Supernatural, Dean / Castiel, NC-17
Title: Amphetamines and Fallen Angels
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Castiel
Summary: Dean tells himself that it’s okay because this Castiel has already been corrupted, this one has already had the innocence peeled away, like old skin. Dean knows that he can’t break what’s already broken.
Warnings: Fallen!Castiel, PWP, explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 4,520
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Spoilers for 5x04. This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Supernatural or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
It feels weird to Dean to be riding in a truck instead of his baby, and even more so for Castiel to be the one driving - seriously, when did the angel get his license? Dean reckons that Cas doesn’t actually have one because he keeps jerking the wheel for every minute steering correction and it’s making him feel kind of sick. He almost asks him to pull over so he can get out and walk when Castiel starts popping pills. At Dean’s incredulous gaze, Castiel tosses his pill collection into Dean’s lap.
“Help yourself,” he says.
“Thanks,” Dean retorts sarcastically. “Should you really be taking these and driving at the same time?” Dean asks, reading the prescription label on the bottle. He can make out the glaringly bold letters that spell out AMPHETAMINES but it doesn’t make it any clearer as to why Castiel is taking them.
Castiel shrugs and looks over at him with a grin. “No idea, but it stops you from caring. If I crashed this truck right now, I wouldn’t give a damn.”
“Yeah, well, I would, so don’t.”
Castiel laughs. “You’re more uptight than I remember you being, Dean.”
Dean stares stonily at him. “You’re more high than I remember you being, Cas.”
Castiel seems to sigh wistfully. “Don’t know how I even managed back then, though I guess I did still have my mojo to take the edge off, huh. At least I now know why you drank and fucked so much.”
The way Castiel curses makes Dean’s skin crawl because he’s definitely sure angels - ex or not - shouldn’t swear. God - wherever he might be - is probably keeping tally and Dean feels like he should warn Cas; tell him to watch his goddamn mouth, like John used to tell him whenever Dean called Sam an ass when they were younger. He doesn’t, though, he just keeps his mouth closed and watches the taillights of the car in front of them illuminate brightly in the dark whenever the future Dean puts his foot on the brake. From the corner of his eyes, Dean can see the red light reflected onto Castiel’s face, and life seems to mock him because the glow makes it look like Castiel is some old-fashioned, cheesy man-painted-red depiction of the devil. Castiel’s hair even sticks up like fake horns. Dean feels nauseous; he’d rather not meet Lucifer tonight - or ever for that matter.
He looks down at the tube of pills still sitting in his lap and makes his decision. Trying not to think too much about it, he tips two out onto his palm and swallows them dry. He slips the rest into the empty cup holder by Castiel’s knee and ignores the way Castiel keeps glancing at him and smiling brightly, as though he’s bursting with the want to say something that Dean knows will just piss him the hell off.
He shifts in his seat, tugging at the seatbelt that’s cutting into his neck, and presses his cheek against the cool window. It feels like ice against his burning flesh, but he doesn’t move away because it’s real and it reminds him that he’s really here, in the future, sitting next to someone he thought he knew, but turns out is really still a stranger. He closes his eyes and imagines the Castiel that must be waiting for him back in 2009, still hanging around, thinking that Dean’s still catching flies in his sleep. He wishes he’d just let Cas come over to the hotel; maybe then he wouldn’t be in this mess right now.
However, thinking about it, Dean knows that if Castiel had zapped himself into Dean’s room, he would have just stood in the corner, in his typical, stalker way, until Dean snapped and told him to go away, or take a shower, or something just to get him to stop staring, because that’s all he ever seems to do. Dean shifts in his seat again because a wave of uncomfortableness washes over him as he thinks that he doesn’t actually hate Castiel staring at him as much as he lets on. For one, Castiel’s wide, deer-like look always reminds him of a girl he once dated when he was 20, and she had been an absolute cat in bed - a true example of how book couldn’t be judged by its cover. For just a second, Dean wonders how Castiel would be in bed, but the thought jolts him into opening his eyes and sitting up straight in his seat.
He glances guiltily over at Castiel, but it only makes it worse because Castiel looks back, his expression open and his mouth even more so.
“What were you thinking about?” he asks, but Dean just shrugs and turns his face back to the window. It suddenly feels a whole ten degrees hotter in the truck and Dean runs his finger under the collar of his t-shirt because it feels like it’s getting tighter, like it’s the rope for his very own set of gallows.
“You okay?” Castiel asks. “You trippin’? Have you ever taken those before?”
“I can handle a few pills, Castiel,” Dean snaps, though even as he says it, he rubs his hands over his face because it feels like there’s something running over it; maybe bug feet, maybe someone’s breath. It makes him feel better to imagine it’s the latter; he pretends that he’s back in his own time, with Castiel leaning over him while he dreams fitfully about being in hell again. In his imagination, it’s Castiel’s breath that’s washing over him and making him tingle with warmth.
He shuts his eyes and swallows because he can’t stop what’s happening to him.
In his mind, Castiel sits gently next to his sleeping form, leaning over to gently whisper Dean’s own name into his ear.
“Dean?” the real Castiel asks, but Dean keeps his eyes shut and slips his hands over his ears to block out the future for the time being.
His imagination draws up the image of Castiel leaning so close to his ear that his lips actually ghost over Dean’s skin, sending goosebumps down his arms and legs. His imaginary self doesn’t wake, but Castiel doesn’t stop murmuring his name, not even when his mouth moves from the shell of Dean’s ear down to the corner of his jaw when his stubble is a little bit longer because he never really shaves that area properly. Castiel’s lips drift like silk across his throat then shift upwards to his chin, where Dean’s sure there’s a sharp lick from Castiel’s tongue, however Castiel doesn’t stop, just continues until he’s the other side of Dean’s jaw, until his nose fits against Dean’s ear.
In real time, Dean clutches at his face and hair with blunt fingernails and drug-weakened fingers, biting his lip to stop himself from saying - or possibly moaning - anything incriminating. He has no idea where they are, but doesn’t care anyway; just as long as the Castiel in his thoughts doesn’t quit mouthing against his neck.
He’s lucky because the Castiel in his mind doesn’t stop, in fact, he grows more insistent, opening his mouth properly so he can fully lick Dean’s skin and gently nibble the soft flesh here and there. The actions are nothing but careful, like Castiel doesn’t actually want Dean to wake up, but has to try anyway. Something vibrates against Dean’s skin and it isn’t until Dean focuses that he understands that Castiel is still saying his name, repeating it like a mantra, like Castiel is trying to reach full meditation with the help of the word.
He can’t stop himself as he lets slip a soft, whispered, “Castiel.”
Dean’s jolted out of his fantasy world as the truck swerves and lurches over the road, rocking his head from side to side and making it knock into the glass of the door’s window with a loud thud. His limbs feel like weights and his whole body is thrumming with need; he is definitely not in control of himself.
“Pull over, Castiel,” he hisses, opening his eyes and throwing him a look that probably gives away how drugged up he actually is because he knows his pupils have to been blown wider than the moon overlooking them outside. Castiel glances at him, taking his eyes off the road for longer than he really should.
“What about the other car?” he asks, as though he really believes Dean gives a shit.
“Fuck it, just pull over!”
Castiel does as Dean tells him, pulling suddenly off the asphalt onto the dirt shoulder, slamming the brakes on suddenly. Dean watches Castiel’s hand as he flicks the gear into park and kills the engine. Even in the dark, Dean can see dust wrapping itself around the truck, blocking the stars from view and folding Dean farther away from reality, allowing the images in his mind to flow out and, like spilled paint, mix together with the future around him.
He can’t take his eyes off Castiel, because every now and then a flickering cream coloured trench coat wraps around Castiel’s shoulders, like a hologram, and it helps Dean to forget how much Castiel has actually changed from the old version Dean knows and wants. He can feel a tongue swiping over his Adam’s apple and fingers grapple in his hair, to try to get him to tip his head back. It’s a strange feeling because the Castiel in front of him hasn’t moved an inch and he’s just staring curiously at Dean, while Dean’s assaulted by a Castiel who exists only in his mind.
Dean undoes his seatbelt because it feels like it’s going to cut him off at the waist, and Castiel mirrors his actions, as though he’s waiting for Dean to throw open the door to run for his life and make him chase after him.
“Are you sure you’re not an angel anymore?” Dean asks and Castiel laughs and nods. As if to prove it, Castiel reaches a hand out and presses two fingers against Dean’s forehead.
“See? No more magic fingers.” He pulls his hand away again, but Dean can feel a burning imprint against his skin, even after Castiel stops touching him. He blinks slowly then focuses on Castiel, sitting slouched in his seat, his faded jeans stretching taut over his legs and crotch in a way Dean’s never seen before. He looks so unlike the Castiel that’s waiting for him back in the past, looks somehow less off-limits, like Dean could do everything imaginable to him and it wouldn’t matter.
Without saying anything, Dean twists and allows his right hand to move across the space between them until it rests on Castiel’s knee. Castiel stares at Dean’s fingers, which Dean lets rub against the inseam of Castiel’s jeans with - what he hopes - is a torturous quality.
“How many pills did you take?” Castiel asks, not quite keeping a smile off his face, though probably not because of anything other than his own high.
“Enough,” Dean says, too busy focussing on slipping his hand higher up Castiel’s thigh, until Dean is forced to shift positions so he can reach the further recesses of Castiel’s body.
“Does your Castiel know how you feel about him?”
“It’s just the drugs.” Dean whispers as though he’s telling himself that as well.
“I see,” he says, mock-seriously, like he’s pretending to be some sort of shrink who’s assessing Dean’s thoughts and feelings.
“Shut up, Cas,” Dean hisses as he rises to his knees on the leather seat and shifts closer to tower over Castiel’s form. His back brushes the low ceiling, but he doesn’t stop until Castiel is pushed up against the door, one leg drawn up onto the seat, and Dean can see his own reflection in the window. It scares him slightly as to how much he looks like a predator going after its prey.
For once it’s Dean that’s breaking the rule about personal space, but he’s not sorry for it and won’t apologise.
Castiel stares up at him, lips slightly parted and his eyes dark. “What do you want me to do, Dean?” he asks, more like he’s making casual conversation than a proposition.
“Nothing,” Dean grunts. “Don’t do anything.”
Castiel listens for about half a second, but as soon as Dean’s hand resumes its climb up Castiel’s leg and his fingers finally brush against the definite bulge in Castiel’s jeans, he lets out a breath and minutely shifts his hips up into Dean’s touch. Dean doesn’t rebuke him, just flattens his palm between Castiel’s legs and rubs steadily, as Castiel parts his thighs further to allow Dean’s movements.
Dean places his other hand on Castiel’s shoulder, pinning him in place, and leans even closer. With his lips brushing Castiel’s ear, he whispers, “Cas,” repeatedly, until it starts to lose its meaning. In the back of Dean’s mind, he realises he’s re-enacting the fantasy that took place in his mind, but he doesn’t care because when he licks along Castiel’s jaw, salt clings to his tongue and the roughness of stubble makes him want more. He’s not careful like the Castiel in his mind was and he sucks roughly at the skin under his mouth, making a serious effort to mark Castiel with bruises that have Dean written all over them. If the past Castiel won’t remember what’s happening here, then he’ll make damn sure that the future one does.
Feeling the last of his defences falling, Dean finally moves his mouth up until it covers Castiel’s own, but Dean tells himself that it’s okay because this Castiel has already been corrupted, this one has already had the innocence peeled away, like old skin. Dean knows that he can’t break what’s already broken.
Castiel seems oddly pliant under his mouth and Dean doesn’t know if it’s because Castiel actually wants it, or if he’s just too drugged to care that Dean is taking advantage of him; either way, Castiel’s lips seem to part eagerly against Dean’s prying tongue.
Dean’s right hand continues to rub over the front of Castiel’s jeans and Castiel breathes openly into his mouth in response. With a gentle sigh, Castiel twists his head to the side to break their kiss.
“Let me free,” he says and for a second Dean thinks Castiel is finally coming to his senses and will stop things from going any further. In belated panic, Dean removes both of his hands from Castiel’s body and scoots backwards across the bench-like seat until he can feel cool glass pressing against the back of his head. He draws his knees up to his chest, trying to use them as a barrier between himself and Castiel.
With a visibly shaking hand, Castiel flicks an overhead light on in the cab and Dean barely keeps the moan between his lips at the sight of Castiel looking so dishevelled. His lips are tinged pink and slightly puffy, while his hair is sticking up every which way in a rumpled fashion that turns Dean on probably more than it should. He’d never get to see his own version of Castiel in such a state, so he drinks down the view while he can. Castiel looks over at him, briefly gazing at Dean’s drawn up legs, then slowly grins lopsidedly. Without saying a word, Castiel mirrors their past position by crawling across the seat and placing his warm hands over Dean’s kneecaps.
“What do you want, Dean?” Castiel asks, but Dean can’t muster up a proper reply, his mind reeling from, well, everything.
Castiel chews thoughtfully on his bottom lip before carrying on.
“You were thinking earlier, and it must have been about me, or else we wouldn’t be here right now, so what was it? What did I do to you?”
Dean holds his gaze. “Nothing I haven’t just done to you.”
Castiel leans in closer, resting his chin on the back of one of his hands. “Then what would you like me to do to you?”
The question holds too much possibility and it overwhelms Dean’s mind. A thousand thoughts fly through his brain all at once and they clog together somewhere near the back of his throat and it stops him from talking at all.
“What do you want your Castiel to do to you?”
A small huff of breath exits Dean’s mouth and for a second he loses the ability to keep his legs up; one foot slips off the seat, spreading his legs wide before Castiel, who seems to take it as an offering as he smiles and nods. Castiel runs his hands along Dean’s firm thighs until his fingers brush against the button on Dean’s jeans. With a swift moment, Castiel undoes it, then draws down Dean’s zipper. Dean can’t breathe and the world seems to be spinning around them, though that might just be the drugs; he can’t really tell anymore. Nimble fingers draw him out of his boxers and pants, exposing him to the cool air in the truck.
Without warning, Castiel dips his head down and draws his tongue over the head of Dean’s cock. Dean hisses and tries shifting his hips up, but it only makes the truck rock from side to side with the change of weight distribution. Castiel’s tongue flicks against his skin again, then he can’t even being to think anymore because Castiel slides his mouth down and down until Dean’s sure he’ll hit the back of Castiel’s throat. He’s never felt so absolutely surrounded by warmth and want, but he wouldn’t mind feeling it more often.
The way Dean’s sitting, scrunched up against the car door, makes it so he can only really see the top of Castiel’s head as it dips and rises in his lap. From this angle, it’s easier to pretend it’s his own Castiel that’s sucking him off and the thought rockets pleasure deep below his stomach.
“Cas,” he moans, threading his fingers into Castiel’s hair, enjoying the way the darkness contrasts against his pale skin. Castiel hums around him and embarrassing as it is, Dean doesn’t think he’ll last long if Castiel keeps it up. The tongue rolling against the underside of his cock is definitely not inexperienced, and Dean wonders whom else Castiel has blown. A part of him almost wishes it were the future version of himself because the irony would be too sweet for words.
Trying to remain as quiet as possible, Dean shuts his eyes and tips his head back to rest it against the window behind his back. He feels completely encompassed by pleasure and his senses feel like they’ll cave and spill over into each other if he’s not careful.
Castiel’s fingers dance over his thighs, touching and rubbing, as though he needs to feel as much of Dean as he can. Without really thinking, Dean moves both his hands to Castiel’s own and links their fingers together. He finds the action comforting and slightly empowering; he’s stopping Castiel from moving his hands away, and Castiel’s clammy palms tell Dean that he might not be as unruffled as Dean first thought. It’s weird for Dean to see Castiel flustered; his own Castiel usually being so calm and collected, but from this experience, he realises he wouldn’t complain about seeing more times when Castiel isn’t completely composed.
Dean’s breath hitches when Castiel’s tongue swipes at a particularly sensitive part of him and he can feel the start of a smile on Castiel’s lips around him in response. Dean bucks his hips up slightly, but Castiel, as though predicting what Dean would do, just loosens his throat and takes it without complaint. The utter warmth surrounding Dean pulls him further away from the world outside of the truck, until all he can picture in his mind is himself with Castiel; nothing else seems to matter at that moment. He can feel himself start to lose control and his grip on Castiel’s hands tighten; Castiel squeeze back as if to encourage him, and Dean’s eyes snap open.
“Castiel,” he moans, the name flowing along with his exhaled breath.
Castiel stops sucking him for a moment, pulling his head away from Dean’s crotch so he can look up at him. His eyes shine brightly, as though they’re drawing in all the radiance from the overhead light and Dean’s never seen them look bluer than they are now. Dean can’t help but appreciate the ruffled, debauched look that Castiel carries so well and wishes that he could recreate it more often with the Castiel in the past. However, he knows that this is his one chance, and that after he’s back in his own time, Castiel will be completely off limits. The thought makes his stomach clench painfully, but then Castiel smiles briefly at him, before licking a long strip up Dean’s cock.
“Keep your eyes open, Dean, because I want you to watch yourself come.”
That about does it for Dean, as Castiel lowers his mouth again and all Dean can do is gasp and push his shoulders painfully into the door behind him. In an unexplainable way, the added discomfort only pushes him closer to orgasm and he can’t help but squeeze Castiel’s hands again in warning. Nothing in the world - not even the friggin’ apocalypse - could stop the flood of pleasure that begins to wash over Dean, and Dean clings onto Castiel’s hands as though they’ll keep him grounded and stop him from falling back into the past.
“Cas, Cas, Cas,” Dean chants, eyes glued on the back of Castiel’s head because that’s really all he can focus on, all he can force himself to look at. Castiel never stops licking and sucking and swallowing around him and Dean knows he’s a goner. With a blunt cry, Dean comes into Castiel’s mouth, so hard that his body actually shakes with the effort of it, and Castiel accepts it, humming his own apparent appreciation.
The come down is harsher than Dean would have liked it to be. He feels light-headed and not only from the amazing head he just received. He can feel the drugs coursing through his veins; knows that when he drifts out of his high, he won’t be a complete fan of the choices he’s made within the last half hour. His conscience is going to be working overtime because of this, but he prays that even so, he won’t end up all mopey like Sam.
Gently, as though Castiel already knows how sensitive Dean gets after sex - which if he is actually sleeping with the future Dean, he might - Castiel pulls his mouth off of Dean and sits up. Their fingers are still linked together and Dean wonders if perhaps Castiel hasn’t noticed, until Castiel makes a point to unclench his hands, loosening the bond between limbs. Dean takes this as a hint to let go, as so does. As soon as Castiel has his hands free again, he tucks Dean back into his pants and tugs the zipper and button back into place. All evidence of what they just did vanishes with an ease that tells Dean that this is definitely not the first time Castiel has given someone a quicky in a tight space.
Dean glances at Castiel’s crotch and realises that he’s still as hard as he was when they began.
“Can I-?” he starts, but Castiel shakes his head.
“This was never about my needs, Dean,” he says, and leaves it at that.
Dean’s about to twist in his seat to face the windshield again, but before he can move, Castiel reaches out and cups the side of Dean’s face softly with his hand.
With a gentle tone that Dean’s never heard before, Castiel says, “You should really tell me how you feel, because all I really remember about my past is feeling so alone, though I don’t think I understood what that feeling really was until I fell.”
Dean doesn’t know if he really understands what Castiel’s telling him, but before he can say anything, Castiel continues.
“You and I were just two lonely people thrown together at a time that made it hard for us to really stay together, but I think, even back then, I would have appreciated a clap on the shoulder or a hug every now and again. This future isn’t so bright, but you can change it, Dean, it never has to be like this. You might not realise it, but both Sam and I need you,” his voice goes back to its usual gravelly tone as he says, “So stop being a bitch and admit stuff to us. Tell Sam you were wrong and tell me that you want my angel ass, because chances are we both like you enough to stick around long enough to see you through the apocalypse.”
Dean doesn’t know what to say, in fact, he feels rather awkward; he doesn’t do heart-to-heart moments, at all. He guesses it must show on his face, because Castiel pats his cheek and laughs at him.
“Dean Winchester, you never change, do you?”
With that, Castiel pulls his hand away and moves back behind the wheel to start the truck up. Dean shifts his leg off the seat and finally sets it on the floor, as he reaches for his seatbelt. The silence in the truck is made less uncomfortable by the noise of the revving engine as Castiel flicks the vehicle into drive and takes the parking brake off. Dean turns his face towards the window and eyes up his own reflection in the glass; he looks exactly the same, but looking past himself, he notices Castiel looking older and harder. The Castiel beside him is one made of war, death, and cynicism, and that’s not the one that Dean really needs. The one he needs is made of determination, hope, and trust, but it seems so far away from his grasp.
He wants to go back to the past more than anything, but he doesn’t say a word, he just turns the overhead light off and accepts the darkness that wraps itself around his body. He feels more sober than ever, but he realises that’s okay because he’s the Dean that uses his love and friendships to get himself through the hard times. He’s stronger than he ever thought possible, and that makes life look a lot less threatening, like Dean could actually take on Lucifer and win, just to save the world for the few people he really cares for.
Maybe he will tell Cas how he feels when he gets back, but he guesses that first he has to put up with Zachariah’s stupid morality-trip.
“So, how much farther have we got to go?” Dean asks, watching the truck’s headlights bounce off trees and broken down houses on the side of the road.
“Not too far,” Castiel replies and Dean thinks Good, because the sooner it’s over, the sooner he can go home. He tips his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes.
“Wake me when we get there.”
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Castiel
Summary: Dean tells himself that it’s okay because this Castiel has already been corrupted, this one has already had the innocence peeled away, like old skin. Dean knows that he can’t break what’s already broken.
Warnings: Fallen!Castiel, PWP, explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 4,520
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Spoilers for 5x04. This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Supernatural or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
It feels weird to Dean to be riding in a truck instead of his baby, and even more so for Castiel to be the one driving - seriously, when did the angel get his license? Dean reckons that Cas doesn’t actually have one because he keeps jerking the wheel for every minute steering correction and it’s making him feel kind of sick. He almost asks him to pull over so he can get out and walk when Castiel starts popping pills. At Dean’s incredulous gaze, Castiel tosses his pill collection into Dean’s lap.
“Help yourself,” he says.
“Thanks,” Dean retorts sarcastically. “Should you really be taking these and driving at the same time?” Dean asks, reading the prescription label on the bottle. He can make out the glaringly bold letters that spell out AMPHETAMINES but it doesn’t make it any clearer as to why Castiel is taking them.
Castiel shrugs and looks over at him with a grin. “No idea, but it stops you from caring. If I crashed this truck right now, I wouldn’t give a damn.”
“Yeah, well, I would, so don’t.”
Castiel laughs. “You’re more uptight than I remember you being, Dean.”
Dean stares stonily at him. “You’re more high than I remember you being, Cas.”
Castiel seems to sigh wistfully. “Don’t know how I even managed back then, though I guess I did still have my mojo to take the edge off, huh. At least I now know why you drank and fucked so much.”
The way Castiel curses makes Dean’s skin crawl because he’s definitely sure angels - ex or not - shouldn’t swear. God - wherever he might be - is probably keeping tally and Dean feels like he should warn Cas; tell him to watch his goddamn mouth, like John used to tell him whenever Dean called Sam an ass when they were younger. He doesn’t, though, he just keeps his mouth closed and watches the taillights of the car in front of them illuminate brightly in the dark whenever the future Dean puts his foot on the brake. From the corner of his eyes, Dean can see the red light reflected onto Castiel’s face, and life seems to mock him because the glow makes it look like Castiel is some old-fashioned, cheesy man-painted-red depiction of the devil. Castiel’s hair even sticks up like fake horns. Dean feels nauseous; he’d rather not meet Lucifer tonight - or ever for that matter.
He looks down at the tube of pills still sitting in his lap and makes his decision. Trying not to think too much about it, he tips two out onto his palm and swallows them dry. He slips the rest into the empty cup holder by Castiel’s knee and ignores the way Castiel keeps glancing at him and smiling brightly, as though he’s bursting with the want to say something that Dean knows will just piss him the hell off.
He shifts in his seat, tugging at the seatbelt that’s cutting into his neck, and presses his cheek against the cool window. It feels like ice against his burning flesh, but he doesn’t move away because it’s real and it reminds him that he’s really here, in the future, sitting next to someone he thought he knew, but turns out is really still a stranger. He closes his eyes and imagines the Castiel that must be waiting for him back in 2009, still hanging around, thinking that Dean’s still catching flies in his sleep. He wishes he’d just let Cas come over to the hotel; maybe then he wouldn’t be in this mess right now.
However, thinking about it, Dean knows that if Castiel had zapped himself into Dean’s room, he would have just stood in the corner, in his typical, stalker way, until Dean snapped and told him to go away, or take a shower, or something just to get him to stop staring, because that’s all he ever seems to do. Dean shifts in his seat again because a wave of uncomfortableness washes over him as he thinks that he doesn’t actually hate Castiel staring at him as much as he lets on. For one, Castiel’s wide, deer-like look always reminds him of a girl he once dated when he was 20, and she had been an absolute cat in bed - a true example of how book couldn’t be judged by its cover. For just a second, Dean wonders how Castiel would be in bed, but the thought jolts him into opening his eyes and sitting up straight in his seat.
He glances guiltily over at Castiel, but it only makes it worse because Castiel looks back, his expression open and his mouth even more so.
“What were you thinking about?” he asks, but Dean just shrugs and turns his face back to the window. It suddenly feels a whole ten degrees hotter in the truck and Dean runs his finger under the collar of his t-shirt because it feels like it’s getting tighter, like it’s the rope for his very own set of gallows.
“You okay?” Castiel asks. “You trippin’? Have you ever taken those before?”
“I can handle a few pills, Castiel,” Dean snaps, though even as he says it, he rubs his hands over his face because it feels like there’s something running over it; maybe bug feet, maybe someone’s breath. It makes him feel better to imagine it’s the latter; he pretends that he’s back in his own time, with Castiel leaning over him while he dreams fitfully about being in hell again. In his imagination, it’s Castiel’s breath that’s washing over him and making him tingle with warmth.
He shuts his eyes and swallows because he can’t stop what’s happening to him.
In his mind, Castiel sits gently next to his sleeping form, leaning over to gently whisper Dean’s own name into his ear.
“Dean?” the real Castiel asks, but Dean keeps his eyes shut and slips his hands over his ears to block out the future for the time being.
His imagination draws up the image of Castiel leaning so close to his ear that his lips actually ghost over Dean’s skin, sending goosebumps down his arms and legs. His imaginary self doesn’t wake, but Castiel doesn’t stop murmuring his name, not even when his mouth moves from the shell of Dean’s ear down to the corner of his jaw when his stubble is a little bit longer because he never really shaves that area properly. Castiel’s lips drift like silk across his throat then shift upwards to his chin, where Dean’s sure there’s a sharp lick from Castiel’s tongue, however Castiel doesn’t stop, just continues until he’s the other side of Dean’s jaw, until his nose fits against Dean’s ear.
In real time, Dean clutches at his face and hair with blunt fingernails and drug-weakened fingers, biting his lip to stop himself from saying - or possibly moaning - anything incriminating. He has no idea where they are, but doesn’t care anyway; just as long as the Castiel in his thoughts doesn’t quit mouthing against his neck.
He’s lucky because the Castiel in his mind doesn’t stop, in fact, he grows more insistent, opening his mouth properly so he can fully lick Dean’s skin and gently nibble the soft flesh here and there. The actions are nothing but careful, like Castiel doesn’t actually want Dean to wake up, but has to try anyway. Something vibrates against Dean’s skin and it isn’t until Dean focuses that he understands that Castiel is still saying his name, repeating it like a mantra, like Castiel is trying to reach full meditation with the help of the word.
He can’t stop himself as he lets slip a soft, whispered, “Castiel.”
Dean’s jolted out of his fantasy world as the truck swerves and lurches over the road, rocking his head from side to side and making it knock into the glass of the door’s window with a loud thud. His limbs feel like weights and his whole body is thrumming with need; he is definitely not in control of himself.
“Pull over, Castiel,” he hisses, opening his eyes and throwing him a look that probably gives away how drugged up he actually is because he knows his pupils have to been blown wider than the moon overlooking them outside. Castiel glances at him, taking his eyes off the road for longer than he really should.
“What about the other car?” he asks, as though he really believes Dean gives a shit.
“Fuck it, just pull over!”
Castiel does as Dean tells him, pulling suddenly off the asphalt onto the dirt shoulder, slamming the brakes on suddenly. Dean watches Castiel’s hand as he flicks the gear into park and kills the engine. Even in the dark, Dean can see dust wrapping itself around the truck, blocking the stars from view and folding Dean farther away from reality, allowing the images in his mind to flow out and, like spilled paint, mix together with the future around him.
He can’t take his eyes off Castiel, because every now and then a flickering cream coloured trench coat wraps around Castiel’s shoulders, like a hologram, and it helps Dean to forget how much Castiel has actually changed from the old version Dean knows and wants. He can feel a tongue swiping over his Adam’s apple and fingers grapple in his hair, to try to get him to tip his head back. It’s a strange feeling because the Castiel in front of him hasn’t moved an inch and he’s just staring curiously at Dean, while Dean’s assaulted by a Castiel who exists only in his mind.
Dean undoes his seatbelt because it feels like it’s going to cut him off at the waist, and Castiel mirrors his actions, as though he’s waiting for Dean to throw open the door to run for his life and make him chase after him.
“Are you sure you’re not an angel anymore?” Dean asks and Castiel laughs and nods. As if to prove it, Castiel reaches a hand out and presses two fingers against Dean’s forehead.
“See? No more magic fingers.” He pulls his hand away again, but Dean can feel a burning imprint against his skin, even after Castiel stops touching him. He blinks slowly then focuses on Castiel, sitting slouched in his seat, his faded jeans stretching taut over his legs and crotch in a way Dean’s never seen before. He looks so unlike the Castiel that’s waiting for him back in the past, looks somehow less off-limits, like Dean could do everything imaginable to him and it wouldn’t matter.
Without saying anything, Dean twists and allows his right hand to move across the space between them until it rests on Castiel’s knee. Castiel stares at Dean’s fingers, which Dean lets rub against the inseam of Castiel’s jeans with - what he hopes - is a torturous quality.
“How many pills did you take?” Castiel asks, not quite keeping a smile off his face, though probably not because of anything other than his own high.
“Enough,” Dean says, too busy focussing on slipping his hand higher up Castiel’s thigh, until Dean is forced to shift positions so he can reach the further recesses of Castiel’s body.
“Does your Castiel know how you feel about him?”
“It’s just the drugs.” Dean whispers as though he’s telling himself that as well.
“I see,” he says, mock-seriously, like he’s pretending to be some sort of shrink who’s assessing Dean’s thoughts and feelings.
“Shut up, Cas,” Dean hisses as he rises to his knees on the leather seat and shifts closer to tower over Castiel’s form. His back brushes the low ceiling, but he doesn’t stop until Castiel is pushed up against the door, one leg drawn up onto the seat, and Dean can see his own reflection in the window. It scares him slightly as to how much he looks like a predator going after its prey.
For once it’s Dean that’s breaking the rule about personal space, but he’s not sorry for it and won’t apologise.
Castiel stares up at him, lips slightly parted and his eyes dark. “What do you want me to do, Dean?” he asks, more like he’s making casual conversation than a proposition.
“Nothing,” Dean grunts. “Don’t do anything.”
Castiel listens for about half a second, but as soon as Dean’s hand resumes its climb up Castiel’s leg and his fingers finally brush against the definite bulge in Castiel’s jeans, he lets out a breath and minutely shifts his hips up into Dean’s touch. Dean doesn’t rebuke him, just flattens his palm between Castiel’s legs and rubs steadily, as Castiel parts his thighs further to allow Dean’s movements.
Dean places his other hand on Castiel’s shoulder, pinning him in place, and leans even closer. With his lips brushing Castiel’s ear, he whispers, “Cas,” repeatedly, until it starts to lose its meaning. In the back of Dean’s mind, he realises he’s re-enacting the fantasy that took place in his mind, but he doesn’t care because when he licks along Castiel’s jaw, salt clings to his tongue and the roughness of stubble makes him want more. He’s not careful like the Castiel in his mind was and he sucks roughly at the skin under his mouth, making a serious effort to mark Castiel with bruises that have Dean written all over them. If the past Castiel won’t remember what’s happening here, then he’ll make damn sure that the future one does.
Feeling the last of his defences falling, Dean finally moves his mouth up until it covers Castiel’s own, but Dean tells himself that it’s okay because this Castiel has already been corrupted, this one has already had the innocence peeled away, like old skin. Dean knows that he can’t break what’s already broken.
Castiel seems oddly pliant under his mouth and Dean doesn’t know if it’s because Castiel actually wants it, or if he’s just too drugged to care that Dean is taking advantage of him; either way, Castiel’s lips seem to part eagerly against Dean’s prying tongue.
Dean’s right hand continues to rub over the front of Castiel’s jeans and Castiel breathes openly into his mouth in response. With a gentle sigh, Castiel twists his head to the side to break their kiss.
“Let me free,” he says and for a second Dean thinks Castiel is finally coming to his senses and will stop things from going any further. In belated panic, Dean removes both of his hands from Castiel’s body and scoots backwards across the bench-like seat until he can feel cool glass pressing against the back of his head. He draws his knees up to his chest, trying to use them as a barrier between himself and Castiel.
With a visibly shaking hand, Castiel flicks an overhead light on in the cab and Dean barely keeps the moan between his lips at the sight of Castiel looking so dishevelled. His lips are tinged pink and slightly puffy, while his hair is sticking up every which way in a rumpled fashion that turns Dean on probably more than it should. He’d never get to see his own version of Castiel in such a state, so he drinks down the view while he can. Castiel looks over at him, briefly gazing at Dean’s drawn up legs, then slowly grins lopsidedly. Without saying a word, Castiel mirrors their past position by crawling across the seat and placing his warm hands over Dean’s kneecaps.
“What do you want, Dean?” Castiel asks, but Dean can’t muster up a proper reply, his mind reeling from, well, everything.
Castiel chews thoughtfully on his bottom lip before carrying on.
“You were thinking earlier, and it must have been about me, or else we wouldn’t be here right now, so what was it? What did I do to you?”
Dean holds his gaze. “Nothing I haven’t just done to you.”
Castiel leans in closer, resting his chin on the back of one of his hands. “Then what would you like me to do to you?”
The question holds too much possibility and it overwhelms Dean’s mind. A thousand thoughts fly through his brain all at once and they clog together somewhere near the back of his throat and it stops him from talking at all.
“What do you want your Castiel to do to you?”
A small huff of breath exits Dean’s mouth and for a second he loses the ability to keep his legs up; one foot slips off the seat, spreading his legs wide before Castiel, who seems to take it as an offering as he smiles and nods. Castiel runs his hands along Dean’s firm thighs until his fingers brush against the button on Dean’s jeans. With a swift moment, Castiel undoes it, then draws down Dean’s zipper. Dean can’t breathe and the world seems to be spinning around them, though that might just be the drugs; he can’t really tell anymore. Nimble fingers draw him out of his boxers and pants, exposing him to the cool air in the truck.
Without warning, Castiel dips his head down and draws his tongue over the head of Dean’s cock. Dean hisses and tries shifting his hips up, but it only makes the truck rock from side to side with the change of weight distribution. Castiel’s tongue flicks against his skin again, then he can’t even being to think anymore because Castiel slides his mouth down and down until Dean’s sure he’ll hit the back of Castiel’s throat. He’s never felt so absolutely surrounded by warmth and want, but he wouldn’t mind feeling it more often.
The way Dean’s sitting, scrunched up against the car door, makes it so he can only really see the top of Castiel’s head as it dips and rises in his lap. From this angle, it’s easier to pretend it’s his own Castiel that’s sucking him off and the thought rockets pleasure deep below his stomach.
“Cas,” he moans, threading his fingers into Castiel’s hair, enjoying the way the darkness contrasts against his pale skin. Castiel hums around him and embarrassing as it is, Dean doesn’t think he’ll last long if Castiel keeps it up. The tongue rolling against the underside of his cock is definitely not inexperienced, and Dean wonders whom else Castiel has blown. A part of him almost wishes it were the future version of himself because the irony would be too sweet for words.
Trying to remain as quiet as possible, Dean shuts his eyes and tips his head back to rest it against the window behind his back. He feels completely encompassed by pleasure and his senses feel like they’ll cave and spill over into each other if he’s not careful.
Castiel’s fingers dance over his thighs, touching and rubbing, as though he needs to feel as much of Dean as he can. Without really thinking, Dean moves both his hands to Castiel’s own and links their fingers together. He finds the action comforting and slightly empowering; he’s stopping Castiel from moving his hands away, and Castiel’s clammy palms tell Dean that he might not be as unruffled as Dean first thought. It’s weird for Dean to see Castiel flustered; his own Castiel usually being so calm and collected, but from this experience, he realises he wouldn’t complain about seeing more times when Castiel isn’t completely composed.
Dean’s breath hitches when Castiel’s tongue swipes at a particularly sensitive part of him and he can feel the start of a smile on Castiel’s lips around him in response. Dean bucks his hips up slightly, but Castiel, as though predicting what Dean would do, just loosens his throat and takes it without complaint. The utter warmth surrounding Dean pulls him further away from the world outside of the truck, until all he can picture in his mind is himself with Castiel; nothing else seems to matter at that moment. He can feel himself start to lose control and his grip on Castiel’s hands tighten; Castiel squeeze back as if to encourage him, and Dean’s eyes snap open.
“Castiel,” he moans, the name flowing along with his exhaled breath.
Castiel stops sucking him for a moment, pulling his head away from Dean’s crotch so he can look up at him. His eyes shine brightly, as though they’re drawing in all the radiance from the overhead light and Dean’s never seen them look bluer than they are now. Dean can’t help but appreciate the ruffled, debauched look that Castiel carries so well and wishes that he could recreate it more often with the Castiel in the past. However, he knows that this is his one chance, and that after he’s back in his own time, Castiel will be completely off limits. The thought makes his stomach clench painfully, but then Castiel smiles briefly at him, before licking a long strip up Dean’s cock.
“Keep your eyes open, Dean, because I want you to watch yourself come.”
That about does it for Dean, as Castiel lowers his mouth again and all Dean can do is gasp and push his shoulders painfully into the door behind him. In an unexplainable way, the added discomfort only pushes him closer to orgasm and he can’t help but squeeze Castiel’s hands again in warning. Nothing in the world - not even the friggin’ apocalypse - could stop the flood of pleasure that begins to wash over Dean, and Dean clings onto Castiel’s hands as though they’ll keep him grounded and stop him from falling back into the past.
“Cas, Cas, Cas,” Dean chants, eyes glued on the back of Castiel’s head because that’s really all he can focus on, all he can force himself to look at. Castiel never stops licking and sucking and swallowing around him and Dean knows he’s a goner. With a blunt cry, Dean comes into Castiel’s mouth, so hard that his body actually shakes with the effort of it, and Castiel accepts it, humming his own apparent appreciation.
The come down is harsher than Dean would have liked it to be. He feels light-headed and not only from the amazing head he just received. He can feel the drugs coursing through his veins; knows that when he drifts out of his high, he won’t be a complete fan of the choices he’s made within the last half hour. His conscience is going to be working overtime because of this, but he prays that even so, he won’t end up all mopey like Sam.
Gently, as though Castiel already knows how sensitive Dean gets after sex - which if he is actually sleeping with the future Dean, he might - Castiel pulls his mouth off of Dean and sits up. Their fingers are still linked together and Dean wonders if perhaps Castiel hasn’t noticed, until Castiel makes a point to unclench his hands, loosening the bond between limbs. Dean takes this as a hint to let go, as so does. As soon as Castiel has his hands free again, he tucks Dean back into his pants and tugs the zipper and button back into place. All evidence of what they just did vanishes with an ease that tells Dean that this is definitely not the first time Castiel has given someone a quicky in a tight space.
Dean glances at Castiel’s crotch and realises that he’s still as hard as he was when they began.
“Can I-?” he starts, but Castiel shakes his head.
“This was never about my needs, Dean,” he says, and leaves it at that.
Dean’s about to twist in his seat to face the windshield again, but before he can move, Castiel reaches out and cups the side of Dean’s face softly with his hand.
With a gentle tone that Dean’s never heard before, Castiel says, “You should really tell me how you feel, because all I really remember about my past is feeling so alone, though I don’t think I understood what that feeling really was until I fell.”
Dean doesn’t know if he really understands what Castiel’s telling him, but before he can say anything, Castiel continues.
“You and I were just two lonely people thrown together at a time that made it hard for us to really stay together, but I think, even back then, I would have appreciated a clap on the shoulder or a hug every now and again. This future isn’t so bright, but you can change it, Dean, it never has to be like this. You might not realise it, but both Sam and I need you,” his voice goes back to its usual gravelly tone as he says, “So stop being a bitch and admit stuff to us. Tell Sam you were wrong and tell me that you want my angel ass, because chances are we both like you enough to stick around long enough to see you through the apocalypse.”
Dean doesn’t know what to say, in fact, he feels rather awkward; he doesn’t do heart-to-heart moments, at all. He guesses it must show on his face, because Castiel pats his cheek and laughs at him.
“Dean Winchester, you never change, do you?”
With that, Castiel pulls his hand away and moves back behind the wheel to start the truck up. Dean shifts his leg off the seat and finally sets it on the floor, as he reaches for his seatbelt. The silence in the truck is made less uncomfortable by the noise of the revving engine as Castiel flicks the vehicle into drive and takes the parking brake off. Dean turns his face towards the window and eyes up his own reflection in the glass; he looks exactly the same, but looking past himself, he notices Castiel looking older and harder. The Castiel beside him is one made of war, death, and cynicism, and that’s not the one that Dean really needs. The one he needs is made of determination, hope, and trust, but it seems so far away from his grasp.
He wants to go back to the past more than anything, but he doesn’t say a word, he just turns the overhead light off and accepts the darkness that wraps itself around his body. He feels more sober than ever, but he realises that’s okay because he’s the Dean that uses his love and friendships to get himself through the hard times. He’s stronger than he ever thought possible, and that makes life look a lot less threatening, like Dean could actually take on Lucifer and win, just to save the world for the few people he really cares for.
Maybe he will tell Cas how he feels when he gets back, but he guesses that first he has to put up with Zachariah’s stupid morality-trip.
“So, how much farther have we got to go?” Dean asks, watching the truck’s headlights bounce off trees and broken down houses on the side of the road.
“Not too far,” Castiel replies and Dean thinks Good, because the sooner it’s over, the sooner he can go home. He tips his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes.
“Wake me when we get there.”