[fic] new religion (bring you to your knees)
Title: new religion (bring you to your knees)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Meg/Castiel
Spoilers: Up to 6.10
Warnings: Strong language, blasphemy, explicit sexuality.
Word Count: 2727
Disclaimer: Not mine, don’t sue.
Summary: They are both godless now.
Notes: This was initially supposed to be part of a much longer fic, but that decided it wasn‘t going to work out so I took this scene, re-jigged it a little, and turned it into a straight-up PWP. One day, I will write something substantial in this fandom.
Title comes from the song ‘Black Velvet’ by Alannah Myles, because I’m cool that way.
new religion (bring you to your knees)
Meg takes the angel’s sword back when Dean frees her from the torture table.
She takes it, because she knows he’ll come looking.
He doesn’t disappoint.
Angels; so predictable. This one, especially so.
He finds her in a falling-down motel in New Orleans -- the kind that makes the dives the Winchesters stay in look like the goddamn Ritz -- nearly a week later. She’s well aware of the fact that he could have come earlier, if he’d wanted, but for some reason he took his sweet time. Maybe he had more important things going on, or maybe he just wanted her to stew.
She really doesn’t give a fuck either way.
His arrival is heralded by the fluorescent strip lights fizzing and a frankly melodramatic clap of thunder outside the window, and then he’s just there, intense and still and looming an inch too far inside her personal space. His eyes are cold and blank; it’s difficult to reconcile this ice sculpture with the creature who had pressed her into the wall and kissed her with such urgency, and she wants to claw the mask away, witness that primal side of him once again coming to bear.
She isn’t scared of him, although she thinks that maybe she should be.
“I believe you have something of mine,” he growls; no preliminaries, and a voice like sandpaper over cut glass.
“You mean this thing?” Meg produces his sword with a smirk and holds it up teasingly, watching the way it throws off sparks of light. It feels strange in her hand, something ancient and deadly, not meant to be wielded by her kind.
“Yes,” another step closer, and she wills herself not to back away. “Give it to me.”
She raises an eyebrow at the obvious innuendo, but he either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. “Oh, I don’t know, Clarence. I could kill you with this.”
“You could.” He draws closer still, and apparently he really has a thing for walls, because she once again finds herself trapped against one. “Of course, you would be assuming that you’re both stronger and faster than me. Is that something you wish to bet on?”
She presses the tip of the blade against his chest by way of an answer; he glances down at it briefly, as though surprised by her boldness, and there’s definitely a smirk forming at the edges of his expression when he raises his eyes back to her face.
“If you kill me now, my true form will explode from within this body, and you will burn with me,” he tells her softly. “I won’t ask again. Give me the sword.”
And maybe she’s a little scared of him, the way that adrenaline junkies are a little scared of bungee jumping. This whole stunt is positively suicidal, because it would take absolutely nothing for him to destroy her -- she saw what he did to Crowley, after all. Still, she can’t quite stop herself from arching away from the wall at her back, pushing her body out towards him, and the brief flicker of interest in his eyes makes her think that maybe he isn’t going to smite her just yet.
“What’re you gonna do for me, huh? A girl’s gotta have some incentive.”
With a grunt of frustration, he surges forward and seals his lips over hers once again, pinning her like a moth to a board. She smiles against him and drops the sword to avoid skewering him before the fun can really get started, reaching up to rake her fingers through his hair. He’s a little clumsy to begin with -- much as he was the first time -- but he’s a hell of a fast learner, cataloguing her reactions and adapting to them accordingly.
For her part, Meg gives back as good as she gets, sinking her teeth into his bottom lip, sliding her hands inside the folds of his coat to feel the warmth of his skin through crisp white cotton. She grabs his ass and squeezes hard, uses the way his mouth drops open in a gasp to shove her tongue inside, licking around his teeth and all but fucking his mouth.
And God help her - pardon the pun - she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to get enough of this. There’s a raw neediness in the way he touches her, the way he kisses her, that she finds utterly delicious. He reeks of desperation, an insatiable hunger crawling just beneath the surface of his skin, as though he’s never been able to shake off the stains from Famine’s touch. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said it made her feel clean either, though perhaps that’s not exactly the right word. It’s the sheer power, addictive, intoxicating stuff, that drips off his tongue and seeps from his every pore, that kept her hoping he’d come back for more.
It reminds her of the way Lucifer had made her feel, once. Not as strong, not nearly as overwhelming, but the resemblance is there, and it’s enough to make her crave.
The angel has a bad case of wandering hands; hesitant touches, but growing in confidence, and they call her to an awareness of the fact that she’s growing damp with arousal. She slips a leg between his, grinds her thigh up into his crotch, and breaks the kiss to grin at him when she gets a choked moan and a rapidly hardening erection in response. This -- this is definitely further than they got at the prison, without an audience of gormless Winchesters and hellhounds baying for their blood.
“Why, Clarence, is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
He clearly doesn’t get the reference, doing that stupid head-tilty expression that makes him look like a particularly dumb Labrador, and Meg uses his moment of confusion to shove him back slightly, giving her room to step away from the wall. Before he has time to recover his sensibilities and get back to the death threats, she quickly moves to peel off her shirt. She isn’t wearing a bra underneath, and she feels her nipples pucker and draw up tight in response to the cold air, watching with interest the way Castiel’s eyes go wide and dark. She kicks off her shoes and steps close to him again, pushes both his coats off his shoulders, rips his shirt open with enough force to send buttons flying in every direction, and this time when they kiss she can feel the press of her breasts flattened against the planes of his chest. She rubs up against him, a film of sweat already beginning to form between their borrowed bodies.
When she thinks back over it, much later, she’ll decide that perhaps the hottest part of the evening’s proceedings is that they don’t even make it to the bed, sliding to the floor instead and rolling one another over and over in a wrestling match to gain the upper hand. Naturally, Castiel wins, stretching her arms out on either side of her and pinning her wrists to the floor. The position reminds her uncomfortably of the torture table, and for a moment she sees something like indecision flicker in his eyes. But hey -- she’s the one who goaded him into this, so if it all goes horribly awry now, she only has herself to blame.
Thankfully, the moment passes; he releases her wrists in favor of skimming large hands over her ribs, across her belly, coming back up to tentatively cup her breasts. The movements are exploratory, and as far as touches go, they’re pretty fucking boring, but Meg’s powerless to do anything except writhe impatiently and hope he gets the message.
He gets her jeans and underwear off without too much difficulty, but then seems to just freeze up, staring down at her like a deer caught in headlights. It’s as though he possesses some theoretical knowledge of how this is supposed to go, a patchwork roughly hewn together from low-rent pornos and the Tao of Dean Winchester, but when it comes to the practical, he’s got no idea how to put it to use.
Well, fuck that. They haven’t gotten this far for him to leave her high and dry now. If Meg wants to get laid, then Meg’s gonna get laid.
She uses Castiel’s hesitation to flip him under her, reversing their positions and straddling his hips. This time, he doesn’t try to fight back; just rocks his cotton-covered dick up into where she’s wet and open above him. Meg smirks to herself and drags her nails down over his chest and stomach, relishing the feel of muscle twitching and shuddering under skin.
She doesn’t kid herself into thinking that he’s completely at her mercy, despite appearances, but she does briefly entertain the idea of reaching behind her for the sword, driving it into his throat and finishing him off for good. Wonders if it really would incinerate her along with him, leaving their empty vessels behind for someone to trip over, entwined together in a tableau of sin and depravity. Curiosity has always been a particular flaw of hers -- it’s the main reason she’s here, rolling around with an angel on a filthy motel carpet -- but in this instance, her greater sense of self-preservation wins out.
Besides, what they’re doing here is plenty interesting enough.
She yanks his pants and boxers halfway down his thighs in one go and lets out a whistle when his cock springs free, because damn. Whoever the poor bastard he’s wearing is, the guy is hung. Meg traces the purplish vein on the underside with the edge of her finger, and slides her thumb over the head when a bead of precome pulses out. Castiel makes a noise halfway between a moan and a whine, head slamming back against the floor with enough force to give any normal person concussion. Judging by that reaction, he has to be a virgin, and somehow that makes the whole thing about ten times hotter, knowing just how absolutely she’s corrupting him.
“You ever done this before?” She asks, taking him fully in her hand and stroking him lazily. He doesn’t answer, tugging his swollen lower lip between his teeth; Meg squeezes tight at the base of his cock, wrenching a choked sound from deep in his throat. She leans forward so that her hair falls into his face, stopping only when their lips are inches apart.
“Come on, baby; you can tell me. Has anyone ever touched you like this before?”
“N-no-one,” he gasps, hips stuttering in her grip. “I’ve never -- You’re the first, the only one. I don’t -”
He’s babbling now, and when she sinks down onto him unceremoniously it’s as much to shut him up as to put him out of his misery. Still, she can’t help but let her head fall back, roll her shoulders as she feels him slide all the way home. Sex is definitely the biggest perk of inhabiting a human body, and it’s been so long…
Castiel is still muttering under his breath, a long string of nonsense syllables that probably isn’t even fucking English, and that shit just isn’t going to fly with her. She rocks a little, tightening her fingers around his hip just enough to draw his attention back to her.
“Hey. Focus, featherbrain. Eyes on me.”
When she’s sure she has his undivided attention, she rises up and slams back down again, impaling herself on him, rolling her nipple between her fingers. She feels Castiel twitch inside her, responding to her movements, and he meets her next few thrusts, driving into her with little finesse but more than making up for it in his enthusiasm. He’s completely fucking shameless, moaning like a porn star, blunted nails digging into her thighs hard enough to bruise. Meg winds his tie around her fist, uses it to yank his head and shoulders up off the floor.
“Look at you,” she hisses, “giving it up for a demon. You were just built for sin, weren’t you, angel?”
Something hardens in his face then, and he spins them faster than she can process, so that she finds herself landing flat on her back with Castiel moving on top of her. He wrenches her legs further apart, thrusting in and out of her with relentless determination. She’s getting shoved further along the floor with every snap of his pelvis, she’s fairly sure she’s getting carpet burn, and it’s all so fucking good; there’s a kind of shivery heat building in the pit of her stomach now, moisture slicking up the insides of her thighs as she enters the final straight towards climax.
The angel seems to have discovered his sexual confidence, fucking finally. He lowers his head to her breast and draws a nipple into his mouth, biting down hard, enough to make her gasp and buck embarrassingly beneath him. Meg slips a hand between them to rub at her clit, only to have him knock it away with a growl and do it himself, thumb pressing in and sending every nerve ending in her body into overdrive.
“Jesus, fuck, God,“ she spits out blasphemies, just for the satisfaction, the way it makes his other hand tighten against her ribs and the warm trickle of blood as the skin there breaks. She chances a look at him and sees that his face is ablaze with hatred, and that’s what undoes her more than any of the physical sensations lighting up her body. Her orgasm hits hard and she convulses around his cock, sticky wetness seeping out between her legs.
Castiel pulls out before he comes, fisting himself roughly to finish the job. She half expects there to be a blaze of holy light, the angel transcending his mortal flesh. At the very least, she expects lights to shatter, but all that happens is he makes a high-pitched sound and slams his eyes shut as it finally hits, spunk hitting her in the stomach and chest and arms and face in fat, stringy globs. It seems to go on forever, which really shouldn’t be a surprise; if it’s been a while for her, it’s been millennia for him.
Afterwards, he sits with his head in his hands as though he can’t quite believe what they’ve done, and isn’t it just her luck to fall into bed with the most emo angel in all of Heaven. Though to be fair, Meg’s having some difficulty with it herself. She’s done a lot of crazy shit in her life -- and even more since her death -- but fucking an angel has to top the list.
“Oh, Castiel. What would your father say?”
He laughs, then; a short, bitter little sound she hadn’t thought him capable of.
“Haven’t you heard? My Father isn’t saying much of anything, these days.”
“You know, with daddy issues like that, you could almost give the Winchesters a run for their money.”
It’s almost funny, the reversal in him. When they’d first met in the holy fire at Carthage, he’d been all but powerless, but his faith… it had burned. Now, he reeks of power, all that Grace coursing through his blood, but he is a faithless, empty thing.
Meg slicks a hand through some of the come splashed on her stomach, smears it over his face like warpaint. He catches her wrist, catches her gaze, and he doesn’t look much like an angel; sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, rumpled and debauched.
I did that, she thinks, and smirks a little.
He’s gone in the next breath, sword and all, and Meg can’t figure out why he hasn’t killed her yet. Doesn’t especially care, so long as it stays that way, but she is curious. Maybe he isn’t done with their trip to carnality central just yet. Or maybe it’s something more.
After all, they are both godless now. They are both disciples without a cause, soldiers without their marching orders, drifting through an endless existence after everything they once believed in has fallen in tatters at their feet.
Either way, he’s getting more interesting every time they run into each other, and Meg thinks that yes, she’ll keep this one.
A very human angel, all her own.
[end.]