Lullaby (Dean/Castiel)
Title: Lullaby
Author: secondplatypus
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Warnings: slash
Spoilers: set in season 4, between Ep. 4.14 and 4.15. Contains a mild spoiler for 4.16, a major spoiler for 4.14, and overall spoilers for the beginning of the season.
Word count: 1748
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all characters therein are the property of Eric Kripke and the WB/CW, I'm just borrowing them for my own nefarious purposes.
Summary: Disturbed Dean is disturbed, and having nightmares out the wazoo. Protective Cas is protective, and watches him while he sleeps...
Author's notes: written for my biffles and beta amorremanet, without whom I would still be a productive member of society. This is my first foray into the Supernatural fandom, marking the end of my four and a half year hiatus from writing fic.
It had been nearly two weeks since the last time Dean Winchester had a decent night's sleep.
After nearly killing his brother under the Siren's thrall, the horrible dreams Dean had been struggling with intermittently since he was raised from Hell returned to him with a vengeance. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Dean was perfectly fine, but if he thought he could fool Sam, the bullheaded bastard had another thing coming. Seeing through his brother's facades was second nature to Sam; the picture was a little fuzzy around the edges, but Sam didn't need the details to know that something was wrong. Dean was run ragged -- hell, they both were -- and Sam would be damned if they would keep hunting when Dean was this exhausted. It took a little wheedling, a fair amount of shouting, and liberal quantities of guilt-tripping, but Sam finally managed to convince his brother to take a detour to Bobby's for some resting, relaxing, and reloading.
For the first three nights the brothers spent at Bobby's place, the throes of Dean's nightmares were so loud Sam could hardly sleep. Dean, being Dean, staunchly refused help, writing it off to a lack of good rest, good beer, and better women over the last few weeks, but when his baby brother turned on the desperation and pleaded with him to take the medicines Bobby offered, Dean couldn't say no. The remedies didn't do a thing for him, but it didn't stop Dean from pretending. Every night, he would wait until Sam fell asleep, then sneak out to the Impala, curl up in her backseat, and ride out the ordeal by himself.
This routine worked perfectly until Castiel started dropping by.
Since Castiel heard rumors involving Alastair and a seal, he'd been afraid Dean Winchester would once again be central to the demon's plot, and he hadn't been comfortable with the idea of having Dean out of his sight for more than a few hours. When Castiel found out Dean had taken to sleeping in the Impala rather than Bobby's veritable fortress of a panic room, he'd become as furious as he knew how to be (which came off as rather irritated by human standards) and nagged Dean about sleeping in the more secure location until the man gave in. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Castiel was aware that the extreme disturbance giving rise to Dean's nightmares and his lying to Sam were reasons for concern, but those matters were insignificant compared to the importance of keeping Dean safe, so he didn't pay them much attention.
Despite Dean's promise to sleep in the panic room if he chose to separate himself from Sam, Castiel had taken to checking on him at least two or three times a night. He'd discovered Dean covertly slinking out to the Impala on more than one occasion since Dean grudgingly agreed to follow Castiel's orders, and the angel wasn't about to take any chances.
On the eleventh night, when Castiel came to check on Dean in the wee hours of the morning, he found him sprawled on the panic room's ratty mattress, a blanket haphazardly thrown over his naked chest.
The sight of Dean's exposed flesh took Castiel by surprise. He'd never seen Dean shirtless, but he'd heard enough stories about the Winchesters' legendary scar collections to have certain expectations. Given Dean's occupation and penchant for stupid behavior, Castiel had assumed that the few months since Dean returned would have given him enough time to cover himself in scars all over again, but the parts of his reborn body Castiel could see were nearly flawless, save for the edges of the handprint-shaped scar that peeked out from beneath the blanket's bunched fabric. Castiel hadn't seen the scar since he'd raised Dean from Perdition, gripping Dean's arm tight enough for his Grace to leave the burning wound behind, and he found himself intrigued by the contrast between Dean's subtle golden tones and the violent red silhouette.
The quiet, still sleep Dean had been enjoying when Castiel arrived switched gears to something else entirely, causing him to twitch and thrash, interrupting Castiel's study of his upper arm. Castiel was well aware of Dean's nightmares, but he'd never witnessed one for himself. As he watched Dean's brow crease into lines of fretful pain while the man's body shuddered, Castiel felt something stir in Jimmy's breast. Dean's movements shoved the blanket further down his bare torso, exposing more of the mark left by the the angel's hand, shiny and textured where it reflected the dim light. Castiel imagined that if he touched it, he could probably feel every detail of his fingerprints there. Dean's tossing and turning belied the bravado he worked so hard to maintain, exposing the raw vulnerability he'd rather die than openly admit to; Castiel wanted to mold his fingers to the lines of the thickened, ropy flesh and pull Dean out of the Hell behind his eyelids, saving him from the memories that made him cry out and whimper like a child.
Tentatively, Castiel reached out a hand, gently brushing an index finger against its imprint, outlining the puckered borders where skin met scar. He'd never paid attention to the feel of a human's body - the only bare skin he'd touched belonged to him, and that only ever happened by accident. He was surprised by how soft Dean was; even the roughened surface of the scar had a smooth flexibility that felt good under his fingers.
Dean shifted in his sleep, turning his head towards Castiel in response to the touch. The angel jerked his hand away, afraid he'd awakened his charge, and scanned Dean's face for signs that his rest had been disturbed. Instead, he found that the furrows in Dean's forehead had smoothed, the muscles of his jaw relaxed; the only sounds escaping Dean's parted lips were soft, slow breaths punctuated by contented sighs. Castiel's eyes lingered on that full mouth, swollen and darkened by teeth that worried at its edges in the throes of Dean's nightmares, and he felt the sudden, odd impulse to soothe the bruised flesh. He couldn't seem to tear his gaze away, and the longer he looked, the stronger the urge grew. Castiel felt Jimmy's heart - his heart - begin to beat a little faster, accompanied by the warm prickle of blood rising to his cheeks. This must be what protectiveness feels like, he thought to himself, the need to shelter, to care. God will be pleased.
The tempo of Dean's breathing quickened and he began to squirm again, uttering soft groans. Afraid he was being overwhelmed by another nightmare, Castiel spread his fingers over Dean's scar in hopes of quieting him. Dean said something in an almost inaudible whisper, then repeated it. Castiel moved closer so he could hear, until he could feel Dean's breath on his skin. With so little distance between them, Castiel noticed the subtle flush coloring Dean's cheeks and realized the noises Dean was making weren't those of pain or fear. He'd heard them before when Dean disappeared into the bathroom with magazines whose titles alone made Castiel blush. And, he realized as the sounds Dean was making grew in volume, the word on Dean's lips was Castiel's name.
At the sound of Dean's tongue wrapping around those syllables, Castiel's grip on Dean's arm tightened, fingers biting into his skin. Dean's eyes flew open, all hazy green confusion until they focused on Castiel's face, meeting the clear blue of the angel's with an intensity that made Castiel swallow hard. Castiel became aware of the sound of ragged breathing and realized it was his own. He struggled to think of something to say, anything to say, anything to break the tangible tension between their locked eyes. When he found his voice, its gravelly pitch had taken on a new edge, tinged with something he didn't recognize. The same something that was causing blood to rise to his face, his heart to flutter, and an odd, heavy heat to build low and deep in his belly. Castiel didn't know exactly what was going on but he knew enough to know that the feeling setting his nerves on fire and causing the front of his trousers to grow strangely tight had nothing to do with protectiveness.
"Dean. Dean I-"
Castiel's words were forgotten as Dean's lips found his own. They were soft and warm and doing things that made Castiel's body react in ways he hadn't known were possible. Until now, most of his human senses had seemed utterly useless, but when Dean's lips parted against his, gently nudging his mouth open as Dean traced the crease of his lips with slow, lingering brushes of his tongue, Castiel tasted the remnants of whiskey and the dark sweetness of Dean's mouth and understood exactly why God invented taste and touch.
Castiel had never kissed anyone before, but it was obvious to him that Dean knew exactly what he was doing, and he figured that if he did the same sorts of things back to Dean, he couldn't go wrong. He reached a hand up to claim Dean's cheek, running his fingers over rough-stubbled cheekbones while he caught Dean's lower lip gently between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to sting before soothing the sensitive skin with his tongue. Castiel knew immediately that he'd done something right as Dean moaned against his mouth and dragged Castiel's body on top of him. The feel of powerful muscles beneath him, shifting and flexing as Dean arched up against him, tore ragged gasps from the angel's throat.
Castiel felt strong palms on his back, flattening and curling as they pulled off his trenchcoat and jacket. Those hands moved again, untucking his shirt, reaching up and under, then Dean's skin was against his skin, fingers splaying along his spine, and Castiel had no idea that being touched could feel so good. The sweet pressure of Dean's caresses traced along the lines of Castiel's lower back before moving to the sensitive skin of his sides, trailing suggestively down his hips. The instincts of Castiel's very human body took over, shifting his weight to make enough space between them for Dean's hands.
Castiel had one last coherent thought before Dean's fingers slipped lower to stroke the hard bulge straining against the zipper of his trousers and the sensation obliterated everything else.
Amendment to previous statement: God will not be pleased.
Author: secondplatypus
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Warnings: slash
Spoilers: set in season 4, between Ep. 4.14 and 4.15. Contains a mild spoiler for 4.16, a major spoiler for 4.14, and overall spoilers for the beginning of the season.
Word count: 1748
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all characters therein are the property of Eric Kripke and the WB/CW, I'm just borrowing them for my own nefarious purposes.
Summary: Disturbed Dean is disturbed, and having nightmares out the wazoo. Protective Cas is protective, and watches him while he sleeps...
Author's notes: written for my biffles and beta amorremanet, without whom I would still be a productive member of society. This is my first foray into the Supernatural fandom, marking the end of my four and a half year hiatus from writing fic.
It had been nearly two weeks since the last time Dean Winchester had a decent night's sleep.
After nearly killing his brother under the Siren's thrall, the horrible dreams Dean had been struggling with intermittently since he was raised from Hell returned to him with a vengeance. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Dean was perfectly fine, but if he thought he could fool Sam, the bullheaded bastard had another thing coming. Seeing through his brother's facades was second nature to Sam; the picture was a little fuzzy around the edges, but Sam didn't need the details to know that something was wrong. Dean was run ragged -- hell, they both were -- and Sam would be damned if they would keep hunting when Dean was this exhausted. It took a little wheedling, a fair amount of shouting, and liberal quantities of guilt-tripping, but Sam finally managed to convince his brother to take a detour to Bobby's for some resting, relaxing, and reloading.
For the first three nights the brothers spent at Bobby's place, the throes of Dean's nightmares were so loud Sam could hardly sleep. Dean, being Dean, staunchly refused help, writing it off to a lack of good rest, good beer, and better women over the last few weeks, but when his baby brother turned on the desperation and pleaded with him to take the medicines Bobby offered, Dean couldn't say no. The remedies didn't do a thing for him, but it didn't stop Dean from pretending. Every night, he would wait until Sam fell asleep, then sneak out to the Impala, curl up in her backseat, and ride out the ordeal by himself.
This routine worked perfectly until Castiel started dropping by.
Since Castiel heard rumors involving Alastair and a seal, he'd been afraid Dean Winchester would once again be central to the demon's plot, and he hadn't been comfortable with the idea of having Dean out of his sight for more than a few hours. When Castiel found out Dean had taken to sleeping in the Impala rather than Bobby's veritable fortress of a panic room, he'd become as furious as he knew how to be (which came off as rather irritated by human standards) and nagged Dean about sleeping in the more secure location until the man gave in. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Castiel was aware that the extreme disturbance giving rise to Dean's nightmares and his lying to Sam were reasons for concern, but those matters were insignificant compared to the importance of keeping Dean safe, so he didn't pay them much attention.
Despite Dean's promise to sleep in the panic room if he chose to separate himself from Sam, Castiel had taken to checking on him at least two or three times a night. He'd discovered Dean covertly slinking out to the Impala on more than one occasion since Dean grudgingly agreed to follow Castiel's orders, and the angel wasn't about to take any chances.
On the eleventh night, when Castiel came to check on Dean in the wee hours of the morning, he found him sprawled on the panic room's ratty mattress, a blanket haphazardly thrown over his naked chest.
The sight of Dean's exposed flesh took Castiel by surprise. He'd never seen Dean shirtless, but he'd heard enough stories about the Winchesters' legendary scar collections to have certain expectations. Given Dean's occupation and penchant for stupid behavior, Castiel had assumed that the few months since Dean returned would have given him enough time to cover himself in scars all over again, but the parts of his reborn body Castiel could see were nearly flawless, save for the edges of the handprint-shaped scar that peeked out from beneath the blanket's bunched fabric. Castiel hadn't seen the scar since he'd raised Dean from Perdition, gripping Dean's arm tight enough for his Grace to leave the burning wound behind, and he found himself intrigued by the contrast between Dean's subtle golden tones and the violent red silhouette.
The quiet, still sleep Dean had been enjoying when Castiel arrived switched gears to something else entirely, causing him to twitch and thrash, interrupting Castiel's study of his upper arm. Castiel was well aware of Dean's nightmares, but he'd never witnessed one for himself. As he watched Dean's brow crease into lines of fretful pain while the man's body shuddered, Castiel felt something stir in Jimmy's breast. Dean's movements shoved the blanket further down his bare torso, exposing more of the mark left by the the angel's hand, shiny and textured where it reflected the dim light. Castiel imagined that if he touched it, he could probably feel every detail of his fingerprints there. Dean's tossing and turning belied the bravado he worked so hard to maintain, exposing the raw vulnerability he'd rather die than openly admit to; Castiel wanted to mold his fingers to the lines of the thickened, ropy flesh and pull Dean out of the Hell behind his eyelids, saving him from the memories that made him cry out and whimper like a child.
Tentatively, Castiel reached out a hand, gently brushing an index finger against its imprint, outlining the puckered borders where skin met scar. He'd never paid attention to the feel of a human's body - the only bare skin he'd touched belonged to him, and that only ever happened by accident. He was surprised by how soft Dean was; even the roughened surface of the scar had a smooth flexibility that felt good under his fingers.
Dean shifted in his sleep, turning his head towards Castiel in response to the touch. The angel jerked his hand away, afraid he'd awakened his charge, and scanned Dean's face for signs that his rest had been disturbed. Instead, he found that the furrows in Dean's forehead had smoothed, the muscles of his jaw relaxed; the only sounds escaping Dean's parted lips were soft, slow breaths punctuated by contented sighs. Castiel's eyes lingered on that full mouth, swollen and darkened by teeth that worried at its edges in the throes of Dean's nightmares, and he felt the sudden, odd impulse to soothe the bruised flesh. He couldn't seem to tear his gaze away, and the longer he looked, the stronger the urge grew. Castiel felt Jimmy's heart - his heart - begin to beat a little faster, accompanied by the warm prickle of blood rising to his cheeks. This must be what protectiveness feels like, he thought to himself, the need to shelter, to care. God will be pleased.
The tempo of Dean's breathing quickened and he began to squirm again, uttering soft groans. Afraid he was being overwhelmed by another nightmare, Castiel spread his fingers over Dean's scar in hopes of quieting him. Dean said something in an almost inaudible whisper, then repeated it. Castiel moved closer so he could hear, until he could feel Dean's breath on his skin. With so little distance between them, Castiel noticed the subtle flush coloring Dean's cheeks and realized the noises Dean was making weren't those of pain or fear. He'd heard them before when Dean disappeared into the bathroom with magazines whose titles alone made Castiel blush. And, he realized as the sounds Dean was making grew in volume, the word on Dean's lips was Castiel's name.
At the sound of Dean's tongue wrapping around those syllables, Castiel's grip on Dean's arm tightened, fingers biting into his skin. Dean's eyes flew open, all hazy green confusion until they focused on Castiel's face, meeting the clear blue of the angel's with an intensity that made Castiel swallow hard. Castiel became aware of the sound of ragged breathing and realized it was his own. He struggled to think of something to say, anything to say, anything to break the tangible tension between their locked eyes. When he found his voice, its gravelly pitch had taken on a new edge, tinged with something he didn't recognize. The same something that was causing blood to rise to his face, his heart to flutter, and an odd, heavy heat to build low and deep in his belly. Castiel didn't know exactly what was going on but he knew enough to know that the feeling setting his nerves on fire and causing the front of his trousers to grow strangely tight had nothing to do with protectiveness.
"Dean. Dean I-"
Castiel's words were forgotten as Dean's lips found his own. They were soft and warm and doing things that made Castiel's body react in ways he hadn't known were possible. Until now, most of his human senses had seemed utterly useless, but when Dean's lips parted against his, gently nudging his mouth open as Dean traced the crease of his lips with slow, lingering brushes of his tongue, Castiel tasted the remnants of whiskey and the dark sweetness of Dean's mouth and understood exactly why God invented taste and touch.
Castiel had never kissed anyone before, but it was obvious to him that Dean knew exactly what he was doing, and he figured that if he did the same sorts of things back to Dean, he couldn't go wrong. He reached a hand up to claim Dean's cheek, running his fingers over rough-stubbled cheekbones while he caught Dean's lower lip gently between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to sting before soothing the sensitive skin with his tongue. Castiel knew immediately that he'd done something right as Dean moaned against his mouth and dragged Castiel's body on top of him. The feel of powerful muscles beneath him, shifting and flexing as Dean arched up against him, tore ragged gasps from the angel's throat.
Castiel felt strong palms on his back, flattening and curling as they pulled off his trenchcoat and jacket. Those hands moved again, untucking his shirt, reaching up and under, then Dean's skin was against his skin, fingers splaying along his spine, and Castiel had no idea that being touched could feel so good. The sweet pressure of Dean's caresses traced along the lines of Castiel's lower back before moving to the sensitive skin of his sides, trailing suggestively down his hips. The instincts of Castiel's very human body took over, shifting his weight to make enough space between them for Dean's hands.
Castiel had one last coherent thought before Dean's fingers slipped lower to stroke the hard bulge straining against the zipper of his trousers and the sensation obliterated everything else.
Amendment to previous statement: God will not be pleased.