesn't really get off on this, not like the demons accuse, as they taunt him, while they're still stupid enough to try and fuck with Dean... but the sight of Cas so very clearly aroused conjures up all kinds of emotions in Dean, all kinds of memories of fantasies and half-dreamed dreams involving motels that Sam isn't booked into and creasing that white, crisp shirt... that involved the messy hair and the too-clean coat and very definitely and non negotiably that tie. But Sam's never booking into another motel. Dean's never dreaming again. And Cas... the thought sounds petulant, sounds almost childish, but Cas is spoilt.
It's that that does it. Something inside Dean just... snaps, and maybe this is easier, in this orange bloodstained world so far removed from normality that anything goes,but Dean knows loud and clear that he's going to fuck Cas, Cas the camp whore, who, given the bag of peas missing from the freezer and the day of certain prophets limping conspicuously through inventory duty, is probably usually Cas who does the fucking... and god, yeah, it should have happened years ago in cleaner times but it wouldn't have and he drops the nasty knife thing he's holding and the rattle on the iron tray is way too loud, but it kind of creates a silence because of that, and the reverie breaks and Cas looks at Dean as he strides determinedly to the sandbags Cas is perched on...
And Cas' pupils dilate, even more so, as Dean grabs him by the neck and applies just the fucking pressure to make Cas see little white spots... the expert control Cas feels in that grip, the years of practise making absolutely perfect... God. And he's wondering how it could get hotter when Dean talks, growling out in a voice made gravelly by despair, as harsh as the world they find themselves in... “You sick fucking bastard. You pathetic fucking excuse for an angel...” and Cas is wondering what it says about him that this is the hottest thing anyone's ever said to him in the moments immediately preceding sex, in all of his brief but enthusiastic career of sexual exploration...
Dean hits him, hard, across the jaw, blunt and brutal, and rips down the other man's jeans from his hips, not pausing to remove shirts or shoes... and then Dean pulls out his own hard dick, and Cas knows that this is going to be short, and cheap, and nasty... and quite possibly awesome.
So Dean's dick's out, but his jeans are still on up to the knee, and as he moves closer again Cas hears his belt buckle clink like chains... and then he stops listening to stupid shit like belt buckles because fuck, Dean's holding out his fingers for Cas to slick with his saliva, and when he sucks them, one, two, three, they taste of sweat and blood and something good forced to do something bad, just at the back, a base note... and Dean doesn't waste any time stretching him, pushes them in roughly, and it burns as it stretches and Cas would probably back out of this now if a) he wasn't such a masochist and, b) he hadn't already experimented with stuff like this before. Yeah.
Cas whimpers at the emptiness as Dean impatiently pulls out his fingers, moving his hand to guide his straining cock into Cas... he feels resistance and then he's suddenly there, balls-deep and too hot and too close and it's amazingamazingamazing, Dean is facing him but won't meet his eyes, keeps his gaze rooted on the wall above them. His thrusts are harsh and fast and insistent, and Cas wonders if Dean ever fucked anyone like he loved them, ever any differently, and refuses to let himself feel sad at the answer, whichever it is. Cas sees beads of sweat on Dean's brow now, and angles his hips to pull Dean further in, to force a reaction; in response Dean kind of scowls and brings his hand down to the underside of Cas' chin, cupping... not quite asphyxiating him, but with enough pressure to suggest that he really fucking could, at any moment, and at this Cas feels himself unravelling, contracts around Dean's dick and raises his hips and comes onto both their stomachs, screaming in complete silence... the pressure must get to Dean and sure enough, with a totally inhuman grunt Dean thrusts harder, once, twice, three times and jerks forward, almost like he's going to collapse into Cas' arms, which wouldn't be too bad, thinks Cas, except, well... that ship has sailed. And neither of them were ever brave enough to hop on board.
Dean pulls back, pulls out... turns back to his table, his box of tricks and wipes himself off before throwing the cloth soundlessly to Cas, tugging his jeans back up and kicking the leg of the table in almost childish pique. Cas pretends not to see that Dean's very close to tears, angry, always angry, for ruining this one lovely possibility, the one desire that was always his to hide and keep safe and therefore sacrosanct, and tainting it like everything else he touches.
Author: estas_absentis
Rating: NC-17 for S&M-y themes and sex :)
Characters: Castiel/Dean (future)
Disclaimer: If I owned either of these two, I would NOT waste time on lj...
Summary: The first in a series of standalone fics, 'deleted' Dean/Castiel scenes from episodes of series 5. Pretty much just angsty PWP.
Warnings : SEX. And spoilers for up to S5E4. And violence. And I say 'fuck' too much.
Future Dean (henceforth known simply as Dean) is staring at the demon Belial with an intensity that could melt steel. A kind of self-disgust mingled with joyless satisfaction freezes his face taught, gritty and sweaty and fucking resigned. He grins, and it is mirthless enough to make anyone's soul lean towards the light, or maybe, shrink towards the protection of the dark. Demons tell their children bedtime stories about the Dean Winchester of 2014, to keep them in line until they're ready. Don't stray from the path. Don't go topside, baby. Dean Winchester will get you and he will...
What will he do? There are rumours of every kind of torture imaginable. It would probably reassure plain old 2009 Dean to think that rumours escalate, that people only make shit up to keep their kids in line. But he knows that the things that go bump in the night are real, that the wolves are in the forest... and so, he would, as have all those who have met Dean in this barren land of future, be forced to accept that probably nearly all of these rumours are true. Except those ones he started himself, because, hey, half of torture goes on in the mind anyway.
Dean's face may be set, but his hands are on the verge of shaking from pure exhaustion. The demon is out cold, but only after literal days of furious interrogation. And he's still got more in him; this bastard's close to breaking and if anyone is learned in the art of breaking things, it's Dean Winchester. Just wait for round two, seriously. He may not have gone to college, but hell has this kid got imagination.
Cas watches Dean wash up, all his instruments neatly in holy water. And then his hands - using a silver scrapey-thing to push out all the clotted blood and don't-think-about-whatever-else is caught under his blunt nails, so slow it almost seems like a meditation. An exiting ceremony, a slow comedown from the burnt and saturated heights of cruelty he has reached over the last 48 hours; in a trance and unaware of the fallen angel's observant eyes.
He lets Cas watch the interrogations, when they happen. He can't imagine the winged nerd in a trenchcoat being able to stomach that, or even having the will to request such a thing, but hey - he's changed. They all have. And fallen angel or not, some things never change. And it turns out - but Dean doesn't know this, or does he, actually? But it turns out, then, that as creatures essentially created purely to obey, despite a few instances of rebellion (hence this whole fucking Apocalypse thing, actually...), that angels do generally have such a bone on for authority. And new, liberated Cas doesn't try to fight that. He just knows that watching Dean shove, watching the sinews in his arm twist and shudder with the force of his violence, seeing blood on his face as red as hell and fuck hearing his growl, guttural and inhuman fragments of sentences “son of a bitch... you fucking bastard...” does things to him that no amount of silly giggling women or army boys that should know better or even, hey, that one time, drunk and hiccuping prophets of the fucking lord can ever emulate.
Dean can see him, of course. He sees more than Cas thinks, sees his eyes dark and his cheeks flushed, hears when Cas forgets to breathe through his nose and gasps and it hitches and damned if Dean doesn't hate him, just very slightly, for turning this hideous slide back into hell into something horrible and conflicting, rather than simply something plain old horrible. Cause Dean doesn't really get off on this, not like the demons accuse, as they taunt him, while they're still stupid enough to try and fuck with Dean... but the sight of Cas so very clearly aroused conjures up all kinds of emotions in Dean, all kinds of memories of fantasies and half-dreamed dreams involving motels that Sam isn't booked into and creasing that white, crisp shirt... that involved the messy hair and the too-clean coat and very definitely and non negotiably that tie. But Sam's never booking into another motel. Dean's never dreaming again. And Cas... the thought sounds petulant, sounds almost childish, but Cas is spoilt.
It's that that does it. Something inside Dean just... snaps, and maybe this is easier, in this orange bloodstained world so far removed from normality that anything goes,but Dean knows loud and clear that he's going to fuck Cas, Cas the camp whore, who, given the bag of peas missing from the freezer and the day of certain prophets limping conspicuously through inventory duty, is probably usually Cas who does the fucking... and god, yeah, it should have happened years ago in cleaner times but it wouldn't have and he drops the nasty knife thing he's holding and the rattle on the iron tray is way too loud, but it kind of creates a silence because of that, and the reverie breaks and Cas looks at Dean as he strides determinedly to the sandbags Cas is perched on...
And Cas' pupils dilate, even more so, as Dean grabs him by the neck and applies just the fucking pressure to make Cas see little white spots... the expert control Cas feels in that grip, the years of practise making absolutely perfect... God. And he's wondering how it could get hotter when Dean talks, growling out in a voice made gravelly by despair, as harsh as the world they find themselves in... “You sick fucking bastard. You pathetic fucking excuse for an angel...” and Cas is wondering what it says about him that this is the hottest thing anyone's ever said to him in the moments immediately preceding sex, in all of his brief but enthusiastic career of sexual exploration...
Dean hits him, hard, across the jaw, blunt and brutal, and rips down the other man's jeans from his hips, not pausing to remove shirts or shoes... and then Dean pulls out his own hard dick, and Cas knows that this is going to be short, and cheap, and nasty... and quite possibly awesome.
So Dean's dick's out, but his jeans are still on up to the knee, and as he moves closer again Cas hears his belt buckle clink like chains... and then he stops listening to stupid shit like belt buckles because fuck, Dean's holding out his fingers for Cas to slick with his saliva, and when he sucks them, one, two, three, they taste of sweat and blood and something good forced to do something bad, just at the back, a base note... and Dean doesn't waste any time stretching him, pushes them in roughly, and it burns as it stretches and Cas would probably back out of this now if a) he wasn't such a masochist and, b) he hadn't already experimented with stuff like this before. Yeah.
Cas whimpers at the emptiness as Dean impatiently pulls out his fingers, moving his hand to guide his straining cock into Cas... he feels resistance and then he's suddenly there, balls-deep and too hot and too close and it's amazingamazingamazing, Dean is facing him but won't meet his eyes, keeps his gaze rooted on the wall above them. His thrusts are harsh and fast and insistent, and Cas wonders if Dean ever fucked anyone like he loved them, ever any differently, and refuses to let himself feel sad at the answer, whichever it is. Cas sees beads of sweat on Dean's brow now, and angles his hips to pull Dean further in, to force a reaction; in response Dean kind of scowls and brings his hand down to the underside of Cas' chin, cupping... not quite asphyxiating him, but with enough pressure to suggest that he really fucking could, at any moment, and at this Cas feels himself unravelling, contracts around Dean's dick and raises his hips and comes onto both their stomachs, screaming in complete silence... the pressure must get to Dean and sure enough, with a totally inhuman grunt Dean thrusts harder, once, twice, three times and jerks forward, almost like he's going to collapse into Cas' arms, which wouldn't be too bad, thinks Cas, except, well... that ship has sailed. And neither of them were ever brave enough to hop on board.
Dean pulls back, pulls out... turns back to his table, his box of tricks and wipes himself off before throwing the cloth soundlessly to Cas, tugging his jeans back up and kicking the leg of the table in almost childish pique. Cas pretends not to see that Dean's very close to tears, angry, always angry, for ruining this one lovely possibility, the one desire that was always his to hide and keep safe and therefore sacrosanct, and tainting it like everything else he touches.