Re: Prompt: Dean/Gabriel, dirty talk (1/4)
anonymous
November 3 2011, 04:08:39 UTC
(More or less. Denial of the actual act is more or less past, but we glimpse it. This is more denial of the whole dominance aspect of it. Implied background Cas/Dean and OT4. May be triggery for noncon and dubcon.)
There had been a man once, back before Hell, who’d found just the right spot to press on the inside of Dean’s thigh that opened him up, gasping and startled, made him bend and plead and want. He’d never thought about it before.
Then there had been a couple of girls who’d slid their fingers back and down, and he’d taken their hands and pressed them just there and opened for them and fallen apart for them, dirty and begging and shameless because he’d never see them again after tomorrow, and just once, just for this once, he could let them take over, take him, break him into shuddering pieces, hand them the reins and not be the one who had to fix every fucking thing in the world.
And then there had been Alastair. And he had found… everything.
Then Castiel. Never pushing, never asking. So gentle and reverent, pressing him into the sheets, a long warm weight against his body, mouth soft and hot and incredulous and everything, everything in the world. Castiel, who knew him shatteringly down to his very core, and whose every touch was a terrifying lesson in Dean’s own magnificent perfection, a lesson that he would never, could never believe. Castiel, who never pushed or grabbed, because he could take Dean apart with a look.
(Which was fortunate. Because if he had tried, adoration or not, angelic marble strength or not, Dean might have broken his face before he had even chance to think.)
And then, after almost two years, Gabriel and Sam. Sam, Dean’s strength and his weakness and the centre of his soul (and even he knew it was really fucking unhealthy, but what the hell, they needed it and it worked, the way they lived), sly and sheepish and a great big floppy tower of everything he’d ever fought for. And Gabriel, closing the circuit, remote and implacable as Castiel and sharp and immediate and annoying as Sam and defensive and smart-ass as Dean and plenty of himself over and above, who’d cradled Dean’s soul for six months to keep it from Hell and who still had no compunction about slapping any of them around the back of the head (literally or Trickster-style) to beat a lesson into them at whim. Two or three or four of them in the bed, easy and light and hot and slick, mouths curving into laughter or nips against glistening thighs. And then one day there was Gabriel, hot and sharp and furious, pressing Dean against a wall, fingers digging in and shouting and implacable, tearing at his clothes and growling words at him that Dean heard less and less with every passing minute, and not noticing when Dean’s yells began to turn into screams.
Not until Castiel was suddenly in the room, slamming Gabriel (Gabriel? and how the hell did he manage that?) up against the far wall, snarling in his face something about strength and trust, while Sam hovered all well-intentioned and confused and worried in the doorway. Then just Gabriel’s eyes sliding over Castiel’s shoulder to fasten on Dean’s face, shocked wide and indignant and opening wider with sickening realisation for just a moment before Castiel grabbed his collar and dragged them both away to some weird angel dimension, and Sam’s ridiculous hair flopping about in front of Dean and “focus Dean, focus, did he actually hurt you, what the hell is going on Dean, what did you say to get him like that?”
Which Dean didn’t know he answer to, and he was too busy doing up the buttons of his jeans to think about.
There had been a man once, back before Hell, who’d found just the right spot to press on the inside of Dean’s thigh that opened him up, gasping and startled, made him bend and plead and want. He’d never thought about it before.
Then there had been a couple of girls who’d slid their fingers back and down, and he’d taken their hands and pressed them just there and opened for them and fallen apart for them, dirty and begging and shameless because he’d never see them again after tomorrow, and just once, just for this once, he could let them take over, take him, break him into shuddering pieces, hand them the reins and not be the one who had to fix every fucking thing in the world.
And then there had been Alastair. And he had found… everything.
Then Castiel. Never pushing, never asking. So gentle and reverent, pressing him into the sheets, a long warm weight against his body, mouth soft and hot and incredulous and everything, everything in the world. Castiel, who knew him shatteringly down to his very core, and whose every touch was a terrifying lesson in Dean’s own magnificent perfection, a lesson that he would never, could never believe. Castiel, who never pushed or grabbed, because he could take Dean apart with a look.
(Which was fortunate. Because if he had tried, adoration or not, angelic marble strength or not, Dean might have broken his face before he had even chance to think.)
And then, after almost two years, Gabriel and Sam. Sam, Dean’s strength and his weakness and the centre of his soul (and even he knew it was really fucking unhealthy, but what the hell, they needed it and it worked, the way they lived), sly and sheepish and a great big floppy tower of everything he’d ever fought for. And Gabriel, closing the circuit, remote and implacable as Castiel and sharp and immediate and annoying as Sam and defensive and smart-ass as Dean and plenty of himself over and above, who’d cradled Dean’s soul for six months to keep it from Hell and who still had no compunction about slapping any of them around the back of the head (literally or Trickster-style) to beat a lesson into them at whim. Two or three or four of them in the bed, easy and light and hot and slick, mouths curving into laughter or nips against glistening thighs.
And then one day there was Gabriel, hot and sharp and furious, pressing Dean against a wall, fingers digging in and shouting and implacable, tearing at his clothes and growling words at him that Dean heard less and less with every passing minute, and not noticing when Dean’s yells began to turn into screams.
Not until Castiel was suddenly in the room, slamming Gabriel (Gabriel? and how the hell did he manage that?) up against the far wall, snarling in his face something about strength and trust, while Sam hovered all well-intentioned and confused and worried in the doorway. Then just Gabriel’s eyes sliding over Castiel’s shoulder to fasten on Dean’s face, shocked wide and indignant and opening wider with sickening realisation for just a moment before Castiel grabbed his collar and dragged them both away to some weird angel dimension, and Sam’s ridiculous hair flopping about in front of Dean and “focus Dean, focus, did he actually hurt you, what the hell is going on Dean, what did you say to get him like that?”
Which Dean didn’t know he answer to, and he was too busy doing up the buttons of his jeans to think about.
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