The Shyness that is Criminally Vulgar (Sam/Castiel)
Is it just me, or is frottage one of the most unappealing words in the entire English language?
Title: The Shyness that is Criminally Vulgar
Author: secondplatypus
Pairing(s): Sam/Castiel, UST-y/perceived-as-unrequited Dean/Castiel, brief mention of past Sam/Gabriel
Rating: hard R/soft NC-17. I'm erring on the side of caution and calling it NC-17.
Warnings: angst, fallen!Cas, references to Dean/Castiel UST, alcohol use, accidental frottage in sleep, frottage, profanity, AU that borrows heavily from 5.04, brief reference to bodily fluids/messy ejaculation, and a little biting.
This is not a happy fic. It's not a hideously miserable angst-fest, but it's not happy.
Spoilers: mild 5.04
Word Count: 2000, give or take a few
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: Castiel falls. Castiel needs. Sam gives. Sam takes.
Author's Notes: title and cut text taken from the Smiths' "How Soon Is Now"
Written for amor_remanet and orbiting_saturn, who requested accidental rubbing off in sleep with a non Dean/Cas pairing on my kink suggestion post.
- I'm usually not a fan of this flavor of Sassy, with the Dean/Cas UST and whatnot, and I have no idea where this came from. It just... happened.
- there is no history of a sexual relationship between Castiel and either of the Winchesters in the timeline of this 'verse (until this fic, that is).
My boyfriend is half an inch shorter than Sam, and he kindly volunteered himself as a fully clothed, PG-and-purely-for-the-purposes-of-truth-and-science test subject (complete with ridiculous OMNOMNOM noises). With a little maneuvering, it's feasible, and I'm three inches shorter than Castiel - Sam wouldn't have any sort of problem pulling that move off.
The things I do in the name of accuracy and realism.
Goes AU in late season 5, around 5.18-5.19, set two years after the events of those episodes (and two years before 5.04). How it goes is this: Castiel sacrificed himself in 5.18, came back human, and was re-angelified at some point soon after. 5.19 happened, but they don't know about the rings and their ability to re-open Lucifer's cage. Sam is still around and has no intention of saying yes to the Devil, who is after him like crazy.
The Croatoan outbreak happened, and Camp Chitaqua exists.
Under the conditions of this AU, Castiel is newly human not because the angels have deserted Earth, but because his reserve of grace continued to dwindle until it was gone.
(since it was never stated whether it was Croatoan or the possession of Sam by Lucifer that made the angels leave Earth, I've decided to go with the latter being the trigger for the angelic exodus)
"He's only been gone for nine hours. He may not have even left the perimeter of camp - you know how good Cas is at disappearing when he doesn't want to be found."
Dean ran a hand through the short bristles of his hair, rubbing the back of his neck with callous-edged fingers. He couldn't remember the last time Castiel had been out of his sight for more than half an hour; the absence itched under his skin, crawling restlessly around the outline of the handprint on his shoulder.
"I'm tellin' you, Sam, something's wrong."
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away the warning signs of a first-class tension headache. He hated seeing Dean like that, cracking around the edges under the weight of worry and fear, but Sam knew that trying to reassure or soothe or reason with Dean would only serve to agitate him more.
They'd done everything they could, tearing the camp apart, questioning everyone within its walls, and searching the surrounding woods as thoroughly as possible before night fell. Until the sun rose, silence and patience were the only options that remained.
The brothers Winchester weren't very good at either.
Nails bit down, half-moon creases interrupting the lines of Dean's palm as the minutes crept by, sluggish and heavy with anxiety that hummed along his nerves, relentless and maddening. He paced the floor like a caged predator, vibrating with the need to do something - anything - to alleviate the sour-sick ache in the pit of his stomach.
Dean was ten seconds away from heading back to his cabin to get spectacularly drunk when he heard the sound of something heavy slamming into the door, followed by a gruff bark of pain.
Hope flared in Dean's chest. He didn't walk to the door so much as run, leaving his gun on the table - precaution be damned - and throwing it open.
Castiel was slumped against the door-frame, one hand pressed to his cheek, the other holding a bottle roughly the size of his head. The room filled with the stench of Chuck's moonshine, a potent, noxious brew that had a reputation for turning even the most mild-mannered people into violent idiots in two shots or less. By the looks of things, Castiel had the better part of a fifth on board.
The not-quite-angel cocked his head, eyes too wide and blinking slowly as he stared at the Winchesters, the bottle slipping from the loose curl of his fingers and falling to the floor with a sharp crack.
The sound galvanized Castiel into action; he lurched forward, cursing a blue streak in a garbled mix of English and Enochian as he tried to remember how his limbs worked.
A stumble and a step later, he felt the warmth of Dean's body, the press of a hand at his side and the solid length of an arm looping around his back, guiding him towards Sam's bed.
The contact gave Castiel a focus for the angry filth pouring from his mouth, directing it towards Dean and punctuating the belligerent onslaught with swats at the man supporting him. The ill-aimed blows just made Dean hold on tighter, ramping up Castiel's venom; Dean caught his name, a few pieces of choice profanity and something involving the Enochian word for goat before the body in his arms went limp.
Dean laid Castiel's unconscious form down gently, checking for injuries as he went.
When his attention moved to Castiel's face, Dean went rigid, breath rasping harsh over his vocal cords.
"Dean, what's---"
Sam's sentence died in his throat as his long legs swallowed up the remaining distance to the bed, following the path of his brother's eyes.
A shadow marred the plane of Castiel's cheek where it had connected with the door, blood seeping from broken capillaries, spreading tendrils of red beneath delicate white.
In the past months, the ebb of Castiel's grace had manifested in his body - his hair started to grow, he needed to shower, he'd re-learned the gnawing ache of hunger and the bone-deep weight of fatigue - but throughout it all, his skin had stayed perfect, without so much as a single bruise or scar.
"Shit, he's..."
Dean knew full well what that purpling blemish meant, but he wasn't willing to hear the words lining up on Sam's tongue, as though not allowing them to be spoken would somehow restore that final spark of Castiel's divinity.
He cut Sam off, his curt, sharp tone slicing through the air
"Let him sleep, we'll deal with this in the morning"
before he turned and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To my cabin."
"No, Dean, you're staying here. He didn't mean any of the things he said, and you know it. He's your angel - well, ex-angel, but still, yours - and you should be the one who's here when he wakes up."
The lamp-cast shadows on Dean's face weren't enough to hide the wash of red that colored his cheeks.
"He's in your bed."
Sam took a breath, then took it too far, the quiet-soft sound of his voice belying the gravity of his words.
"He'd rather sleep next to you."
Dean shot Sam a dark look and walked out, pausing briefly to deliver a
"take care of him. If anything happens to him, it's your ass"
before disappearing into the humid night.
In the aftermath of Dean's departure, Sam felt like he'd been hit by a truck; his head hurt, and he was sore all over.
They'd known that Castiel's Fall was inevitable, but the concept had been easier to deal with when it was a theoretical eventuality instead of this new, tangible proof that the odds against them were growing by the day.
His eyes fell on the unbroken bottle lying on the floor, two-thirds empty and far more tempting than it had any right to be. After a few long moments of consideration, Sam decided he'd had enough excitement for one evening, turning instead to the emergency stash of whiskey hidden under his bed; three-quarters gone thanks to Dean's burgeoning alcoholism, but still enough to give him the relief he sought.
He took a long pull, coughing as the cheap alcohol hit the back of his throat, leaving a trail of raw fire behind. The next drink was followed by another, then another, hope and fear and doubt swallowed down with the whiskey until his mind was as empty as the bottle.
Sam stripped down to his boxers - it was the middle of July, the temperature about a thousand degrees during the coolest hours of the day, and there was no way he was going to wear jeans in his own damn bed - and jostled Castiel over.
A pleasant numbness settled in his aching muscles as he sank into the mattress, drifting off to the sound of Castiel's snuffling breaths and the gentle chirp-chirp of crickets.
---------------------------------------------
The peaceful, dreamless void surrounding Sam shifted, falling away at the press of a body against his own, rhythmic friction and too-warm flesh lighting every point of contact on fire.
Slender hips arched into him, accompanied by guttural hitches of breath, gravel-rough in a way that sounded exactly like
Cas.
Sam's eyes flew open to find Castiel rutting against him; head thrown back, the blush of arousal visible on cheeks painted silver by moonlight, full lips parted to make way for the litany of wordless filth that poured from them, all pants and groans and porn-star moans.
Paralyzed by shock and stunned beyond the capacity for thought or speech, Sam lay still, embarassment and the dirty-sexy wrong of it setting his face ablaze.
In the still moments before his brain creaked to life, his body reacted of its own volition, an unexpected pang of lust curling through him as he took in the sight and feel of Castiel in all his gorgeous, pliant glory.
The fact that Castiel was probably having a dream about Dean didn't do a thing to quell the desire pooling in Sam's belly.
Reason kicked in too late, the rising chant of shouldn'tshouldn'tshouldn't in his head flying out the window when the angle changed slightly, grinding Castiel's erection along his swelling cock.
The sensation blazed through Sam like lightning, wrenching an involuntary growl from his throat.
Castiel stirred at the sound, heavy lids fluttering open and blinking in confusion.
As the muzzy haze of sleep fell away, Castiel froze, blue eyes going saucer-wide when they focused on Sam.
They stared at each other, all lust-deep breaths and uncertainty in the soft half-dark.
The transition from fantasy to reality hadn't done a thing to affect Castiel's arousal, slotted warm and sin-sweet alongside Sam's and sending a lewd thrill sparking down his spine.
Fuck it.
Sam rolled his hips, rocking into taut-stretched denim and heat and Castiel.
Some part of him knew he'd regret this, that he should keep his hands off his brother's angel, but he was three degrees of sleep-addled and lost and drunk and horny past the point of giving a shit.
The catch of Sam's hardness against his own coaxed a broken little sound from Castiel's throat, growing louder and rougher at the feel of Sam slipping a hand between their bodies. Moans turned to cries as long fingers teased at oversensitive skin, making quick work of the buttons on Castiel's jeans before shoving them down, baring the thick, blood-flushed length of his holyFUCK, Sam should have figured that Castiel didn't wear underwear naked cock.
Sam wriggled out of his boxers as Castiel writhed against him, seeking newly-exposed flesh and shuddering with each velvety, sweat-damp drag.
A huge hand splayed over Castiel's lower back, digging into the dimples at the base of his spine. With a smooth flex of muscle, Sam rolled them sideways and hauled Castiel on top of him, Castiel's legs spreading with the nudge of a knee to straddle Sam's thighs.
Castiel kicked off his jeans the rest of the way and began to move, lithe and fluid and perfect above him; Sam arched up into the grinding pressure between his legs, chasing the pleasure that built with every greedy, hungry slide of skin against his cock.
Fingers traveled lower, sinking into the lush curve of Castiel's ass. They clutched, gripping hard enough to bruise as Castiel's thrusts became more frantic; desperate, stuttering pleas answered by powerful surges of the body beneath him and the sharp sting of Sam's teeth closing over a nipple.
Sam ran his tongue over the freshly-bitten nub, earning a keening, wanton whine.
Hands found his shoulders, shoving him down with all the strength in those slender limbs. Sam could tell from the way Castiel shook that he was close, and Sam wasn't far behind, driven to the breaking point by the shameless, beautiful creature taking him apart with a force and passion that bordered on animalistic.
Castiel gasped Sam's name in a tone that hovered somewhere between reverence and blasphemy, then screamed, nails slicing into the meat of Sam's bicep as his orgasm hit.
The jolt of pain, combined with the feel of Castiel spilling hot and slick between them, pushed Sam over the edge; riding out the throes with fast, dirty glides through the mess coating their bellies.
The taut lines of Castiel's neck softened, the fingers clawing at Sam's shoulders relaxing and withdrawing.
A warm weight settled on Sam's chest, Castiel's cobalt gaze meeting and holding his as the cadence of their heartbeats returned to normal.
There was no telling how long they lay there, locked in a stalemate with hesitation and want and "I dare you" flickering in their eyes
In the end, it was Castiel who moved first, the silent tension dissolving with a soft, curious press of lips - you're not Dean, but you'll do - answered by the brush of Sam's tongue - you aren't Gabriel, either - fingers tangling in wild, dark hair as he licked his way into the fallen angel's mouth.
Title: The Shyness that is Criminally Vulgar
Author: secondplatypus
Pairing(s): Sam/Castiel, UST-y/perceived-as-unrequited Dean/Castiel, brief mention of past Sam/Gabriel
Rating: hard R/soft NC-17. I'm erring on the side of caution and calling it NC-17.
Warnings: angst, fallen!Cas, references to Dean/Castiel UST, alcohol use, accidental frottage in sleep, frottage, profanity, AU that borrows heavily from 5.04, brief reference to bodily fluids/messy ejaculation, and a little biting.
This is not a happy fic. It's not a hideously miserable angst-fest, but it's not happy.
Spoilers: mild 5.04
Word Count: 2000, give or take a few
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: Castiel falls. Castiel needs. Sam gives. Sam takes.
Author's Notes: title and cut text taken from the Smiths' "How Soon Is Now"
Written for amor_remanet and orbiting_saturn, who requested accidental rubbing off in sleep with a non Dean/Cas pairing on my kink suggestion post.
- I'm usually not a fan of this flavor of Sassy, with the Dean/Cas UST and whatnot, and I have no idea where this came from. It just... happened.
- there is no history of a sexual relationship between Castiel and either of the Winchesters in the timeline of this 'verse (until this fic, that is).
My boyfriend is half an inch shorter than Sam, and he kindly volunteered himself as a fully clothed, PG-and-purely-for-the-purposes-of-truth-and-science test subject (complete with ridiculous OMNOMNOM noises). With a little maneuvering, it's feasible, and I'm three inches shorter than Castiel - Sam wouldn't have any sort of problem pulling that move off.
The things I do in the name of accuracy and realism.
Goes AU in late season 5, around 5.18-5.19, set two years after the events of those episodes (and two years before 5.04). How it goes is this: Castiel sacrificed himself in 5.18, came back human, and was re-angelified at some point soon after. 5.19 happened, but they don't know about the rings and their ability to re-open Lucifer's cage. Sam is still around and has no intention of saying yes to the Devil, who is after him like crazy.
The Croatoan outbreak happened, and Camp Chitaqua exists.
Under the conditions of this AU, Castiel is newly human not because the angels have deserted Earth, but because his reserve of grace continued to dwindle until it was gone.
(since it was never stated whether it was Croatoan or the possession of Sam by Lucifer that made the angels leave Earth, I've decided to go with the latter being the trigger for the angelic exodus)
"He's only been gone for nine hours. He may not have even left the perimeter of camp - you know how good Cas is at disappearing when he doesn't want to be found."
Dean ran a hand through the short bristles of his hair, rubbing the back of his neck with callous-edged fingers. He couldn't remember the last time Castiel had been out of his sight for more than half an hour; the absence itched under his skin, crawling restlessly around the outline of the handprint on his shoulder.
"I'm tellin' you, Sam, something's wrong."
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away the warning signs of a first-class tension headache. He hated seeing Dean like that, cracking around the edges under the weight of worry and fear, but Sam knew that trying to reassure or soothe or reason with Dean would only serve to agitate him more.
They'd done everything they could, tearing the camp apart, questioning everyone within its walls, and searching the surrounding woods as thoroughly as possible before night fell. Until the sun rose, silence and patience were the only options that remained.
The brothers Winchester weren't very good at either.
Nails bit down, half-moon creases interrupting the lines of Dean's palm as the minutes crept by, sluggish and heavy with anxiety that hummed along his nerves, relentless and maddening. He paced the floor like a caged predator, vibrating with the need to do something - anything - to alleviate the sour-sick ache in the pit of his stomach.
Dean was ten seconds away from heading back to his cabin to get spectacularly drunk when he heard the sound of something heavy slamming into the door, followed by a gruff bark of pain.
Hope flared in Dean's chest. He didn't walk to the door so much as run, leaving his gun on the table - precaution be damned - and throwing it open.
Castiel was slumped against the door-frame, one hand pressed to his cheek, the other holding a bottle roughly the size of his head. The room filled with the stench of Chuck's moonshine, a potent, noxious brew that had a reputation for turning even the most mild-mannered people into violent idiots in two shots or less. By the looks of things, Castiel had the better part of a fifth on board.
The not-quite-angel cocked his head, eyes too wide and blinking slowly as he stared at the Winchesters, the bottle slipping from the loose curl of his fingers and falling to the floor with a sharp crack.
The sound galvanized Castiel into action; he lurched forward, cursing a blue streak in a garbled mix of English and Enochian as he tried to remember how his limbs worked.
A stumble and a step later, he felt the warmth of Dean's body, the press of a hand at his side and the solid length of an arm looping around his back, guiding him towards Sam's bed.
The contact gave Castiel a focus for the angry filth pouring from his mouth, directing it towards Dean and punctuating the belligerent onslaught with swats at the man supporting him. The ill-aimed blows just made Dean hold on tighter, ramping up Castiel's venom; Dean caught his name, a few pieces of choice profanity and something involving the Enochian word for goat before the body in his arms went limp.
Dean laid Castiel's unconscious form down gently, checking for injuries as he went.
When his attention moved to Castiel's face, Dean went rigid, breath rasping harsh over his vocal cords.
"Dean, what's---"
Sam's sentence died in his throat as his long legs swallowed up the remaining distance to the bed, following the path of his brother's eyes.
A shadow marred the plane of Castiel's cheek where it had connected with the door, blood seeping from broken capillaries, spreading tendrils of red beneath delicate white.
In the past months, the ebb of Castiel's grace had manifested in his body - his hair started to grow, he needed to shower, he'd re-learned the gnawing ache of hunger and the bone-deep weight of fatigue - but throughout it all, his skin had stayed perfect, without so much as a single bruise or scar.
"Shit, he's..."
Dean knew full well what that purpling blemish meant, but he wasn't willing to hear the words lining up on Sam's tongue, as though not allowing them to be spoken would somehow restore that final spark of Castiel's divinity.
He cut Sam off, his curt, sharp tone slicing through the air
"Let him sleep, we'll deal with this in the morning"
before he turned and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To my cabin."
"No, Dean, you're staying here. He didn't mean any of the things he said, and you know it. He's your angel - well, ex-angel, but still, yours - and you should be the one who's here when he wakes up."
The lamp-cast shadows on Dean's face weren't enough to hide the wash of red that colored his cheeks.
"He's in your bed."
Sam took a breath, then took it too far, the quiet-soft sound of his voice belying the gravity of his words.
"He'd rather sleep next to you."
Dean shot Sam a dark look and walked out, pausing briefly to deliver a
"take care of him. If anything happens to him, it's your ass"
before disappearing into the humid night.
In the aftermath of Dean's departure, Sam felt like he'd been hit by a truck; his head hurt, and he was sore all over.
They'd known that Castiel's Fall was inevitable, but the concept had been easier to deal with when it was a theoretical eventuality instead of this new, tangible proof that the odds against them were growing by the day.
His eyes fell on the unbroken bottle lying on the floor, two-thirds empty and far more tempting than it had any right to be. After a few long moments of consideration, Sam decided he'd had enough excitement for one evening, turning instead to the emergency stash of whiskey hidden under his bed; three-quarters gone thanks to Dean's burgeoning alcoholism, but still enough to give him the relief he sought.
He took a long pull, coughing as the cheap alcohol hit the back of his throat, leaving a trail of raw fire behind. The next drink was followed by another, then another, hope and fear and doubt swallowed down with the whiskey until his mind was as empty as the bottle.
Sam stripped down to his boxers - it was the middle of July, the temperature about a thousand degrees during the coolest hours of the day, and there was no way he was going to wear jeans in his own damn bed - and jostled Castiel over.
A pleasant numbness settled in his aching muscles as he sank into the mattress, drifting off to the sound of Castiel's snuffling breaths and the gentle chirp-chirp of crickets.
---------------------------------------------
The peaceful, dreamless void surrounding Sam shifted, falling away at the press of a body against his own, rhythmic friction and too-warm flesh lighting every point of contact on fire.
Slender hips arched into him, accompanied by guttural hitches of breath, gravel-rough in a way that sounded exactly like
Cas.
Sam's eyes flew open to find Castiel rutting against him; head thrown back, the blush of arousal visible on cheeks painted silver by moonlight, full lips parted to make way for the litany of wordless filth that poured from them, all pants and groans and porn-star moans.
Paralyzed by shock and stunned beyond the capacity for thought or speech, Sam lay still, embarassment and the dirty-sexy wrong of it setting his face ablaze.
In the still moments before his brain creaked to life, his body reacted of its own volition, an unexpected pang of lust curling through him as he took in the sight and feel of Castiel in all his gorgeous, pliant glory.
The fact that Castiel was probably having a dream about Dean didn't do a thing to quell the desire pooling in Sam's belly.
Reason kicked in too late, the rising chant of shouldn'tshouldn'tshouldn't in his head flying out the window when the angle changed slightly, grinding Castiel's erection along his swelling cock.
The sensation blazed through Sam like lightning, wrenching an involuntary growl from his throat.
Castiel stirred at the sound, heavy lids fluttering open and blinking in confusion.
As the muzzy haze of sleep fell away, Castiel froze, blue eyes going saucer-wide when they focused on Sam.
They stared at each other, all lust-deep breaths and uncertainty in the soft half-dark.
The transition from fantasy to reality hadn't done a thing to affect Castiel's arousal, slotted warm and sin-sweet alongside Sam's and sending a lewd thrill sparking down his spine.
Fuck it.
Sam rolled his hips, rocking into taut-stretched denim and heat and Castiel.
Some part of him knew he'd regret this, that he should keep his hands off his brother's angel, but he was three degrees of sleep-addled and lost and drunk and horny past the point of giving a shit.
The catch of Sam's hardness against his own coaxed a broken little sound from Castiel's throat, growing louder and rougher at the feel of Sam slipping a hand between their bodies. Moans turned to cries as long fingers teased at oversensitive skin, making quick work of the buttons on Castiel's jeans before shoving them down, baring the thick, blood-flushed length of his holyFUCK, Sam should have figured that Castiel didn't wear underwear naked cock.
Sam wriggled out of his boxers as Castiel writhed against him, seeking newly-exposed flesh and shuddering with each velvety, sweat-damp drag.
A huge hand splayed over Castiel's lower back, digging into the dimples at the base of his spine. With a smooth flex of muscle, Sam rolled them sideways and hauled Castiel on top of him, Castiel's legs spreading with the nudge of a knee to straddle Sam's thighs.
Castiel kicked off his jeans the rest of the way and began to move, lithe and fluid and perfect above him; Sam arched up into the grinding pressure between his legs, chasing the pleasure that built with every greedy, hungry slide of skin against his cock.
Fingers traveled lower, sinking into the lush curve of Castiel's ass. They clutched, gripping hard enough to bruise as Castiel's thrusts became more frantic; desperate, stuttering pleas answered by powerful surges of the body beneath him and the sharp sting of Sam's teeth closing over a nipple.
Sam ran his tongue over the freshly-bitten nub, earning a keening, wanton whine.
Hands found his shoulders, shoving him down with all the strength in those slender limbs. Sam could tell from the way Castiel shook that he was close, and Sam wasn't far behind, driven to the breaking point by the shameless, beautiful creature taking him apart with a force and passion that bordered on animalistic.
Castiel gasped Sam's name in a tone that hovered somewhere between reverence and blasphemy, then screamed, nails slicing into the meat of Sam's bicep as his orgasm hit.
The jolt of pain, combined with the feel of Castiel spilling hot and slick between them, pushed Sam over the edge; riding out the throes with fast, dirty glides through the mess coating their bellies.
The taut lines of Castiel's neck softened, the fingers clawing at Sam's shoulders relaxing and withdrawing.
A warm weight settled on Sam's chest, Castiel's cobalt gaze meeting and holding his as the cadence of their heartbeats returned to normal.
There was no telling how long they lay there, locked in a stalemate with hesitation and want and "I dare you" flickering in their eyes
In the end, it was Castiel who moved first, the silent tension dissolving with a soft, curious press of lips - you're not Dean, but you'll do - answered by the brush of Sam's tongue - you aren't Gabriel, either - fingers tangling in wild, dark hair as he licked his way into the fallen angel's mouth.