“So Fall for Me” (Supernatural; always-in-Claire!Castiel, soulless!Sam; Sam/Castiel, Dean/Castiel)
Title: “So Fall for Me”
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: always-in-Claire!Castiel, soulless!Sam; Sam/Castiel, background Dean/Castiel
Genres: PWP, genderswap
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,002
Challenge: blindfold_spn, “Always-in-Claire!Castiel; and Castiel always tops. If she doesn't call Sam "boy" at least once, you're doing it wrong.”
Summary: Everything about this should bother him, but it doesn’t. He just can’t-or maybe won’t-bring himself to give a damn.
Warnings: I bumped Claire’s age up to probably legal, so I’m not tagging this fic as underage. Dub-con for vessel consent issues. Also, cheating if you interpret Dean and Castiel’s relationship to be closed.
Mirrors: AO3
Sam doesn’t know how old her vessel is. Seventeen? Eighteen? Nineteen? Somewhere in her late teens. Young. Probably still sentient.
This should bother him-but it doesn’t. Even if he tries to care, even if he tells himself that this is wrong-that there’s a girl inside, that she can think, that maybe she doesn’t want this-he just can’t bring himself to give a damn.
Or maybe he won’t bring himself to give a damn.
She straddles him, blonde hair flowing over her shoulder, blue eyes bright. That hair-golden, glowing-reminds him of Jess. Jess’s hair was wavy, but even so, it flowed with the same sort of grace that Castiel’s hair flows. Maybe before, he might have felt guilty about this. Like this affection for Castiel’s just a shallow, superficial replacement for what he should have had, long ago. Except-
Castiel lets out a sharp laugh.
“Harder, boy,” she murmurs, grinding her hips against his. He thrusts up in response, and pleasure sparks over both of them.
-except it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.
“There you go,” she says, a lazy grin spreading over her face, and Sam bucks again beneath her.
“You like that?” he says, and Castiel fixes him with that stare, blue swirling dark with lust, and God, every muscle in his body pulls tight beneath her. Her hips slap against him, her thighs soft against his.
And maybe he should feel guilty about this. This whole thing. Because Castiel is Dean’s angel, really. Castiel, eyes ablaze with light-Castiel is the one who pulled Dean out of Hell, who nursed him back to health, who saved him again and again and sacrificed herself for him over and over again. Classic fairytale romance. Perfect.
And Dean was even gentle with her. Sweet. They weren’t exactly subtle with it, and Sam had watched a couple of times, through cracks in the doorway. Gentle. Soft. Loving.
And now this-
-it had been a small gesture at first, really. Pinning Castiel up against a wall, asking her why she never responded to his prayers, even though he was always the one who believed. Asking her why she responded the instant Dean shouted out a poorly thought-out prayer, just a couple of lines of made-up bullshit. And then that anger gave in to a kiss, deep and hungry, like a punishment, and Sam heard that little gasp that escaped past her lips, and from then on-
She stretches out over his body, her small breasts pressing into his chest, her hands holding his down over his head.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired out already,” she breathes into his ear, and chills run down his spine. He shifts his body. Spreads his legs a little wider, drives himself deeper into her, and she lets out a little oh.
“Just getting started,” he says.
-and then from then on-stolen moments when Dean wasn’t around. Fucking in the backseat of the Impala, and Dean could never tell that the smell of sex hanging in the air wasn’t his. Because they still fuck, Dean and Castiel, often enough that his nose has gotten used to her scent, even when it’s mixed in with Sam’s.
And there were also quickies in shit motels, sometimes on Sam’s bed, sometimes on Dean’s. Castiel would top; Sam was rough; and that was the way they both liked it.
Sam doesn’t bother telling Dean.
“Right there.”
Sam pulls his wrists away from Castiel’s grip. Castiel knows Sam’s movements, predicts them, and Sam knows that Castiel wants this, because Castiel could easily have kept him pinned down if she wanted. His hands snake down her sides, come to a rest on those narrow hips, and he grips her there, thumbs digging into the curve of bone on either side. He holds her, pounds into her, strokes fast and short, coaxing moans out from deep within her throat.
Loud. The whole motel complex can probably hear them.
“Gonna come,” Sam says, and Castiel rocks more fervently against him, her own pleasure cresting. And then his orgasm spills over, and he comes in her in little spurts. She takes in a deep, shuddering breath that catches in her throat. Her whole body shakes with the force of her pleasure. She squeezes her eyes shut and throws her head back; her hair tickles her waist, and she claws into Sam’s hands, holds him as if nothing else is anchoring her down onto this world.
He’ll have a helluva time explaining those marks to Dean tomorrow.
Castiel falls still. She lets out a breath, long and low, then slides off of Sam and drips a mixture of her wetness and his come onto his softening cock. Sam smirks.
“Clean it up,” he says. There’s a flash of defiance in Castiel’s eyes, but then it’s gone. Castiel kneels over Sam’s cock and takes the whole thing into her mouth, sucks off their juices in one long swallow. She runs her tongue along his crotch, dips between his legs and catches any stray droplets. There’s a line of come running down the inside of her thigh.
Sam props himself up on his elbows, only Castiel gets up and pushes him back down. She climbs up toward his face, spreads herself with one knee on either side of his neck.
“Goes both ways, boy,” she says, smirking down at him from between her breasts.
Sam complies-traces his tongue up her thigh, swirls it around her clit and elicits a little jolt from her, runs it along her slit and suckles away at the mess there.
“Good,” she says, and then pulls herself away from him. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him, open-mouthed, lips so soft, tongue seeking his.
They get dressed. There’s no tenderness between them. No post-coital cuddling. No pillow talk. No love between them-maybe friendship, but mostly it’s just a mutual exchange of pleasure, a symbiotic release.
And maybe that should bother Sam.
But it doesn’t.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: always-in-Claire!Castiel, soulless!Sam; Sam/Castiel, background Dean/Castiel
Genres: PWP, genderswap
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,002
Challenge: blindfold_spn, “Always-in-Claire!Castiel; and Castiel always tops. If she doesn't call Sam "boy" at least once, you're doing it wrong.”
Summary: Everything about this should bother him, but it doesn’t. He just can’t-or maybe won’t-bring himself to give a damn.
Warnings: I bumped Claire’s age up to probably legal, so I’m not tagging this fic as underage. Dub-con for vessel consent issues. Also, cheating if you interpret Dean and Castiel’s relationship to be closed.
Mirrors: AO3
Sam doesn’t know how old her vessel is. Seventeen? Eighteen? Nineteen? Somewhere in her late teens. Young. Probably still sentient.
This should bother him-but it doesn’t. Even if he tries to care, even if he tells himself that this is wrong-that there’s a girl inside, that she can think, that maybe she doesn’t want this-he just can’t bring himself to give a damn.
Or maybe he won’t bring himself to give a damn.
She straddles him, blonde hair flowing over her shoulder, blue eyes bright. That hair-golden, glowing-reminds him of Jess. Jess’s hair was wavy, but even so, it flowed with the same sort of grace that Castiel’s hair flows. Maybe before, he might have felt guilty about this. Like this affection for Castiel’s just a shallow, superficial replacement for what he should have had, long ago. Except-
Castiel lets out a sharp laugh.
“Harder, boy,” she murmurs, grinding her hips against his. He thrusts up in response, and pleasure sparks over both of them.
-except it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.
“There you go,” she says, a lazy grin spreading over her face, and Sam bucks again beneath her.
“You like that?” he says, and Castiel fixes him with that stare, blue swirling dark with lust, and God, every muscle in his body pulls tight beneath her. Her hips slap against him, her thighs soft against his.
And maybe he should feel guilty about this. This whole thing. Because Castiel is Dean’s angel, really. Castiel, eyes ablaze with light-Castiel is the one who pulled Dean out of Hell, who nursed him back to health, who saved him again and again and sacrificed herself for him over and over again. Classic fairytale romance. Perfect.
And Dean was even gentle with her. Sweet. They weren’t exactly subtle with it, and Sam had watched a couple of times, through cracks in the doorway. Gentle. Soft. Loving.
And now this-
-it had been a small gesture at first, really. Pinning Castiel up against a wall, asking her why she never responded to his prayers, even though he was always the one who believed. Asking her why she responded the instant Dean shouted out a poorly thought-out prayer, just a couple of lines of made-up bullshit. And then that anger gave in to a kiss, deep and hungry, like a punishment, and Sam heard that little gasp that escaped past her lips, and from then on-
She stretches out over his body, her small breasts pressing into his chest, her hands holding his down over his head.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired out already,” she breathes into his ear, and chills run down his spine. He shifts his body. Spreads his legs a little wider, drives himself deeper into her, and she lets out a little oh.
“Just getting started,” he says.
-and then from then on-stolen moments when Dean wasn’t around. Fucking in the backseat of the Impala, and Dean could never tell that the smell of sex hanging in the air wasn’t his. Because they still fuck, Dean and Castiel, often enough that his nose has gotten used to her scent, even when it’s mixed in with Sam’s.
And there were also quickies in shit motels, sometimes on Sam’s bed, sometimes on Dean’s. Castiel would top; Sam was rough; and that was the way they both liked it.
Sam doesn’t bother telling Dean.
“Right there.”
Sam pulls his wrists away from Castiel’s grip. Castiel knows Sam’s movements, predicts them, and Sam knows that Castiel wants this, because Castiel could easily have kept him pinned down if she wanted. His hands snake down her sides, come to a rest on those narrow hips, and he grips her there, thumbs digging into the curve of bone on either side. He holds her, pounds into her, strokes fast and short, coaxing moans out from deep within her throat.
Loud. The whole motel complex can probably hear them.
“Gonna come,” Sam says, and Castiel rocks more fervently against him, her own pleasure cresting. And then his orgasm spills over, and he comes in her in little spurts. She takes in a deep, shuddering breath that catches in her throat. Her whole body shakes with the force of her pleasure. She squeezes her eyes shut and throws her head back; her hair tickles her waist, and she claws into Sam’s hands, holds him as if nothing else is anchoring her down onto this world.
He’ll have a helluva time explaining those marks to Dean tomorrow.
Castiel falls still. She lets out a breath, long and low, then slides off of Sam and drips a mixture of her wetness and his come onto his softening cock. Sam smirks.
“Clean it up,” he says. There’s a flash of defiance in Castiel’s eyes, but then it’s gone. Castiel kneels over Sam’s cock and takes the whole thing into her mouth, sucks off their juices in one long swallow. She runs her tongue along his crotch, dips between his legs and catches any stray droplets. There’s a line of come running down the inside of her thigh.
Sam props himself up on his elbows, only Castiel gets up and pushes him back down. She climbs up toward his face, spreads herself with one knee on either side of his neck.
“Goes both ways, boy,” she says, smirking down at him from between her breasts.
Sam complies-traces his tongue up her thigh, swirls it around her clit and elicits a little jolt from her, runs it along her slit and suckles away at the mess there.
“Good,” she says, and then pulls herself away from him. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him, open-mouthed, lips so soft, tongue seeking his.
They get dressed. There’s no tenderness between them. No post-coital cuddling. No pillow talk. No love between them-maybe friendship, but mostly it’s just a mutual exchange of pleasure, a symbiotic release.
And maybe that should bother Sam.
But it doesn’t.