Kept This Bottled Inside
Title: Kept This Bottled Inside
Author: paracaerouvoar
Rating: Soft R.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Summary: "Maybe, Castiel thinks, maybe he should leave. Leave this 'arrangement', leave the camp, leave the whole damn war. But he knows he can't do that."
Warning: More bad language (practically a prerequisite with my fic, I'm realising)
A/N: Part of the Nickelback 'verse.
Masterpost: http://paracaerouvoar.livejournal.com/3322.html
They fuck, writhing together on a bed with no sheets, in a room with no windows, in a house that's not a home.
Their mouths meet in a clash of tongues and teeth and lips, and Castiel thinks that Dean's drawn blood, teeth nipping sharply at Castiel's lower lip, tugging at it. His back arches as Dean hits that spot inside him that makes him see stars and leaves him wanting more, wanting Dean.
Castiel's not stupid. He knows that Dean didn't stop loving him (But sometimes, in the dead of night, when Dean's left his bed and is in his own cabin, drinking himself unconscious, he wonders if Dean ever loved him in the first place). But that doesn't make it stop hurting when he's dozing in his lover (fuck-buddy?)'s arms and he feels Dean leave, not uttering a word, not looking back as he pulls his clothes on. That's what stings, more than waking up to a cold bed, or watching Dean walk out the door silently. The fact that Dean can't even stand to look at him. After everything they've been through (and Castiel can't deny it's been a bumpy relationship, especially in the beginning, when it was actually a relationship, not a convenience) and he can't even look at the man he just fucked. Castiel wonders if it's because he's a man, or because he's an angel. Used to be an angel, Castiel corrects himself. Used to be.
Dean hits that spot again, and Castiel is momentarily distracted from his thoughts as Dean fills him completely, and his name escaped from the hunter's lips, grunting out a fading 'Cas...'
Maybe, Castiel thinks, maybe he should leave. Leave this 'arrangement', leave the camp, leave the whole damn war. But he knows he can't do that. He can't leave the war, because where would he go? Heaven? Closed for renovations. He's limited to Earth, due to his failing mojo, and he knows that wherever he is, the demons will find him. Lucifer will find him. So he's stuck in the camp, because he has nowhere to go. And while he's in the camp, he knows he'll go running back to Dean.
Because he has no other choice. Dean is his drug, his sole addiction. Well, one of his addictions. He tries curing himself of Dean (like Dean's a virus, something to be abhorred, and vanquished. Castiel knows he isn't.), using drink, and drugs, and one of Dean's own failed methods, girl after girl after girl, until it all turns into a big stoned orgy.
Castiel should hate himself. (A small part of him does) Castiel thinks he should also hate Dean. But he can't. Maybe it's the fact that, in his own messed up way, Dean loves Castiel (he thinks), maybe it's the fact that Castiel rescued him from hell. Castiel doesn't claim to know the how, or the why. All he knows is the what, and the who. He knows that he loves Dean. And you can't hate something you love. (can you?)
So, Castiel loves Dean, and he thinks Dean loves him, and that's all he needs to know. But maybe it should bother him a little that when Dean comes stalking into Castiel's cabin, his eyes dark with lust and backs him against the wall, attacking his mouth, he just lets him (it doesn't).
Castiel knows that Dean doesn't make love any more; he knows that Dean doesn't, can't, won't, love. Not since Detroit. Not since Sam...
Left (Castiel knows he didn't leave, not really. He's still out there, the devil walking around in his skin, dirtying his already dusty soul. But Dean refuses to acknowledge this. As far as Dean cares, Sam is dead. He died in Detroit. Maybe he did.).
Since the Croatoan virus got out. That's when Dean stopped sleeping with Castiel, and starting fucking him.
Castiel knows that the old Dean, the Dean that made love to him, the Dean that slept with him, hell, the Dean that had sex with him, is still in there, somewhere, under the hardened expression, and the world-weary sighs, and the devil-may-care attitude. He knows that maybe he'll be able to find that Dean again.
But until then, he knows he has to be happy with this Dean, because any Dean is good enough for Castiel, any Dean that fuels his addiction, any Dean that he gets to love him (pretend to love him?) has to be good enough.
Castiel knows that they can never be anything more, or anything less, than Castiel and Dean. Broken and shattered, torn and ripped, but still, ultimately, together. Until he loses even this Dean. And he knows that he will (someday) lose this Dean, his Dean, and he has to make the most of it.
So they fuck, because even though Castiel knows that he wants more (deserves more?), he knows he'll never get more than the broken shell of the man he loves (loved?).
Author: paracaerouvoar
Rating: Soft R.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Summary: "Maybe, Castiel thinks, maybe he should leave. Leave this 'arrangement', leave the camp, leave the whole damn war. But he knows he can't do that."
Warning: More bad language (practically a prerequisite with my fic, I'm realising)
A/N: Part of the Nickelback 'verse.
Masterpost: http://paracaerouvoar.livejournal.com/3322.html
They fuck, writhing together on a bed with no sheets, in a room with no windows, in a house that's not a home.
Their mouths meet in a clash of tongues and teeth and lips, and Castiel thinks that Dean's drawn blood, teeth nipping sharply at Castiel's lower lip, tugging at it. His back arches as Dean hits that spot inside him that makes him see stars and leaves him wanting more, wanting Dean.
Castiel's not stupid. He knows that Dean didn't stop loving him (But sometimes, in the dead of night, when Dean's left his bed and is in his own cabin, drinking himself unconscious, he wonders if Dean ever loved him in the first place). But that doesn't make it stop hurting when he's dozing in his lover (fuck-buddy?)'s arms and he feels Dean leave, not uttering a word, not looking back as he pulls his clothes on. That's what stings, more than waking up to a cold bed, or watching Dean walk out the door silently. The fact that Dean can't even stand to look at him. After everything they've been through (and Castiel can't deny it's been a bumpy relationship, especially in the beginning, when it was actually a relationship, not a convenience) and he can't even look at the man he just fucked. Castiel wonders if it's because he's a man, or because he's an angel. Used to be an angel, Castiel corrects himself. Used to be.
Dean hits that spot again, and Castiel is momentarily distracted from his thoughts as Dean fills him completely, and his name escaped from the hunter's lips, grunting out a fading 'Cas...'
Maybe, Castiel thinks, maybe he should leave. Leave this 'arrangement', leave the camp, leave the whole damn war. But he knows he can't do that. He can't leave the war, because where would he go? Heaven? Closed for renovations. He's limited to Earth, due to his failing mojo, and he knows that wherever he is, the demons will find him. Lucifer will find him. So he's stuck in the camp, because he has nowhere to go. And while he's in the camp, he knows he'll go running back to Dean.
Because he has no other choice. Dean is his drug, his sole addiction. Well, one of his addictions. He tries curing himself of Dean (like Dean's a virus, something to be abhorred, and vanquished. Castiel knows he isn't.), using drink, and drugs, and one of Dean's own failed methods, girl after girl after girl, until it all turns into a big stoned orgy.
Castiel should hate himself. (A small part of him does) Castiel thinks he should also hate Dean. But he can't. Maybe it's the fact that, in his own messed up way, Dean loves Castiel (he thinks), maybe it's the fact that Castiel rescued him from hell. Castiel doesn't claim to know the how, or the why. All he knows is the what, and the who. He knows that he loves Dean. And you can't hate something you love. (can you?)
So, Castiel loves Dean, and he thinks Dean loves him, and that's all he needs to know. But maybe it should bother him a little that when Dean comes stalking into Castiel's cabin, his eyes dark with lust and backs him against the wall, attacking his mouth, he just lets him (it doesn't).
Castiel knows that Dean doesn't make love any more; he knows that Dean doesn't, can't, won't, love. Not since Detroit. Not since Sam...
Left (Castiel knows he didn't leave, not really. He's still out there, the devil walking around in his skin, dirtying his already dusty soul. But Dean refuses to acknowledge this. As far as Dean cares, Sam is dead. He died in Detroit. Maybe he did.).
Since the Croatoan virus got out. That's when Dean stopped sleeping with Castiel, and starting fucking him.
Castiel knows that the old Dean, the Dean that made love to him, the Dean that slept with him, hell, the Dean that had sex with him, is still in there, somewhere, under the hardened expression, and the world-weary sighs, and the devil-may-care attitude. He knows that maybe he'll be able to find that Dean again.
But until then, he knows he has to be happy with this Dean, because any Dean is good enough for Castiel, any Dean that fuels his addiction, any Dean that he gets to love him (pretend to love him?) has to be good enough.
Castiel knows that they can never be anything more, or anything less, than Castiel and Dean. Broken and shattered, torn and ripped, but still, ultimately, together. Until he loses even this Dean. And he knows that he will (someday) lose this Dean, his Dean, and he has to make the most of it.
So they fuck, because even though Castiel knows that he wants more (deserves more?), he knows he'll never get more than the broken shell of the man he loves (loved?).