fic: death is on me (i still see you)
title death is on me (still i see you)
fandom supernatural
rating nc-17
pairing vampire!dean/castiel
summary set right after 'live free or twihard'. dean, still a vampire, sneaks out and gets caught by an angel.
warnings man on man sexing, sex in public, light bdsm, bottom!dean, mention of soulless!sam, some fluff
disclaimer i do not own supernatural at all. they belong to sera gamble and eric kripke and the rest of the show rapists at the CW. the title is a lyric bastardization of a pearl and the beard song.
word count 3600
author's notes: this is written for my bestie! enjoy!
death is on me (still i see you)
There's barely any light to see by, so it takes a moment to register his surroundings. It's a shitty motel room, an Italian villa theme complete with paintings of wine grapes on the walls and a lamp to his right with a miniature David sculpture (complete with cheesy green leaf covering non-existent sculptured junk) as the base. There's a window to his right, but the (purple) drapes are drawn and the chain is notched safely across the door jamb.
Dean's taking up most of the bed closest to the door. It's a queen, but he's spread like a starfish on his back, toes and fingers touching the corners and head flat against the hard mattress. He's still dressed in his customary battle-ratty jeans, biker boots, and tee shirt. Nothing special, but he feels like he's going to come out of it any second, he's so anxious. Like he's going to vibrate right out of his clothes, out of his skin. There's a million nerves firing beneath his surface and if he doesn't burn off this energy soon, somehow, he's going to go fucking insane.
Sam's not back yet.
He's not supposed to leave without Sam.
But if he doesn't jump off this bed, slip out that door, and go somewhere in the next five seconds, he's going to tear this room apart with his bare hands.
Better to just leave than face the maid in the morning.
Before he has time to argue or talk himself out of it, Dean's off the bed, jacket shucked over his arms, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
The Trident is just another hokey bar in the town of hokey. It's a resplendent example of what shouldn't be in a bar, from the tinny pop music filtering out of a poorly refurbished juke in the corner to a golden trident sticking out of neon-colored fruit drinks. Despite all of its faults and a serious lack of pool tables with which to hustle bills off stupid rednecks too dumb to back down (old habits die hard, apparently), it's the closet bar in walking distance and Dean needs a fucking drink in him. The bartender, a big-titted girl whose name tag reads 'April' smiles at him and bends to slide the opened beer bottle across the cedar, all the while giving him a clear view of all the treasures packed into that neat, poor excuse for a tank top.
Any other time, Dean would jump at the chance for a casual something with a girl named something shallow like April, but it's a bad time and he doesn't think he'd be up for it. After receiving no hint of a reply, April shrugs off the apparent rejection and moves onto her next customers. Dean's fine with being ignored; he's got plenty of experience in wallowing. He's good at it, even.
It gets late, and he's still sitting at the same barstool. People pass around him, and he can hear the faint heartbeats as they draw nearer, listens to him fade as they move away. Their chatter hurts his ears, sets his teeth grinding. April is replaced with Clint, and Dean still drinks.
Keeps drinking. It's like the alcohol has no effect anymore, not even a taste. Everything tastes the same, gray and bland. Except for blood. Blood's the vibrant slash of red across the boredom, makes him smack his lips in memory and lick the long gone stains of scarlet from between his teeth. Blood, he's had plenty of. He shouldn't have in the first place. Knows remaining clean, so to speak, was the only way to save him, to give him any kind of chance in returning back to normal. Human.
Instead, Dean gave in. Always does. Seems like he always will. Some asshole off the street with too much gel in his hair and glitter dancing across his cheeks hands him a bag of O Neg, and he's going to town like he's dying. And he is. Has. Fucking dead. Fucking gone.
Halfway down the stairs, bag drained dry in his hands and his heart quivering inside his chest because it's two seconds away from Sam and Samuel and he's failed, he feels hands on his shoulders. Sees his brother, covered machete hanging so gingerly from his left hand.
"Let's get you back, Dean," Sam prods, steering him away as the rest of the vampires flee out of every exit, this way and that. The cavalry's come, and it's every man for themselves. "We'll set up shop and figure out a way to help you."
And Dean went with him, the small tendril of hope wrapped so tenuously around his heart fraying with every step, every breath in his newer, stronger lungs.
Back at the motel, Sam heaved and sighed and called Samuel and Gwen and Christian, Bobby and Rufus and any number of contacts he'd made in the past year. Anyone who had ever seen a vampire, let alone killed one. "Yeah, anything you find out, let me know. Thanks..." always ends the conversation. Frustration masks the steady heartbeat, as if Sam's putting on a show, just hiding his complete and utter apathy behind shaky concern, and after a couple hours of supposedly panicked calls, he dons his jacket, heads out. Tells Dean to stay put.
So much for that plan.
Now, he's all by himself again, watching the men and women, little babies really, walking around like they know how the world works. They've got nothing but time to kill, flirting and fucking their way through their youth, while Dean looks on jealously. What's coming next? Dean seriously doubts he can take a machete to his own neck; his survival instinct kicks in at the thought, immediately rejecting any ill-conceived plans of noble suicide.
No, Dean's going to rot like this. Turn into the very thing he's hunted. Put down.
He takes another drag off the beer.
Another.
When he feels the drop of a heavy hand against his shoulder, he thinks Sam's finally found him. Dean swivels on the stool, ready for a casual quip of 'took ya long enough' when hazel eyes meet icy blue and his non-beating heart kicks and thumps behind his sternum.
"Cas..." Dean breathes his name, low, a prayer he hadn't realized he'd been praying.
"Dean." That voice, deep and sure, lights Dean like nothing else.
"What're...are you here to help me?" Maybe that hope can be resurrected after all...
But Cas shakes his head. "No." And the words blow through him, leaving an icy shell in its wake. No hope. No nothing.
Dean shuts down, face falling, eyelids drooping in defeat. "Then what're you..." A thought flicks across his mind, and he gives it voice. "You here to kill me?" He imagines Cas' sure, strong arm raising above his head, aiming for the tender part of Dean's neck between C1 and C2, the gleaming machete slicing through soft cartilage like a knife through warm butter. Quick, easy. It'd be over in a second.
"No, Dean."
Dean turns back to the bar and the ever-growing concern on April's face. He salutes her with his beer, and she grimaces.
Cas' hand doesn't leave him. Instead, it clamps down, hard. A clear warning.
Dean can't help it. He whimpers, light and breathy. Eyes flutter shut, then open.
"Come with me."
And he does. The devil fucking help him, he slips right off that stool, drops a couple of bills on the bar, and follows behind the angel like a kicked puppy behind his owner.
The alley beside The Trident is just like all the other alleys all over the country; dark, dank, and dirty. There's a half-empty dumpster halfway down, and a gated delivery entrance a little further beyond. One single dim lamp flickers half-heartedly every few moments, as if it's still trying to decide whether to go out or not. It casts monstrous shadows across the pavement as Cas directs Dean towards the alley's mouth, shoving him hard against the wall.
Dean's breath leaves him with a whoosh and he coughs a little into his sleeve.
"Cas, wh-"
"On your knees."
It's a voice he's never heard Cas use. Commanding Cas, Fighting Cas, Angry Cas...these are all the Castiels he knows. This is something different; darker, richer, far more dangerous than anything else. And Dean can't help the knee-jerk reaction when his legs give out and his kneecaps collide, hard, against the concrete. From this angle, he's just about level with Cas' belt and has to tilt his head as far back as it can go to meet the angel's eyes. Being on his knees for Cas causes his heart to stutter, his gut clench.
"Tell me."
Dean's clearly confused. "Tell you..."
But Cas doesn't take his grasping at straws well. He reaches out, threads his fingers in Dean's short hair, and tugs until Dean's head is shoved all the way backwards, exposing his throat. It hurts, and Dean grunts in something like pain.
Something like.
"Tell me what you're doing here."
Is he concerned about Dean going home with someone? Is that what this is about, jealousy? Envy? Because Dean would never-
"Just getting a drink, Cas, I promise," Dean swears. His eyes widen when the grip in his hair tightens, and now it's starting to hurt. "Nothing else."
"Sam told you not to leave the room," Cas states and Dean wonders how he knows that. Then dismisses it because Cas knows everything.
"I had to," Dean replies. He doesn't pause to consider the sound of his own voice, how close to whining he's getting. "I was climbin' the fucking walls. Had to get out of there."
Cas bends down, pressing into Dean's personal space, nose an inch away from Dean's. His other hand trails down Dean's cheek and onto his neck, fingers bracing around his windpipe. It's a clear threat if Dean is lying. He knows what those long fingers feel like wrapped around his neck, thumb pressed against his pulse point until black spots his vision.
A part of him wants Cas to press down. Make him see forever.
"You could have hurt someone," Cas insists. His voice is smooth, deep, but he's clearly displeased with Dean. Means to take it out on him. Dean can't wait.
"But I didn't," Dean insists. Though he's hungry for it, for whatever bone the angel throws his way this time because he lives off the crumbs from Cas' table, he doesn't want the other man to think he'd hurt someone. He was fine, sitting on his stool. After filling his belly in the vampire nest a few hours prior, he'd barely been tempted by the sweet thump of blood in veins passing by him all night.
"Yet." The word's finality shocks him, like Cas thinks it's only a matter of time, and Dean sucks in a gasp.
Castiel doesn't let him dwell, and instead, releases the hand round his throat, trailing it up to his cheek and into his hair to join the other. It's more gentle this time. He rubs soothing circles into Dean's scalp and calms the stinging. Dean practically purrs into his touch, leaning forward until his cheek presses to Castiel's trousers, feels the heat of him bleed through.
"Dean." Cas yanks his chin forward, making Dean's neck crack. "Open your mouth." The command is accompanied by a sure, softly padded thumb across his lower lip, momentarily slipping inside. Cas takes like pure fucking sin, nothing like an angel should taste like. Dean takes the initiative and sucks it in, biting and licking across the sensitive skin.
"Wide. Wider."
Dean obeys. He opens as wide as he can, showing Cas his teeth.
Cas doesn't speak, just trails the thumb, spit-slick, across Dean's face, leaving behind a shining trail.
"Good, Dean," he croons, all quiet and sweet. "Now, suck me."
Dean, forgetting himself, where he was, who he's with, what he is now, swivels his head around. Is someone there? This is a public alleyway, and any Drunk Tom, Dick, or Harry, not to mention the local fuzz, could waltz on past and see. Light blossoms into the street as The Trident's front door opens and shuts, letting loose a couple of cheery partiers into the street. A couple of them saunter past, thankfully not glancing to their rights. Dean's up for a lot, but he's not up for this. He shakes his head, shoots an uneasy eye at Cas.
"Not really my cup of tea, Cas," Dean quips, feeling a bit like his old self again, humor acting as his own personal suit of armor. His humor, of course, doesn't stand up to the sharp slap of palm against cheek when Cas smacks his broad hand across Dean's face.
"It wasn't a request, Dean," Cas asserts, voice steel-blade sharp. "Now. Suck. Me."
Dean swallows audibly, throat bobbing. Cas doesn't give him another second to choose. He grips Dean's jaw in a tight fist, thumb shoved inside his mouth. Dean can taste the faintest sheen of sweat on the tip of the digit, and fights not to drool. No matter what might happen, whether a busload of kiddies stops by on their way back from the puppy shelter and they're scarred forever or the police chief happens by on his nightly tour of the seedier side of town and dubs them horrible sex offenders, Dean wants this. He wants Cas' cock sliding between his lips. He wants to taste that bitter, salty tang on his tongue. He wants to see Cas come undone, slowly and almost methodically, above him. While his stomach turns at the thought of doing this here, now, he can't deny that it sends a bolt down south.
With Cas' fingers keeping such calm control on his mouth, Dean reaches up with slightly shaky hands and fingers the pearlescent button at the clasp of the vessel's -Jimmy's but he can't think about that guy right now- trousers, slips it through the hole, and watches inch by inch of pale, untouched skin reveal itself. He draws the zipper down, notices the lack of underwear, and lets his tongue do the talking along Cas' hand.
Then Cas is parting his lips with more than a finger or two. Like the rest of him, his cock is lean, long, just nudging Dean's throat. He tastes dirtyfuckingfilthyohmygodsogood and Dean lets his eyes slip shut as he carefully navigates teeth and sensitive skin. When he's got it slotted in his mouth, just right, he starts a slow suction, and listens as Cas' breath hitches and sputters.
Even though Dean's the one on his knees, Cas is the one having trouble breathing. That says something.
He lets a little whimper pass over the flesh nestled inside him; just because Cas is the one getting his dick sucked doesn't mean he's the only one enjoying this, as humiliating as it would be if they were discovered. Dean hollows his cheeks, pulls back, slides forward, fucking his face on Cas' cock.
It does something absolutely nasty to Cas, who threads his fingers through Dean's hair again, nails harshly scraping his scalp. All those little sensations zip their way down to his own crotch, an area of his anatomy lacking the proper attention. However, when he drops his hand to the front of his jeans, palming his cock through the thick denim, Cas makes an angry noise, shoves Dean away (hands still tight at the back of his head), and glares down at him so cold that Dean's sure he's going to be iced over here in a matter of moments.
"I don't believe I gave permission to touch yourself," Cas growls. Dean can't help it; the dominance plays and the voice are such a turn-on that he might just finish right here, right now.
"Cas..."
"You can touch yourself when I tell you, Dean," Cas instructs. Before Dean can react, but after he pulls his hand out of his lap and places it so tenderly on Cas' ass, the angel tugs his face back into his crotch and shoves himself back between Dean's plush lips. Starts fucking his mouth.
It hurts, makes Dean's eyes water when Cas goes a little too far and risks choking him more than once. It feels so good knowing that he's got Cas in his mouth, tasting Cas' precome thick like honey, trailing his tongue along the soft skin of the angel, kissing up and down his erection like it's going out of style. It's so worth it, knowing he's making Cas come undone. It's that warm feeling spreading all over him, and if he's not careful, it's all going to end here soon.
Thankfully, he doesn't have to worry about that. Cas speeds up his thrusts and uses Dean's mouth, brutal. Not that he minds. He'd mind if Cas stopped.
"Dean...Dean...Dean..." Cas pants. Dean can feel the tightening in his body, signaling the end, and without further notice, Cas is moaning long and low as he spurts into Dean's mouth. It's hot, hotter than...and it tastes a little...doesn't matter. He immediately swallows it down, tries to remember that it's Cas he's drinking in, and it makes him thrust his own hips into the air, desperate for contact and release.
Cas leans down, hands on either side of Dean's face, and kisses him lightly once, twice, three times. He then presses his full mouth to Dean's ear, and whispers, "Come for me, Dean. Don't make me wait..."
Before he even finishes his thought, Dean's rubbing against his erection through his jeans, too damned fucking impatient to even thrust a hand beneath the waistband.
It's not hard to obey this particular command, and it's just a few strokes before he's coming hard in his pants. Before he's digging his face into the shallow dip of hipbones and crying through it because this is exactly what he wanted. This is exactly what he needed after the day he's had, and he should have known Cas would give it to him.
Soon, the aftershocks subside, and he tries to ignore the slow drag of damp denim and boxer-briefs over his too-sensitive cock.
He's still kneeling in the cold, dirty water staining his knees, when Cas zips himself up and helps Dean to his feet. As Dean struggles to steady himself, Cas helps with firm hands and a willing mouth to bestow little pecks over Dean's cheeks and eyes.
"Cas," Dean asks, voice a little rough from the pounding his throat just took, "can you take me back? I need..." And all of a sudden, everything he'd pushed back when Cas showed up, everything he tried to forget (his new status as a monster, the vampire thirst temporarily sated before but flaring back to life after expending so much energy, the problem with Sam) comes crashing back onto his shoulders like a ton of bricks. He wants to crumble under the weight of them, wants to sag against the stone wall and never come up. But Cas won't let him, and for that, Dean loves him. Just a little bit.
Okay, a whole hell of a lot, and while he's too damn proud and stubborn to admit it, he thinks Cas knows it just the same.
Cas, reverting from the dominant voice in the couple to the comforting voice in the couple, nods, indulges Dean with a tiny whisper of a smile, and presses two fingers to his forehead.
Instantly, they're back in the hotel, with Dean sinking into the bed that suddenly feels like a hundred clouds instead of a stone pallet (and maybe that's the angel's doing, but he couldn't give a shit), and Cas is taking off his trench coat and folding it over the nearest chair. He undoes his tie, places it next to the coat, and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. Off come the shoes, socks.
"I'm..." Dean tries to sit up, talk, but Cas merely pushes him back down, draws the covers up and over, and settles down next to the hunter. He shares Dean's pillow and lets Dean find that spot where he fits just right back to Castiel's front.
"Shh, Dean," Cas says, mind fervently wishing for sleep for his lover and friend. "You need your rest."
Dean's already sinking slowly into the gray mist of sleep, but before he goes, mutters, "And you'll be here when I wake up?"
Cas doesn't fully appreciate the tightening in his chest until now, and he answers with a nod and a, "Of course, Dean. I promise."
He promises a lot of things, to Dean and to himself: he promises to find a cure, no matter what the cost, to let Dean discover his humanity again before he's too far gone that he can't be saved, to right the chaos in Heaven, and stop the world from ending.
And Castiel, Angel of the Lord, always keeps his promises.
the end.
fandom supernatural
rating nc-17
pairing vampire!dean/castiel
summary set right after 'live free or twihard'. dean, still a vampire, sneaks out and gets caught by an angel.
warnings man on man sexing, sex in public, light bdsm, bottom!dean, mention of soulless!sam, some fluff
disclaimer i do not own supernatural at all. they belong to sera gamble and eric kripke and the rest of the show rapists at the CW. the title is a lyric bastardization of a pearl and the beard song.
word count 3600
author's notes: this is written for my bestie! enjoy!
death is on me (still i see you)
There's barely any light to see by, so it takes a moment to register his surroundings. It's a shitty motel room, an Italian villa theme complete with paintings of wine grapes on the walls and a lamp to his right with a miniature David sculpture (complete with cheesy green leaf covering non-existent sculptured junk) as the base. There's a window to his right, but the (purple) drapes are drawn and the chain is notched safely across the door jamb.
Dean's taking up most of the bed closest to the door. It's a queen, but he's spread like a starfish on his back, toes and fingers touching the corners and head flat against the hard mattress. He's still dressed in his customary battle-ratty jeans, biker boots, and tee shirt. Nothing special, but he feels like he's going to come out of it any second, he's so anxious. Like he's going to vibrate right out of his clothes, out of his skin. There's a million nerves firing beneath his surface and if he doesn't burn off this energy soon, somehow, he's going to go fucking insane.
Sam's not back yet.
He's not supposed to leave without Sam.
But if he doesn't jump off this bed, slip out that door, and go somewhere in the next five seconds, he's going to tear this room apart with his bare hands.
Better to just leave than face the maid in the morning.
Before he has time to argue or talk himself out of it, Dean's off the bed, jacket shucked over his arms, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
The Trident is just another hokey bar in the town of hokey. It's a resplendent example of what shouldn't be in a bar, from the tinny pop music filtering out of a poorly refurbished juke in the corner to a golden trident sticking out of neon-colored fruit drinks. Despite all of its faults and a serious lack of pool tables with which to hustle bills off stupid rednecks too dumb to back down (old habits die hard, apparently), it's the closet bar in walking distance and Dean needs a fucking drink in him. The bartender, a big-titted girl whose name tag reads 'April' smiles at him and bends to slide the opened beer bottle across the cedar, all the while giving him a clear view of all the treasures packed into that neat, poor excuse for a tank top.
Any other time, Dean would jump at the chance for a casual something with a girl named something shallow like April, but it's a bad time and he doesn't think he'd be up for it. After receiving no hint of a reply, April shrugs off the apparent rejection and moves onto her next customers. Dean's fine with being ignored; he's got plenty of experience in wallowing. He's good at it, even.
It gets late, and he's still sitting at the same barstool. People pass around him, and he can hear the faint heartbeats as they draw nearer, listens to him fade as they move away. Their chatter hurts his ears, sets his teeth grinding. April is replaced with Clint, and Dean still drinks.
Keeps drinking. It's like the alcohol has no effect anymore, not even a taste. Everything tastes the same, gray and bland. Except for blood. Blood's the vibrant slash of red across the boredom, makes him smack his lips in memory and lick the long gone stains of scarlet from between his teeth. Blood, he's had plenty of. He shouldn't have in the first place. Knows remaining clean, so to speak, was the only way to save him, to give him any kind of chance in returning back to normal. Human.
Instead, Dean gave in. Always does. Seems like he always will. Some asshole off the street with too much gel in his hair and glitter dancing across his cheeks hands him a bag of O Neg, and he's going to town like he's dying. And he is. Has. Fucking dead. Fucking gone.
Halfway down the stairs, bag drained dry in his hands and his heart quivering inside his chest because it's two seconds away from Sam and Samuel and he's failed, he feels hands on his shoulders. Sees his brother, covered machete hanging so gingerly from his left hand.
"Let's get you back, Dean," Sam prods, steering him away as the rest of the vampires flee out of every exit, this way and that. The cavalry's come, and it's every man for themselves. "We'll set up shop and figure out a way to help you."
And Dean went with him, the small tendril of hope wrapped so tenuously around his heart fraying with every step, every breath in his newer, stronger lungs.
Back at the motel, Sam heaved and sighed and called Samuel and Gwen and Christian, Bobby and Rufus and any number of contacts he'd made in the past year. Anyone who had ever seen a vampire, let alone killed one. "Yeah, anything you find out, let me know. Thanks..." always ends the conversation. Frustration masks the steady heartbeat, as if Sam's putting on a show, just hiding his complete and utter apathy behind shaky concern, and after a couple hours of supposedly panicked calls, he dons his jacket, heads out. Tells Dean to stay put.
So much for that plan.
Now, he's all by himself again, watching the men and women, little babies really, walking around like they know how the world works. They've got nothing but time to kill, flirting and fucking their way through their youth, while Dean looks on jealously. What's coming next? Dean seriously doubts he can take a machete to his own neck; his survival instinct kicks in at the thought, immediately rejecting any ill-conceived plans of noble suicide.
No, Dean's going to rot like this. Turn into the very thing he's hunted. Put down.
He takes another drag off the beer.
Another.
When he feels the drop of a heavy hand against his shoulder, he thinks Sam's finally found him. Dean swivels on the stool, ready for a casual quip of 'took ya long enough' when hazel eyes meet icy blue and his non-beating heart kicks and thumps behind his sternum.
"Cas..." Dean breathes his name, low, a prayer he hadn't realized he'd been praying.
"Dean." That voice, deep and sure, lights Dean like nothing else.
"What're...are you here to help me?" Maybe that hope can be resurrected after all...
But Cas shakes his head. "No." And the words blow through him, leaving an icy shell in its wake. No hope. No nothing.
Dean shuts down, face falling, eyelids drooping in defeat. "Then what're you..." A thought flicks across his mind, and he gives it voice. "You here to kill me?" He imagines Cas' sure, strong arm raising above his head, aiming for the tender part of Dean's neck between C1 and C2, the gleaming machete slicing through soft cartilage like a knife through warm butter. Quick, easy. It'd be over in a second.
"No, Dean."
Dean turns back to the bar and the ever-growing concern on April's face. He salutes her with his beer, and she grimaces.
Cas' hand doesn't leave him. Instead, it clamps down, hard. A clear warning.
Dean can't help it. He whimpers, light and breathy. Eyes flutter shut, then open.
"Come with me."
And he does. The devil fucking help him, he slips right off that stool, drops a couple of bills on the bar, and follows behind the angel like a kicked puppy behind his owner.
The alley beside The Trident is just like all the other alleys all over the country; dark, dank, and dirty. There's a half-empty dumpster halfway down, and a gated delivery entrance a little further beyond. One single dim lamp flickers half-heartedly every few moments, as if it's still trying to decide whether to go out or not. It casts monstrous shadows across the pavement as Cas directs Dean towards the alley's mouth, shoving him hard against the wall.
Dean's breath leaves him with a whoosh and he coughs a little into his sleeve.
"Cas, wh-"
"On your knees."
It's a voice he's never heard Cas use. Commanding Cas, Fighting Cas, Angry Cas...these are all the Castiels he knows. This is something different; darker, richer, far more dangerous than anything else. And Dean can't help the knee-jerk reaction when his legs give out and his kneecaps collide, hard, against the concrete. From this angle, he's just about level with Cas' belt and has to tilt his head as far back as it can go to meet the angel's eyes. Being on his knees for Cas causes his heart to stutter, his gut clench.
"Tell me."
Dean's clearly confused. "Tell you..."
But Cas doesn't take his grasping at straws well. He reaches out, threads his fingers in Dean's short hair, and tugs until Dean's head is shoved all the way backwards, exposing his throat. It hurts, and Dean grunts in something like pain.
Something like.
"Tell me what you're doing here."
Is he concerned about Dean going home with someone? Is that what this is about, jealousy? Envy? Because Dean would never-
"Just getting a drink, Cas, I promise," Dean swears. His eyes widen when the grip in his hair tightens, and now it's starting to hurt. "Nothing else."
"Sam told you not to leave the room," Cas states and Dean wonders how he knows that. Then dismisses it because Cas knows everything.
"I had to," Dean replies. He doesn't pause to consider the sound of his own voice, how close to whining he's getting. "I was climbin' the fucking walls. Had to get out of there."
Cas bends down, pressing into Dean's personal space, nose an inch away from Dean's. His other hand trails down Dean's cheek and onto his neck, fingers bracing around his windpipe. It's a clear threat if Dean is lying. He knows what those long fingers feel like wrapped around his neck, thumb pressed against his pulse point until black spots his vision.
A part of him wants Cas to press down. Make him see forever.
"You could have hurt someone," Cas insists. His voice is smooth, deep, but he's clearly displeased with Dean. Means to take it out on him. Dean can't wait.
"But I didn't," Dean insists. Though he's hungry for it, for whatever bone the angel throws his way this time because he lives off the crumbs from Cas' table, he doesn't want the other man to think he'd hurt someone. He was fine, sitting on his stool. After filling his belly in the vampire nest a few hours prior, he'd barely been tempted by the sweet thump of blood in veins passing by him all night.
"Yet." The word's finality shocks him, like Cas thinks it's only a matter of time, and Dean sucks in a gasp.
Castiel doesn't let him dwell, and instead, releases the hand round his throat, trailing it up to his cheek and into his hair to join the other. It's more gentle this time. He rubs soothing circles into Dean's scalp and calms the stinging. Dean practically purrs into his touch, leaning forward until his cheek presses to Castiel's trousers, feels the heat of him bleed through.
"Dean." Cas yanks his chin forward, making Dean's neck crack. "Open your mouth." The command is accompanied by a sure, softly padded thumb across his lower lip, momentarily slipping inside. Cas takes like pure fucking sin, nothing like an angel should taste like. Dean takes the initiative and sucks it in, biting and licking across the sensitive skin.
"Wide. Wider."
Dean obeys. He opens as wide as he can, showing Cas his teeth.
Cas doesn't speak, just trails the thumb, spit-slick, across Dean's face, leaving behind a shining trail.
"Good, Dean," he croons, all quiet and sweet. "Now, suck me."
Dean, forgetting himself, where he was, who he's with, what he is now, swivels his head around. Is someone there? This is a public alleyway, and any Drunk Tom, Dick, or Harry, not to mention the local fuzz, could waltz on past and see. Light blossoms into the street as The Trident's front door opens and shuts, letting loose a couple of cheery partiers into the street. A couple of them saunter past, thankfully not glancing to their rights. Dean's up for a lot, but he's not up for this. He shakes his head, shoots an uneasy eye at Cas.
"Not really my cup of tea, Cas," Dean quips, feeling a bit like his old self again, humor acting as his own personal suit of armor. His humor, of course, doesn't stand up to the sharp slap of palm against cheek when Cas smacks his broad hand across Dean's face.
"It wasn't a request, Dean," Cas asserts, voice steel-blade sharp. "Now. Suck. Me."
Dean swallows audibly, throat bobbing. Cas doesn't give him another second to choose. He grips Dean's jaw in a tight fist, thumb shoved inside his mouth. Dean can taste the faintest sheen of sweat on the tip of the digit, and fights not to drool. No matter what might happen, whether a busload of kiddies stops by on their way back from the puppy shelter and they're scarred forever or the police chief happens by on his nightly tour of the seedier side of town and dubs them horrible sex offenders, Dean wants this. He wants Cas' cock sliding between his lips. He wants to taste that bitter, salty tang on his tongue. He wants to see Cas come undone, slowly and almost methodically, above him. While his stomach turns at the thought of doing this here, now, he can't deny that it sends a bolt down south.
With Cas' fingers keeping such calm control on his mouth, Dean reaches up with slightly shaky hands and fingers the pearlescent button at the clasp of the vessel's -Jimmy's but he can't think about that guy right now- trousers, slips it through the hole, and watches inch by inch of pale, untouched skin reveal itself. He draws the zipper down, notices the lack of underwear, and lets his tongue do the talking along Cas' hand.
Then Cas is parting his lips with more than a finger or two. Like the rest of him, his cock is lean, long, just nudging Dean's throat. He tastes dirtyfuckingfilthyohmygodsogood and Dean lets his eyes slip shut as he carefully navigates teeth and sensitive skin. When he's got it slotted in his mouth, just right, he starts a slow suction, and listens as Cas' breath hitches and sputters.
Even though Dean's the one on his knees, Cas is the one having trouble breathing. That says something.
He lets a little whimper pass over the flesh nestled inside him; just because Cas is the one getting his dick sucked doesn't mean he's the only one enjoying this, as humiliating as it would be if they were discovered. Dean hollows his cheeks, pulls back, slides forward, fucking his face on Cas' cock.
It does something absolutely nasty to Cas, who threads his fingers through Dean's hair again, nails harshly scraping his scalp. All those little sensations zip their way down to his own crotch, an area of his anatomy lacking the proper attention. However, when he drops his hand to the front of his jeans, palming his cock through the thick denim, Cas makes an angry noise, shoves Dean away (hands still tight at the back of his head), and glares down at him so cold that Dean's sure he's going to be iced over here in a matter of moments.
"I don't believe I gave permission to touch yourself," Cas growls. Dean can't help it; the dominance plays and the voice are such a turn-on that he might just finish right here, right now.
"Cas..."
"You can touch yourself when I tell you, Dean," Cas instructs. Before Dean can react, but after he pulls his hand out of his lap and places it so tenderly on Cas' ass, the angel tugs his face back into his crotch and shoves himself back between Dean's plush lips. Starts fucking his mouth.
It hurts, makes Dean's eyes water when Cas goes a little too far and risks choking him more than once. It feels so good knowing that he's got Cas in his mouth, tasting Cas' precome thick like honey, trailing his tongue along the soft skin of the angel, kissing up and down his erection like it's going out of style. It's so worth it, knowing he's making Cas come undone. It's that warm feeling spreading all over him, and if he's not careful, it's all going to end here soon.
Thankfully, he doesn't have to worry about that. Cas speeds up his thrusts and uses Dean's mouth, brutal. Not that he minds. He'd mind if Cas stopped.
"Dean...Dean...Dean..." Cas pants. Dean can feel the tightening in his body, signaling the end, and without further notice, Cas is moaning long and low as he spurts into Dean's mouth. It's hot, hotter than...and it tastes a little...doesn't matter. He immediately swallows it down, tries to remember that it's Cas he's drinking in, and it makes him thrust his own hips into the air, desperate for contact and release.
Cas leans down, hands on either side of Dean's face, and kisses him lightly once, twice, three times. He then presses his full mouth to Dean's ear, and whispers, "Come for me, Dean. Don't make me wait..."
Before he even finishes his thought, Dean's rubbing against his erection through his jeans, too damned fucking impatient to even thrust a hand beneath the waistband.
It's not hard to obey this particular command, and it's just a few strokes before he's coming hard in his pants. Before he's digging his face into the shallow dip of hipbones and crying through it because this is exactly what he wanted. This is exactly what he needed after the day he's had, and he should have known Cas would give it to him.
Soon, the aftershocks subside, and he tries to ignore the slow drag of damp denim and boxer-briefs over his too-sensitive cock.
He's still kneeling in the cold, dirty water staining his knees, when Cas zips himself up and helps Dean to his feet. As Dean struggles to steady himself, Cas helps with firm hands and a willing mouth to bestow little pecks over Dean's cheeks and eyes.
"Cas," Dean asks, voice a little rough from the pounding his throat just took, "can you take me back? I need..." And all of a sudden, everything he'd pushed back when Cas showed up, everything he tried to forget (his new status as a monster, the vampire thirst temporarily sated before but flaring back to life after expending so much energy, the problem with Sam) comes crashing back onto his shoulders like a ton of bricks. He wants to crumble under the weight of them, wants to sag against the stone wall and never come up. But Cas won't let him, and for that, Dean loves him. Just a little bit.
Okay, a whole hell of a lot, and while he's too damn proud and stubborn to admit it, he thinks Cas knows it just the same.
Cas, reverting from the dominant voice in the couple to the comforting voice in the couple, nods, indulges Dean with a tiny whisper of a smile, and presses two fingers to his forehead.
Instantly, they're back in the hotel, with Dean sinking into the bed that suddenly feels like a hundred clouds instead of a stone pallet (and maybe that's the angel's doing, but he couldn't give a shit), and Cas is taking off his trench coat and folding it over the nearest chair. He undoes his tie, places it next to the coat, and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. Off come the shoes, socks.
"I'm..." Dean tries to sit up, talk, but Cas merely pushes him back down, draws the covers up and over, and settles down next to the hunter. He shares Dean's pillow and lets Dean find that spot where he fits just right back to Castiel's front.
"Shh, Dean," Cas says, mind fervently wishing for sleep for his lover and friend. "You need your rest."
Dean's already sinking slowly into the gray mist of sleep, but before he goes, mutters, "And you'll be here when I wake up?"
Cas doesn't fully appreciate the tightening in his chest until now, and he answers with a nod and a, "Of course, Dean. I promise."
He promises a lot of things, to Dean and to himself: he promises to find a cure, no matter what the cost, to let Dean discover his humanity again before he's too far gone that he can't be saved, to right the chaos in Heaven, and stop the world from ending.
And Castiel, Angel of the Lord, always keeps his promises.
the end.