fic, SPN: all I've felt was leading to this (Dean/Castiel), NC17, for castielfest
Title: all I've felt was leading to this
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC17
Words: 5700
Warnings: I don't think anything is worth warning for.
Spoilers: up to the S5 finale, that included.
Summary: “Dean,” Castiel replies, his voice calm, his hand just slightly raising but not reaching out. For a second Dean wishes he would. “I think you know what this means. And if you do, then it’s not hard to guess what you might want. I’m just trying to give it to you, if you’ll let me.” Or, the one where Dean has weird dreams and Castiel doesn't need them explained.
A/N: written for polyonymous in the castielfest exchange; the prompts I used were, more or less: rain, hands, absolution, Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave., Gorecki by Lamb (from where I stole the title) and then there’s some linguistics as the likings specified. And since I kind of just took them and went with whatever passed through my head I just hope that it fits the bill. :) Also, thanks so much to carmexgirl for betaing this.
The dreams start the same night he leaves Lisa’s house.
They had both understood it wouldn’t have worked out by the first three weeks. He’d stayed for a while longer just for the sake of trying, but the day he left and promised to send postcards…no one was surprised. It had been coming.
The only good thing about them is that they aren’t nightmares. At least, not in the proper sense of the word. They’re just unsettling, mostly. Well, in the beginning, they are.
At the beginning, Dean just dreams of rain.
Nothing really happens besides the rain; he just dreams he’s in places he’s pretty sure he never visited in his life: a beach, the top of a medium-sized mountain, a clearing in a forest, the empty main square of an abandoned town… it’s always places where he can’t see anyone else around and then it rains for a while until he wakes up. In his dreams he’s always soaked to the bone; sometimes it’s warm rain, at other times it’s so cold that his teeth rattle when he opens his eyes, but the main point is that he always ends up drenched in water.
He isn’t sure he wants to know what it means. Considering that whenever he still dreams about Hell it’s just fire that he sees, and he knows Sam is down there right now, he’s pretty sure that the two things are connected. It would be too much of a coincidence if they weren’t. Sam is in Hell, the place where Dean has been for forty years (it would be almost fifteen for Sam now, his head supplies), and there’s fire in Hell. Dean dreams about rain. It’s so obvious that he can’t even try to deny it.
After the dreams, he usually tries to drink himself to oblivion because he really doesn’t want to deal with it. At times he thinks he should just call Bobby and then he doesn’t because the poor guy deserves a long break from Winchester related crap, so Dean doesn’t do anything about it. He just swallows it down and ignores it as much as he can, if only because he doesn’t know what to do otherwise.
After maybe two weeks, the dreams change.
They’re not as clear anymore. Whenever he wakes up, he remembers rain and hands. Doing what, he never recalls, but he’s pretty sure there’s someone else in there with him. Someone with warm hands, and who has long, graceful fingers; fingers that like to brush against Dean’s skin where it’s bare. His cheeks, his hands, his neck. It’s slightly unsettling, maybe, but it’s because he never remembers who it is when he wakes up. He’s pretty sure that during the dream he does know, but that’s the most he can come up with.
That’s when he decides that it could be worse. After all, water and flashes of hands are always better than recalling his time downstairs, but it’s still fucking weird.
Not to mention that he has never felt so useless his whole life. Before everything happened, he went from motel to motel because he was hunting some evil thing. Now he goes from motel to motel without doing anything else. He just can’t cope with the idea of hunting now. He’s pretty sure that if he tried to do that he’d be signing his own death warrant, and getting himself killed after what Sam did sounds like a slap in his brother’s face. He’s died enough times already and he isn’t that keen on going either downstairs or upstairs right now, so he’ll just stay right here, thank you very much.
The dreaming-in-flashes doesn’t really last long either.
When it’s over, he also finally realizes to whom the hands actually belong.
--
“Cas?” he all but shouts when he finds himself (or, his dream-self) under a pouring rain on a beach, in front of what seems like an ocean, and there’s a familiar figure in front of him. He’s always wearing the same trench and looking at him with eyes that are slightly warmer than he remembers from last time they saw each other.
“Hello, Dean,” he answers on cue, the voice the same but vibrating in a way that makes Dean shiver for a second.
“Is this… is this you? And where the fuck were you anyway? I thought you were gone for freaking good,” Dean spits, not trying to hide how disappointed he has been because of that.
Cas takes a step closer and Dean tries to hold his stare.
“I apologize,” Cas says, looking downwards, his voice soft and sounding genuinely sorry.
“And that’s it?” Dean spits back after a minute of silence.
One apology won’t really cut it.
Cas looks back up again, his eyes blue and his face and hair wet. He licks his lips for a second before reaching out and closing his fingers around Dean’s wrist.
“This isn’t enough. If you meet me here, I… I promise I will explain myself,” Cas says, and then something is shoved into his hand and Dean wakes up, sitting up with a jerk on his bed.
There’s a note pressed in his hand.
Dean opens it with shaking hands, because this reminds him too much of that other time Cas gave him an address during a dream, and yeah, it’s a place, alright. Dean opens his laptop, googles it and finds out that it’s a small beach somewhere below Monterey.
He shrugs and figures he can make it in three days.
It’s not like he has much else to do, right?
--
Every single night for the next three days he dreams of being shirtless under pouring rain and of long, soft fingers ghosting over his shoulders.
--
He arrives in the early morning after pulling an all-nighter, and figures that this should be the only fucking day of the year when it rains in California. He parks the car and then walks slowly towards the sea, noticing that the whole area is deserted.
Which is strange, since he’s in California. He never thought that there could be a deserted beach.
“It’s a protected area.” A voice comes from behind him, and Dean gasps before turning and finding himself face to face with Cas. In the flesh, apparently. Dean itches to find proof of it, to reach forward and grab a sleeve from the coat, but he keeps himself still instead. He has learned to control his instincts and Cas has some explaining to do. And he has to do it now.
“Really. Then how come no one stopped me from getting here?” Dean says, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his tone.
Cas just raises an eyebrow and Dean shakes his head. Right. If a motherfucking angel of the Lord wants you to get inside a protected area, you will.
“I am sorry for leaving like that, Dean. I truly am. I just… for me it wasn’t a goodbye.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“If not in this life, I’d have seen you in Heaven. It occurred to me just later, that I hadn’t been… very polite. In human terms.”
Cas does look contrite enough for it to be true; Dean should push it more, because no way this is going to be enough, but for now he lets it go just for a short while.
“I’m touched. So why are you here now? Shouldn’t you be upstairs going all Clint Eastwood on everyone?”
“I don’t…” Cas starts, and then sighs, figuring that saying that he doesn’t get it won’t change anything. “Time runs differently, in Heaven. It’s been… years.”
“How many?”
“Enough to fix things. Or at least, fix them enough that I don’t need to… be Clint Eastwood, I suppose.”
Well, Dean thinks for a second, at least you kind of have the same eyes, and then he wonders what the fuck is wrong with his head.
“And? What about this? Why would you even come back down here instead of… I don’t even know, chill the fuck out up there? And what’s with the goddamn rain? It never fucking rains in California!”
Suddenly Cas is close, impossibly close, and Dean can see each single droplet of water running down his face, and there’s something in Cas’s eyes that Dean can’t quite distinguish, but it’s making his knees go weak for some reason.
“It did not take much of an observer to feel how much distress you are in, Dean, if one chooses to hear you. And the rain… well, it’s part me, and part you.”
“Part… you mean that you are fucking messing up with the weather?” Dean breathes. Cas suddenly full on smirks and when Dean glances at the sand he sees shadows of wings again. Like in the barn, but this time they’re…
Fuck, they’re larger. Longer. Fiercer, if it’s a word for wings. And it’s just shadows, but it’s enough to convey the message. Cas isn’t just an angel of the Lord anymore.
“What the fuck, you’re a… an…”
“An archangel, Dean? Yes, we can say so. And yes, I can influence the weather. But I’m doing it because of you.”
“Because of me?”
“Dean, I might have started visiting you in your dreams again, but the rain… that’s all you. I’m just… helping it along, I guess.”
“Dude, what are you some kind of shrink now?” Dean blurts, realizing that his voice is shaking. “Are you doing some of that shit they pull when they… I don’t even know, put someone in their fantasies to make them face whatever’s fucked with them?”
“Dean,” Castiel replies, his voice calm, his hand just slightly raising but not reaching out. For a second Dean wishes he would. “I think you know what this means. And if you do, then it’s not hard to guess what you might want. I’m just trying to give it to you, if you’ll let me.”
Dean already did the math. Ages ago, when he figured out why he’d keep on dreaming about being drenched in water opposite to all the hellfire that he has had nightmares about. He just doesn’t think it’s something he can ever have. Or that he even deserves, for that matter.
Cas is impossibly closer now, standing just a few inches from Dean, and they’re still not fucking touching.
“You want a clean slate, don’t you?”
“How do you even…”
“Dean. Your symbolism is quite easy to decipher, but if one knew you, then he really wouldn’t even need that.”
Sometimes Dean tends to forget that Cas rebuilt his fucking body with his own hands, or what angels have instead of hands in their true from. He tends to forget that if there’s someone he won’t ever have any secrets to conceal from, that’s Cas, whether Dean likes it or not. But the way Cas is looking at him now, almost tender, like he gets it, is too much. It’s too goddamn fucking much and Dean thinks he can feel something inside him crack, or at least bend.
“You know, it’s kinda unfair. I can’t even stay angry at you,” Dean mutters then, feeling himself giving in and not really caring about it after all. Not much.
Cas opens his mouth, but Dean isn’t sure he wants to hear what Cas has to say. And so he speaks again instead, and damn if he doesn’t hate his head.
Because he doesn’t even know why he says this, next: “You know. I’ve never even… been to the ocean. Sort of. Might’ve seen it from the car, but I never actually stepped down and gone on a beach and… you know. That.”
There’s a lump in his throat that stops the words from getting out smoothly, and it makes his voice sound choked, but it’s the truth after all. He has never fucking gone to the beach once in his life even if he learned how to swim pretty early on (it was all lakes and pools back then), and even if it’s empty and it’s raining and sand is already latching on his shoes, it’s… it’s quite beautiful, if you ask him. It’s also strangely quiet and the sea looks like… a sea, not an ocean; maybe it’s because it’s a small, secluded place, Dean doesn’t know, and he wonders how it looks like when everything is as it should be, when there’s sunlight beating down on the sand and on the sea, which now is a mix between gray and blue. A hand is on his shoulder then, and he turns his head back to Cas, again.
He doesn’t know how exactly they go from a hand closing around Dean’s elbow to Cas’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, with Dean crushing Cas back against his chest while their clothes are so drenched that quite soon the both of them will be wet until the motherfucking bones, but it happens and Dean is too tired to even think about saying no. The rain might be chilly but Cas is warm, impossibly so, and it makes Dean feel a bit warmer in return. He doesn’t know if this is what he has wanted all along; it feels good, though, like nothing else since Sam fell into a hole has felt, and so he lets it happen because he’s too tired to even think about refusing it.
Then he remembers what Cas said before, and… well. Why the fuck not.
He’s too tired and if Cas apparently knows what he needs better than Dean himself does, well, then he’ll just let him deal with it.
“Cas?” he murmurs against the coat’s fabric.
“Yes?”
“I let you,” he says, and he isn’t sure what he’s agreeing to but it doesn’t even matter by now.
It doesn’t matter because when, just a beat after, Cas’s lips cover Dean’s and Dean isn’t sure he can exactly describe how it feels.
At the first touch, they’re cool and they taste like rain, but then Dean parts his own and it’s all warmth and softness and there’s Cas’s tongue meeting Dean’s, slowly, no rush at all. Dean can’t help thinking that Cas kisses like someone who studied how to from a (pretty good, he has to admit) handbook. For some reason it doesn’t matter and it feels amazing; it feels like Cas is taking his time with him just in order to make Dean feel good, and he’s kissing him like it’d be a stain on his honor if he didn’t get it right.
And he is getting it right.
Even more so when Dean lets out a small moan in the back of his throat and clutches at Cas’s back, hard, and Cas’s tongue becomes even daring. There’s suddenly heat flaming up between them and Cas’s hands clutch back at Dean’s waist, and it’s possessive as fuck but Dean minds for maybe a second before he’s pushed back and he falls into the sand.
He starts feeling it latching on his skin, wet and still getting everywhere, aiming for his eyes, but a hand cups his cheek and he’s forced to look up. Cas is leaning over him, still completely dressed, coat and all, and still drenched, as drenched as Dean is. His shirt is plastered to his skin and Dean licks his lips, not able stop himself because Cas is hot like this, and Dean can just imagine those wings sprouting from Cas’s back any second. It doesn’t happen, but it’s okay; he has an idea that he really doesn’t want to see them for real, even though there could be worse things to look at before going blind, he figures.
He thinks that the rain has started pounding down harder.
He lets his head fall behind, not caring if sand gets into his hair by now, and then he shivers when Cas’s hands push his jacket down, and then work on opening his flannel shirt. His fingertips flutter over Dean’s skin as it bares itself; it feels exactly like it felt in his dreams, and he still doesn’t buy that this is one hundred per cent real.
He shivers when Cas’s fingers are replaced with his mouth; by now Dean is wearing only his jeans, his shoes having been discarded sometime in between. He feels rain on his feet and he pushes them across wet, cold sand, and he still doesn’t think he can close his eyes. Not when Cas is ditching his own clothes, or at least shoes, coat and jacket. Now he’s over Dean again, his impossibly white shirt almost melting against his skin, not an inch of him that isn’t covered in water, and he’s looking down at him, and Dean doesn’t want to try to describe what’s in that stare. He doesn’t want to put it into words.
Then Cas’s hand reaches Dean’s cheek again, and Dean can’t help curling into the touch. It’s strangely warm and cold at the same time and the touch is so gentle that he finds himself aching for it, and when Cas’s thumb moves to the corner of his lips Dean can’t help pressing the barest hint of a kiss against it. He’s pretty sure that Cas shivers at that, but if for a second Dean can feel him losing control, he has regained it a beat after.
He leans down, slowly, his lips next to Dean’s ear, and Dean is sure that he couldn’t move even if he tried.
Not that he particularly wants to.
“Do you still let me?” he asks, and it almost vibrates against the skin beneath Dean’s ear, and it’s almost too much.
“Yes,” Dean breathes, “yes, whatever, just fucking do it.”
“You don’t even know what I am going to do,” Cas says, sounding almost amused, and Dean just shakes his head once.
“I don’t give a damn. Apparently you know better than I fucking do. I…”
Dean licks his lips once, twice, not minding droplets of cool water hitting his tongue.
“I trust you,” he ends, his voice barely audible, his body suddenly tensing. It’s true, because even if Cas has no idea that you actually say something before disappearing into thin air and even if Dean has hated him for it and still probably does, that doesn’t change. He does. And maybe Cas does know better, since until now he has read him just fucking right.
Cas kisses him again then, soft and brief and not even hinting at becoming something more, before his lips move down towards Dean’s neck. They hover there, placing soft butterfly kisses along his collarbone, and Dean is so caught up between the feeling of Cas’s lips and the rain still pouring all over that he doesn’t understand that Cas is talking in between kisses.
… omnipotens Deus, Dean hears when Cas slowly raises his mouth from his collarbone before pressing down another kiss and licking away a droplet, et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vita aeternam. Cas’s lips cover the corner of his mouth and Dean shakes his head again as he realizes that his entire body has started to shake hard.
“The fuck, you aren’t… you can’t be…”
“Dean. I am. You don’t need to tell me anything. And don’t say that you don’t deserve that. I know you do and that’s more than enough for me to do this.”
Dean opens his mouth again, to protest, but a finger covers it, gentle but firm.
“Don’t speak,” Cas almost hisses, and Dean shouldn’t really be even considering that but instead he shuts the fuck up and before he can start wondering when the hell did he start doing what others told him to, Cas’s tongue is already licking away water at the base of Dean’s neck and he couldn’t talk even if he wanted to.
Indulgentiam, absolutionem, et remissionem peccatorum tuorum tribuat tibi omnipotens et misericors Dominus, Cas whispers right against his skin. His mouth goes to Dean’s temple and Dean can swear that if it wasn’t raining his lips would have gone dry a long while ago. Cas looks at him for one second, then, as if he’s thinking something over.
Then his lips curl up in a smile and his mouth is right next to Dean’s ear.
Ego te absolvo ab omni vinculo, he says, and there’s a second in which Dean realizes that… it doesn’t go like this.
Or, well, it has been a long time since he ever set foot in a church or ever heard a confession, but he’s pretty sure that by now there should have been some part about Jesus which wasn’t there, and then it hits him.
Ego te absolvo, Cas repeats, his voice sounding firmer and his tone definitive, and then he kisses Dean fully, easily, without a moment of resistance, and Dean gets it.
The whole thing was supposed to be about whoever was speaking absolving someone else in God-that-isn’t-in-the-building’s name.
Cas just fucking absolved him in his own.
There’s a dam breaking somewhere inside him and Dean surges up and instead of just letting Cas kiss him he kisses back, hard, giving as much as he can, moaning when Cas’s hand tangles in the hair on the back of his head. It feels good, it feels amazing, it feels like all the goddamn rain coming down is actually finally washing him of all the filth he has felt on him since he woke up in a coffin and had to dig himself out his own grave. He doesn’t even care that he can feel sand everywhere.
When they part they end up staring at each other again and yeah, there’s no doubt that Cas knows that Dean has totally understood what was going on.
“Are we… is this…” Dean blurts, and Cas shakes his head once.
“We are most definitely not done. Unless you want us to be.”
“No,” Dean breathes back, and again his back is on the sand, with Cas’s hands pinning his wrists down. By now he should be freezing but he isn’t, and the rain still falls down except for where Cas covers him. Cas leans down and his hands push Dean’s jeans out of the way.; Dean licks his lips while Cas quickly gets rid of his own, and then… then fuck.
He should be feeling sand on his back but he doesn’t. He should feel freezing but he doesn’t. Everywhere Cas touches him, it warms and sends shivers of pleasure just beneath his skin, and Dean can feel himself getting hard, hard as he can barely remember being lately. Cas’s hands seem to be everywhere at once and he doesn’t know how Cas is doing it but he is, and Dean can’t even begin to want to move an inch.
It feels too good, and he thinks he had forgotten how much exactly it could in the last six months or so.
Suddenly, he just wants to get lost in this. He wants to get lost in the way Cas is moving against him, slowly and with such grace that Dean’s breath is as good as gone for a handful of seconds. He wants to get lost in the way Cas’s hands are slowly spreading his legs apart and in the way his fingers are slick when he starts stretching Dean open, just a bit. He wants to get lost in the feeling of Cas’s hard, definitely hard cock rubbing against Dean’s leg and in the feeling of his own dick being hard beyond belief without even having been touched. He wants to just stay here forever with someone that is fucking with the weather just because he thinks that it’ll do Dean some kind of good, he wants to say all of these things but he can’t. He can’t even articulate speech by now, not with two long, slender fingers pushing slowly inside him. He can’t stop his own moans which are way too needy for his tastes, and then he forgets it because Cas bends his fingers and he can barely see straight from pleasure.
Cas seems to just know everything he should do here, not exactly behaving like an angelic virgin, not when he starts scissoring his fingers slowly inside him, and it’s driving Dean wild from pleasure.
And it’s just fingers.
His already hard cock gives a twitch at the idea that at some point it won’t be fingers anymore. Cas, if he notices it, doesn’t stop doing what he’s doing and Dean wonders if it won’t end up being too much and if he’ll end up coming just right here and now.
He doesn’t though, feeling on edge but not quite there, and from the glint in Cas’s eyes he might deduce that there’s something else going on, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Not when Cas’s other hand is teasing one of Dean’s wet nipples until it becomes hard under Cas’s fingers. Not when he feels like he’s being split apart, or better, like Cas is splitting him apart. With his hands and his mouth and damn, even with his eyes, because whenever Dean meets Cas’s stare he just can’t bear to look for more than a handful of seconds. The rest of Cas’s face is blank if not for his mouth being slightly parted; his eyes are fixed on Dean’s face, and it’s so intense that Dean can’t just stand it. He still can’t see why he is at the receiving end of it. There’s kindness and maybe worrying and something else that Dean can’t define, except that right now this is the most angelic that Cas has ever been in his eyes. Even more so than when he stepped into a barn to gain a knife in his heart. Dean doesn’t want to admit to himself that the few times he pictured angels before he stopped believing in them, they had the same expression that Cas has now: calm and soft and almost - he almost doesn’t dare thinking it but he doesn’t find another word - loving.
He’s towering over Dean without crushing him, he almost seems to glow as rain falls down over them. Dean just wants to reach up and kiss him again, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to move. It doesn’t matter in the end, because Cas does lower himself down to kiss him thoroughly as his fingers gently slip away. There’s a second in which Dean feels empty, but then those hands are on his hips, and Cas is lifting them up and then he’s inside Dean with just one push and Dean moans into Cas’s mouth, helpless and sounding so needy that he’d feel ashamed. If only Cas wasn’t kissing him so hard he doesn’t have the attention span for shame.
Cas starts moving, slowly, carefully, even if Dean didn’t exactly feel much pain to begin with; it’s a slow burn, but the good kind, the kind that makes Dean’s nerves feel on fire. Now he feels split open, completely, but Cas’s hands are still on his hips and Dean doesn’t even need to thrust because Cas is doing everything himself. He’s pushing Dean’s hips upward and backward, slamming him back down against the sand, like he weights nothing and like for him it’s just that easy, and Dean doesn’t think he has ever felt so helpless and turned on at the same time. He’s totally at someone else’s mercy, not able to do anything except moan in the back of his throat, say Cas’s name and taste clean, cool rain on his tongue, but he’s fucking loving it and he can’t even deny that. It feels good to just lay back and let someone else think for once. Cas is sliding into him like he’s sliding home, like Dean’s body is a perfect match for his, but not just his vessel. Dean can see a subtle glow behind Cas, now, if he squints; it’s not even like he’s trying hard not to let himself loose, but rather like he’s trying to lose himself inside Dean and to be honest, Dean is fucking okay with it. Dean doesn’t want anything else right now. He wants Cas to finish this, he wants him to thrust harder, he wants to know if he’ll feel different after this is over while he isn’t sure whether he wants this to end.
And then one of Cas’s hands reaches up and closes around the scarred, still red skin on his shoulder, completely not fitting over the scar but it still sends a jolt down Dean’s spine at first. Right. After all, didn’t Cas leave a mark there ages ago, already? It just feels fitting that he’d touch it again now, and for a second Dean wonders if he could ever leave one on Cas himself, and then he forgets about it.
Angels shouldn’t really be marked. Especially by someone such as him, and then Cas’s lips are over his ear again.
“Stop thinking that,” he hisses, and then he thrusts faster, leaving Dean gasping for breath and unable to say anything except Cas and fuck and harder and please.
“Anything you wish,” Cas whispers again, and Dean can’t really do this anymore. He’s there, he’s almost there, and then Cas’s hand wraps around his impossibly aching erection and Dean comes like he doubts he ever came his whole life. His entire body is shaking like a leaf as he thrusts his hips up weakly and as Cas jerks his goddamn orgasm out of him; there’s white beneath his eyelids if he closes them, and there’s warmth all around him except for his face where rain is still cool and still falling. He can just feel spasms of pleasure shaking him so hard that he feels like he’s shattering; then Cas is giving a last thrust, and he’s so deep inside him that Dean thinks they might merge at this point. He comes as hard as Dean himself had, and it sends Dean over the edge for good; everything becomes fuzzy but he really doesn’t mind, and as soon as he stops shaking from pleasure he closes his eyes, vaguely aware of feeling something sticky running down his leg, and he passes out.
When he comes to, it isn’t raining anymore and he feels a coat under him, or better, under them since he’s currently pretty much entwined with Cas, and Cas’s jacket is sort of covering them, too, even if it barely does the job. He doesn’t feel sticky anymore, though, and there isn’t sand anywhere on him; there’s an arm draped across his stomach, and Cas’s chest is most definitely pressed against Dean’s back.
He opens his eyes and sees green-blue water spreading in front of him, sunlight beating over it, and for a second his breath is taken away. It’s goddamn beautiful, and then the arm tightens around him and Dean forces himself to turn and meet Cas’s stare.
Which hasn’t changed at all since before.
What the hell one says when waking up with an angel literally spooning him, Dean doesn’t know, but then Cas just moves forward and kisses him again, and Dean lets himself kiss back. It feels good, it feels right, it feels easy; no one is expecting anything out of him and it makes him feel kind of relieved. Then, when they part and Dean takes time to fucking breathe for two seconds, he realizes that he feels… not exactly i>great, but better. Lighter, maybe. It’s probably just in his head, but the way Cas’s hands are reaching for his shoulders and pulling him in tells him everything that Cas isn’t saying, and for a second Dean wonders if they could just not move and stay here indefinitely. It’s not possible and he knows, and so he just settles on opening his eyes and looking at the sea while his head rests on Cas’s shoulder.
“So… so what, now?” he asks then, his voice almost shaking, and it takes him by surprise. It’s not like he can take it back, anyway. “Do you… do you have to… you know, go back upstairs?”
Cas’s fingers brush slightly over his nape and he feels Cas shaking his head. “Right this moment? I left the situation covered. My presence… isn’t really required. Sincerely, I had gathered that you’d rather find a way to get your brother back on this planet.”
Dean has to lean back and look at Cas, because seriously? He hadn’t been expecting that.
“Are you fucking serious?”
Cas just smirks, as he once did in front of a vending machine in a motel near Chuck’s house, and Dean doesn’t know that Sam has been out of Hell for a while, that he has checked on him enough times without showing himself. He doesn’t know that Cas has been in contact with Sam for a while, and that he will be angry over that for a short time, but will forget it soon after. For now he doesn’t, and he just nods when he realizes that yes, Cas is serious. And then he moves forward and kisses Cas again, and again, just because he can, and they draw it out until there’s no excuse and they have to get dressed.
Dean is sitting on the driver’s side when Cas appears in the passenger seat.
He’s about to start driving when Cas speaks.
“And, Dean? Just to dissolve any doubt you might have about marks. They aren’t only physical, as you probably assume. And you might have left one, too. Don’t sell yourself so short,” Cas says, the phrase sounding almost foreign on his tongue, and he says it slowly, like he’s trying a new language. Then Dean sees that Cas’s right hand is more or less resting where his heart is and before he says something stupid, or does something stupid, he starts the car. If he’s feeling like something’s fluttering where his stomach is, he tries not to dwell too much on it, but his lips curl up in a smile anyway.
Then he decides to find out if Cas has good taste or not, and after turning on the radio he pushes a Zeppelin tape into the slot.
End.
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC17
Words: 5700
Warnings: I don't think anything is worth warning for.
Spoilers: up to the S5 finale, that included.
Summary: “Dean,” Castiel replies, his voice calm, his hand just slightly raising but not reaching out. For a second Dean wishes he would. “I think you know what this means. And if you do, then it’s not hard to guess what you might want. I’m just trying to give it to you, if you’ll let me.” Or, the one where Dean has weird dreams and Castiel doesn't need them explained.
A/N: written for polyonymous in the castielfest exchange; the prompts I used were, more or less: rain, hands, absolution, Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave., Gorecki by Lamb (from where I stole the title) and then there’s some linguistics as the likings specified. And since I kind of just took them and went with whatever passed through my head I just hope that it fits the bill. :) Also, thanks so much to carmexgirl for betaing this.
The dreams start the same night he leaves Lisa’s house.
They had both understood it wouldn’t have worked out by the first three weeks. He’d stayed for a while longer just for the sake of trying, but the day he left and promised to send postcards…no one was surprised. It had been coming.
The only good thing about them is that they aren’t nightmares. At least, not in the proper sense of the word. They’re just unsettling, mostly. Well, in the beginning, they are.
At the beginning, Dean just dreams of rain.
Nothing really happens besides the rain; he just dreams he’s in places he’s pretty sure he never visited in his life: a beach, the top of a medium-sized mountain, a clearing in a forest, the empty main square of an abandoned town… it’s always places where he can’t see anyone else around and then it rains for a while until he wakes up. In his dreams he’s always soaked to the bone; sometimes it’s warm rain, at other times it’s so cold that his teeth rattle when he opens his eyes, but the main point is that he always ends up drenched in water.
He isn’t sure he wants to know what it means. Considering that whenever he still dreams about Hell it’s just fire that he sees, and he knows Sam is down there right now, he’s pretty sure that the two things are connected. It would be too much of a coincidence if they weren’t. Sam is in Hell, the place where Dean has been for forty years (it would be almost fifteen for Sam now, his head supplies), and there’s fire in Hell. Dean dreams about rain. It’s so obvious that he can’t even try to deny it.
After the dreams, he usually tries to drink himself to oblivion because he really doesn’t want to deal with it. At times he thinks he should just call Bobby and then he doesn’t because the poor guy deserves a long break from Winchester related crap, so Dean doesn’t do anything about it. He just swallows it down and ignores it as much as he can, if only because he doesn’t know what to do otherwise.
After maybe two weeks, the dreams change.
They’re not as clear anymore. Whenever he wakes up, he remembers rain and hands. Doing what, he never recalls, but he’s pretty sure there’s someone else in there with him. Someone with warm hands, and who has long, graceful fingers; fingers that like to brush against Dean’s skin where it’s bare. His cheeks, his hands, his neck. It’s slightly unsettling, maybe, but it’s because he never remembers who it is when he wakes up. He’s pretty sure that during the dream he does know, but that’s the most he can come up with.
That’s when he decides that it could be worse. After all, water and flashes of hands are always better than recalling his time downstairs, but it’s still fucking weird.
Not to mention that he has never felt so useless his whole life. Before everything happened, he went from motel to motel because he was hunting some evil thing. Now he goes from motel to motel without doing anything else. He just can’t cope with the idea of hunting now. He’s pretty sure that if he tried to do that he’d be signing his own death warrant, and getting himself killed after what Sam did sounds like a slap in his brother’s face. He’s died enough times already and he isn’t that keen on going either downstairs or upstairs right now, so he’ll just stay right here, thank you very much.
The dreaming-in-flashes doesn’t really last long either.
When it’s over, he also finally realizes to whom the hands actually belong.
--
“Cas?” he all but shouts when he finds himself (or, his dream-self) under a pouring rain on a beach, in front of what seems like an ocean, and there’s a familiar figure in front of him. He’s always wearing the same trench and looking at him with eyes that are slightly warmer than he remembers from last time they saw each other.
“Hello, Dean,” he answers on cue, the voice the same but vibrating in a way that makes Dean shiver for a second.
“Is this… is this you? And where the fuck were you anyway? I thought you were gone for freaking good,” Dean spits, not trying to hide how disappointed he has been because of that.
Cas takes a step closer and Dean tries to hold his stare.
“I apologize,” Cas says, looking downwards, his voice soft and sounding genuinely sorry.
“And that’s it?” Dean spits back after a minute of silence.
One apology won’t really cut it.
Cas looks back up again, his eyes blue and his face and hair wet. He licks his lips for a second before reaching out and closing his fingers around Dean’s wrist.
“This isn’t enough. If you meet me here, I… I promise I will explain myself,” Cas says, and then something is shoved into his hand and Dean wakes up, sitting up with a jerk on his bed.
There’s a note pressed in his hand.
Dean opens it with shaking hands, because this reminds him too much of that other time Cas gave him an address during a dream, and yeah, it’s a place, alright. Dean opens his laptop, googles it and finds out that it’s a small beach somewhere below Monterey.
He shrugs and figures he can make it in three days.
It’s not like he has much else to do, right?
--
Every single night for the next three days he dreams of being shirtless under pouring rain and of long, soft fingers ghosting over his shoulders.
--
He arrives in the early morning after pulling an all-nighter, and figures that this should be the only fucking day of the year when it rains in California. He parks the car and then walks slowly towards the sea, noticing that the whole area is deserted.
Which is strange, since he’s in California. He never thought that there could be a deserted beach.
“It’s a protected area.” A voice comes from behind him, and Dean gasps before turning and finding himself face to face with Cas. In the flesh, apparently. Dean itches to find proof of it, to reach forward and grab a sleeve from the coat, but he keeps himself still instead. He has learned to control his instincts and Cas has some explaining to do. And he has to do it now.
“Really. Then how come no one stopped me from getting here?” Dean says, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his tone.
Cas just raises an eyebrow and Dean shakes his head. Right. If a motherfucking angel of the Lord wants you to get inside a protected area, you will.
“I am sorry for leaving like that, Dean. I truly am. I just… for me it wasn’t a goodbye.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“If not in this life, I’d have seen you in Heaven. It occurred to me just later, that I hadn’t been… very polite. In human terms.”
Cas does look contrite enough for it to be true; Dean should push it more, because no way this is going to be enough, but for now he lets it go just for a short while.
“I’m touched. So why are you here now? Shouldn’t you be upstairs going all Clint Eastwood on everyone?”
“I don’t…” Cas starts, and then sighs, figuring that saying that he doesn’t get it won’t change anything. “Time runs differently, in Heaven. It’s been… years.”
“How many?”
“Enough to fix things. Or at least, fix them enough that I don’t need to… be Clint Eastwood, I suppose.”
Well, Dean thinks for a second, at least you kind of have the same eyes, and then he wonders what the fuck is wrong with his head.
“And? What about this? Why would you even come back down here instead of… I don’t even know, chill the fuck out up there? And what’s with the goddamn rain? It never fucking rains in California!”
Suddenly Cas is close, impossibly close, and Dean can see each single droplet of water running down his face, and there’s something in Cas’s eyes that Dean can’t quite distinguish, but it’s making his knees go weak for some reason.
“It did not take much of an observer to feel how much distress you are in, Dean, if one chooses to hear you. And the rain… well, it’s part me, and part you.”
“Part… you mean that you are fucking messing up with the weather?” Dean breathes. Cas suddenly full on smirks and when Dean glances at the sand he sees shadows of wings again. Like in the barn, but this time they’re…
Fuck, they’re larger. Longer. Fiercer, if it’s a word for wings. And it’s just shadows, but it’s enough to convey the message. Cas isn’t just an angel of the Lord anymore.
“What the fuck, you’re a… an…”
“An archangel, Dean? Yes, we can say so. And yes, I can influence the weather. But I’m doing it because of you.”
“Because of me?”
“Dean, I might have started visiting you in your dreams again, but the rain… that’s all you. I’m just… helping it along, I guess.”
“Dude, what are you some kind of shrink now?” Dean blurts, realizing that his voice is shaking. “Are you doing some of that shit they pull when they… I don’t even know, put someone in their fantasies to make them face whatever’s fucked with them?”
“Dean,” Castiel replies, his voice calm, his hand just slightly raising but not reaching out. For a second Dean wishes he would. “I think you know what this means. And if you do, then it’s not hard to guess what you might want. I’m just trying to give it to you, if you’ll let me.”
Dean already did the math. Ages ago, when he figured out why he’d keep on dreaming about being drenched in water opposite to all the hellfire that he has had nightmares about. He just doesn’t think it’s something he can ever have. Or that he even deserves, for that matter.
Cas is impossibly closer now, standing just a few inches from Dean, and they’re still not fucking touching.
“You want a clean slate, don’t you?”
“How do you even…”
“Dean. Your symbolism is quite easy to decipher, but if one knew you, then he really wouldn’t even need that.”
Sometimes Dean tends to forget that Cas rebuilt his fucking body with his own hands, or what angels have instead of hands in their true from. He tends to forget that if there’s someone he won’t ever have any secrets to conceal from, that’s Cas, whether Dean likes it or not. But the way Cas is looking at him now, almost tender, like he gets it, is too much. It’s too goddamn fucking much and Dean thinks he can feel something inside him crack, or at least bend.
“You know, it’s kinda unfair. I can’t even stay angry at you,” Dean mutters then, feeling himself giving in and not really caring about it after all. Not much.
Cas opens his mouth, but Dean isn’t sure he wants to hear what Cas has to say. And so he speaks again instead, and damn if he doesn’t hate his head.
Because he doesn’t even know why he says this, next: “You know. I’ve never even… been to the ocean. Sort of. Might’ve seen it from the car, but I never actually stepped down and gone on a beach and… you know. That.”
There’s a lump in his throat that stops the words from getting out smoothly, and it makes his voice sound choked, but it’s the truth after all. He has never fucking gone to the beach once in his life even if he learned how to swim pretty early on (it was all lakes and pools back then), and even if it’s empty and it’s raining and sand is already latching on his shoes, it’s… it’s quite beautiful, if you ask him. It’s also strangely quiet and the sea looks like… a sea, not an ocean; maybe it’s because it’s a small, secluded place, Dean doesn’t know, and he wonders how it looks like when everything is as it should be, when there’s sunlight beating down on the sand and on the sea, which now is a mix between gray and blue. A hand is on his shoulder then, and he turns his head back to Cas, again.
He doesn’t know how exactly they go from a hand closing around Dean’s elbow to Cas’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, with Dean crushing Cas back against his chest while their clothes are so drenched that quite soon the both of them will be wet until the motherfucking bones, but it happens and Dean is too tired to even think about saying no. The rain might be chilly but Cas is warm, impossibly so, and it makes Dean feel a bit warmer in return. He doesn’t know if this is what he has wanted all along; it feels good, though, like nothing else since Sam fell into a hole has felt, and so he lets it happen because he’s too tired to even think about refusing it.
Then he remembers what Cas said before, and… well. Why the fuck not.
He’s too tired and if Cas apparently knows what he needs better than Dean himself does, well, then he’ll just let him deal with it.
“Cas?” he murmurs against the coat’s fabric.
“Yes?”
“I let you,” he says, and he isn’t sure what he’s agreeing to but it doesn’t even matter by now.
It doesn’t matter because when, just a beat after, Cas’s lips cover Dean’s and Dean isn’t sure he can exactly describe how it feels.
At the first touch, they’re cool and they taste like rain, but then Dean parts his own and it’s all warmth and softness and there’s Cas’s tongue meeting Dean’s, slowly, no rush at all. Dean can’t help thinking that Cas kisses like someone who studied how to from a (pretty good, he has to admit) handbook. For some reason it doesn’t matter and it feels amazing; it feels like Cas is taking his time with him just in order to make Dean feel good, and he’s kissing him like it’d be a stain on his honor if he didn’t get it right.
And he is getting it right.
Even more so when Dean lets out a small moan in the back of his throat and clutches at Cas’s back, hard, and Cas’s tongue becomes even daring. There’s suddenly heat flaming up between them and Cas’s hands clutch back at Dean’s waist, and it’s possessive as fuck but Dean minds for maybe a second before he’s pushed back and he falls into the sand.
He starts feeling it latching on his skin, wet and still getting everywhere, aiming for his eyes, but a hand cups his cheek and he’s forced to look up. Cas is leaning over him, still completely dressed, coat and all, and still drenched, as drenched as Dean is. His shirt is plastered to his skin and Dean licks his lips, not able stop himself because Cas is hot like this, and Dean can just imagine those wings sprouting from Cas’s back any second. It doesn’t happen, but it’s okay; he has an idea that he really doesn’t want to see them for real, even though there could be worse things to look at before going blind, he figures.
He thinks that the rain has started pounding down harder.
He lets his head fall behind, not caring if sand gets into his hair by now, and then he shivers when Cas’s hands push his jacket down, and then work on opening his flannel shirt. His fingertips flutter over Dean’s skin as it bares itself; it feels exactly like it felt in his dreams, and he still doesn’t buy that this is one hundred per cent real.
He shivers when Cas’s fingers are replaced with his mouth; by now Dean is wearing only his jeans, his shoes having been discarded sometime in between. He feels rain on his feet and he pushes them across wet, cold sand, and he still doesn’t think he can close his eyes. Not when Cas is ditching his own clothes, or at least shoes, coat and jacket. Now he’s over Dean again, his impossibly white shirt almost melting against his skin, not an inch of him that isn’t covered in water, and he’s looking down at him, and Dean doesn’t want to try to describe what’s in that stare. He doesn’t want to put it into words.
Then Cas’s hand reaches Dean’s cheek again, and Dean can’t help curling into the touch. It’s strangely warm and cold at the same time and the touch is so gentle that he finds himself aching for it, and when Cas’s thumb moves to the corner of his lips Dean can’t help pressing the barest hint of a kiss against it. He’s pretty sure that Cas shivers at that, but if for a second Dean can feel him losing control, he has regained it a beat after.
He leans down, slowly, his lips next to Dean’s ear, and Dean is sure that he couldn’t move even if he tried.
Not that he particularly wants to.
“Do you still let me?” he asks, and it almost vibrates against the skin beneath Dean’s ear, and it’s almost too much.
“Yes,” Dean breathes, “yes, whatever, just fucking do it.”
“You don’t even know what I am going to do,” Cas says, sounding almost amused, and Dean just shakes his head once.
“I don’t give a damn. Apparently you know better than I fucking do. I…”
Dean licks his lips once, twice, not minding droplets of cool water hitting his tongue.
“I trust you,” he ends, his voice barely audible, his body suddenly tensing. It’s true, because even if Cas has no idea that you actually say something before disappearing into thin air and even if Dean has hated him for it and still probably does, that doesn’t change. He does. And maybe Cas does know better, since until now he has read him just fucking right.
Cas kisses him again then, soft and brief and not even hinting at becoming something more, before his lips move down towards Dean’s neck. They hover there, placing soft butterfly kisses along his collarbone, and Dean is so caught up between the feeling of Cas’s lips and the rain still pouring all over that he doesn’t understand that Cas is talking in between kisses.
… omnipotens Deus, Dean hears when Cas slowly raises his mouth from his collarbone before pressing down another kiss and licking away a droplet, et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vita aeternam. Cas’s lips cover the corner of his mouth and Dean shakes his head again as he realizes that his entire body has started to shake hard.
“The fuck, you aren’t… you can’t be…”
“Dean. I am. You don’t need to tell me anything. And don’t say that you don’t deserve that. I know you do and that’s more than enough for me to do this.”
Dean opens his mouth again, to protest, but a finger covers it, gentle but firm.
“Don’t speak,” Cas almost hisses, and Dean shouldn’t really be even considering that but instead he shuts the fuck up and before he can start wondering when the hell did he start doing what others told him to, Cas’s tongue is already licking away water at the base of Dean’s neck and he couldn’t talk even if he wanted to.
Indulgentiam, absolutionem, et remissionem peccatorum tuorum tribuat tibi omnipotens et misericors Dominus, Cas whispers right against his skin. His mouth goes to Dean’s temple and Dean can swear that if it wasn’t raining his lips would have gone dry a long while ago. Cas looks at him for one second, then, as if he’s thinking something over.
Then his lips curl up in a smile and his mouth is right next to Dean’s ear.
Ego te absolvo ab omni vinculo, he says, and there’s a second in which Dean realizes that… it doesn’t go like this.
Or, well, it has been a long time since he ever set foot in a church or ever heard a confession, but he’s pretty sure that by now there should have been some part about Jesus which wasn’t there, and then it hits him.
Ego te absolvo, Cas repeats, his voice sounding firmer and his tone definitive, and then he kisses Dean fully, easily, without a moment of resistance, and Dean gets it.
The whole thing was supposed to be about whoever was speaking absolving someone else in God-that-isn’t-in-the-building’s name.
Cas just fucking absolved him in his own.
There’s a dam breaking somewhere inside him and Dean surges up and instead of just letting Cas kiss him he kisses back, hard, giving as much as he can, moaning when Cas’s hand tangles in the hair on the back of his head. It feels good, it feels amazing, it feels like all the goddamn rain coming down is actually finally washing him of all the filth he has felt on him since he woke up in a coffin and had to dig himself out his own grave. He doesn’t even care that he can feel sand everywhere.
When they part they end up staring at each other again and yeah, there’s no doubt that Cas knows that Dean has totally understood what was going on.
“Are we… is this…” Dean blurts, and Cas shakes his head once.
“We are most definitely not done. Unless you want us to be.”
“No,” Dean breathes back, and again his back is on the sand, with Cas’s hands pinning his wrists down. By now he should be freezing but he isn’t, and the rain still falls down except for where Cas covers him. Cas leans down and his hands push Dean’s jeans out of the way.; Dean licks his lips while Cas quickly gets rid of his own, and then… then fuck.
He should be feeling sand on his back but he doesn’t. He should feel freezing but he doesn’t. Everywhere Cas touches him, it warms and sends shivers of pleasure just beneath his skin, and Dean can feel himself getting hard, hard as he can barely remember being lately. Cas’s hands seem to be everywhere at once and he doesn’t know how Cas is doing it but he is, and Dean can’t even begin to want to move an inch.
It feels too good, and he thinks he had forgotten how much exactly it could in the last six months or so.
Suddenly, he just wants to get lost in this. He wants to get lost in the way Cas is moving against him, slowly and with such grace that Dean’s breath is as good as gone for a handful of seconds. He wants to get lost in the way Cas’s hands are slowly spreading his legs apart and in the way his fingers are slick when he starts stretching Dean open, just a bit. He wants to get lost in the feeling of Cas’s hard, definitely hard cock rubbing against Dean’s leg and in the feeling of his own dick being hard beyond belief without even having been touched. He wants to just stay here forever with someone that is fucking with the weather just because he thinks that it’ll do Dean some kind of good, he wants to say all of these things but he can’t. He can’t even articulate speech by now, not with two long, slender fingers pushing slowly inside him. He can’t stop his own moans which are way too needy for his tastes, and then he forgets it because Cas bends his fingers and he can barely see straight from pleasure.
Cas seems to just know everything he should do here, not exactly behaving like an angelic virgin, not when he starts scissoring his fingers slowly inside him, and it’s driving Dean wild from pleasure.
And it’s just fingers.
His already hard cock gives a twitch at the idea that at some point it won’t be fingers anymore. Cas, if he notices it, doesn’t stop doing what he’s doing and Dean wonders if it won’t end up being too much and if he’ll end up coming just right here and now.
He doesn’t though, feeling on edge but not quite there, and from the glint in Cas’s eyes he might deduce that there’s something else going on, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Not when Cas’s other hand is teasing one of Dean’s wet nipples until it becomes hard under Cas’s fingers. Not when he feels like he’s being split apart, or better, like Cas is splitting him apart. With his hands and his mouth and damn, even with his eyes, because whenever Dean meets Cas’s stare he just can’t bear to look for more than a handful of seconds. The rest of Cas’s face is blank if not for his mouth being slightly parted; his eyes are fixed on Dean’s face, and it’s so intense that Dean can’t just stand it. He still can’t see why he is at the receiving end of it. There’s kindness and maybe worrying and something else that Dean can’t define, except that right now this is the most angelic that Cas has ever been in his eyes. Even more so than when he stepped into a barn to gain a knife in his heart. Dean doesn’t want to admit to himself that the few times he pictured angels before he stopped believing in them, they had the same expression that Cas has now: calm and soft and almost - he almost doesn’t dare thinking it but he doesn’t find another word - loving.
He’s towering over Dean without crushing him, he almost seems to glow as rain falls down over them. Dean just wants to reach up and kiss him again, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to move. It doesn’t matter in the end, because Cas does lower himself down to kiss him thoroughly as his fingers gently slip away. There’s a second in which Dean feels empty, but then those hands are on his hips, and Cas is lifting them up and then he’s inside Dean with just one push and Dean moans into Cas’s mouth, helpless and sounding so needy that he’d feel ashamed. If only Cas wasn’t kissing him so hard he doesn’t have the attention span for shame.
Cas starts moving, slowly, carefully, even if Dean didn’t exactly feel much pain to begin with; it’s a slow burn, but the good kind, the kind that makes Dean’s nerves feel on fire. Now he feels split open, completely, but Cas’s hands are still on his hips and Dean doesn’t even need to thrust because Cas is doing everything himself. He’s pushing Dean’s hips upward and backward, slamming him back down against the sand, like he weights nothing and like for him it’s just that easy, and Dean doesn’t think he has ever felt so helpless and turned on at the same time. He’s totally at someone else’s mercy, not able to do anything except moan in the back of his throat, say Cas’s name and taste clean, cool rain on his tongue, but he’s fucking loving it and he can’t even deny that. It feels good to just lay back and let someone else think for once. Cas is sliding into him like he’s sliding home, like Dean’s body is a perfect match for his, but not just his vessel. Dean can see a subtle glow behind Cas, now, if he squints; it’s not even like he’s trying hard not to let himself loose, but rather like he’s trying to lose himself inside Dean and to be honest, Dean is fucking okay with it. Dean doesn’t want anything else right now. He wants Cas to finish this, he wants him to thrust harder, he wants to know if he’ll feel different after this is over while he isn’t sure whether he wants this to end.
And then one of Cas’s hands reaches up and closes around the scarred, still red skin on his shoulder, completely not fitting over the scar but it still sends a jolt down Dean’s spine at first. Right. After all, didn’t Cas leave a mark there ages ago, already? It just feels fitting that he’d touch it again now, and for a second Dean wonders if he could ever leave one on Cas himself, and then he forgets about it.
Angels shouldn’t really be marked. Especially by someone such as him, and then Cas’s lips are over his ear again.
“Stop thinking that,” he hisses, and then he thrusts faster, leaving Dean gasping for breath and unable to say anything except Cas and fuck and harder and please.
“Anything you wish,” Cas whispers again, and Dean can’t really do this anymore. He’s there, he’s almost there, and then Cas’s hand wraps around his impossibly aching erection and Dean comes like he doubts he ever came his whole life. His entire body is shaking like a leaf as he thrusts his hips up weakly and as Cas jerks his goddamn orgasm out of him; there’s white beneath his eyelids if he closes them, and there’s warmth all around him except for his face where rain is still cool and still falling. He can just feel spasms of pleasure shaking him so hard that he feels like he’s shattering; then Cas is giving a last thrust, and he’s so deep inside him that Dean thinks they might merge at this point. He comes as hard as Dean himself had, and it sends Dean over the edge for good; everything becomes fuzzy but he really doesn’t mind, and as soon as he stops shaking from pleasure he closes his eyes, vaguely aware of feeling something sticky running down his leg, and he passes out.
When he comes to, it isn’t raining anymore and he feels a coat under him, or better, under them since he’s currently pretty much entwined with Cas, and Cas’s jacket is sort of covering them, too, even if it barely does the job. He doesn’t feel sticky anymore, though, and there isn’t sand anywhere on him; there’s an arm draped across his stomach, and Cas’s chest is most definitely pressed against Dean’s back.
He opens his eyes and sees green-blue water spreading in front of him, sunlight beating over it, and for a second his breath is taken away. It’s goddamn beautiful, and then the arm tightens around him and Dean forces himself to turn and meet Cas’s stare.
Which hasn’t changed at all since before.
What the hell one says when waking up with an angel literally spooning him, Dean doesn’t know, but then Cas just moves forward and kisses him again, and Dean lets himself kiss back. It feels good, it feels right, it feels easy; no one is expecting anything out of him and it makes him feel kind of relieved. Then, when they part and Dean takes time to fucking breathe for two seconds, he realizes that he feels… not exactly i>great, but better. Lighter, maybe. It’s probably just in his head, but the way Cas’s hands are reaching for his shoulders and pulling him in tells him everything that Cas isn’t saying, and for a second Dean wonders if they could just not move and stay here indefinitely. It’s not possible and he knows, and so he just settles on opening his eyes and looking at the sea while his head rests on Cas’s shoulder.
“So… so what, now?” he asks then, his voice almost shaking, and it takes him by surprise. It’s not like he can take it back, anyway. “Do you… do you have to… you know, go back upstairs?”
Cas’s fingers brush slightly over his nape and he feels Cas shaking his head. “Right this moment? I left the situation covered. My presence… isn’t really required. Sincerely, I had gathered that you’d rather find a way to get your brother back on this planet.”
Dean has to lean back and look at Cas, because seriously? He hadn’t been expecting that.
“Are you fucking serious?”
Cas just smirks, as he once did in front of a vending machine in a motel near Chuck’s house, and Dean doesn’t know that Sam has been out of Hell for a while, that he has checked on him enough times without showing himself. He doesn’t know that Cas has been in contact with Sam for a while, and that he will be angry over that for a short time, but will forget it soon after. For now he doesn’t, and he just nods when he realizes that yes, Cas is serious. And then he moves forward and kisses Cas again, and again, just because he can, and they draw it out until there’s no excuse and they have to get dressed.
Dean is sitting on the driver’s side when Cas appears in the passenger seat.
He’s about to start driving when Cas speaks.
“And, Dean? Just to dissolve any doubt you might have about marks. They aren’t only physical, as you probably assume. And you might have left one, too. Don’t sell yourself so short,” Cas says, the phrase sounding almost foreign on his tongue, and he says it slowly, like he’s trying a new language. Then Dean sees that Cas’s right hand is more or less resting where his heart is and before he says something stupid, or does something stupid, he starts the car. If he’s feeling like something’s fluttering where his stomach is, he tries not to dwell too much on it, but his lips curl up in a smile anyway.
Then he decides to find out if Cas has good taste or not, and after turning on the radio he pushes a Zeppelin tape into the slot.
End.