✎ fanfic - supernatural - birds were singing to calm us down [NC-17]
Title: birds were singing to calm us down
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: future!Dean and future!Castiel
Pairing?: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17. It's angsty porn, mmkay.
Summary: Of course Dean would wind up getting caught in a hotspot one of those days. And, of course, of fucking course, he would wind up getting stuck with Cas.
Word Count: 3517
Notes: Upon mentioning on plurk that I was in one of those moods that would result in either angst or porn, I was challenged to write both in the form of End-verse dean/cas sex. I delivered. In my head this is set after Cas started doing drugs but before the orgies became a regular thing, so probably sometime in 2013. idk, you guys fill in your own blanks. Also, I decided to stop locking my porn to friends, lol. I might go back and unlock the old entries when I can be bothered.
Warnings: Standard 2014-verse warnings apply; drug abuse, withdrawal written by someone who's never had any kind of experience with it and looked everything up on the internet, Dean's filthy mouth, porn, and my terrible porn writing. Oh, and this is also unbeta'd. I THINK THAT COVERS EVERYTHING.
✎ ✎ ✎
Of course Dean would wind up getting caught in a hotspot one of those days.
And, of course, of fucking course, he would wind up getting stuck with Cas.
It’s not like they’re backed into a corner with no chance of escaping and Croats swarming all over them or anything as stupidly melodramatic as that. And, yeah, okay, credit where credit’s due, Cas kinda saved Dean’s ass earlier out there, so it’s not as if he’s gotten stuck with someone completely useless while they hole up in a dilapidated, dark and damp excuse for a shell of a building, hoping that no demon zombies are going to get curious enough to come looking.
But the problem is, it’s Cas. And Dean can hardly stand even to look at Castiel anymore these days. In Dean’s mind, ‘Cas’ is still an awkward angel in an ugly trenchcoat who’s a bit less of a dick than all the other dicks with wings.
Not the small, slight, all too fucking human thing in jeans and a worn green jacket crouched against the wall across from him.
See, the thing is that the man Cas is now is so far removed from what he was that it leaves a bitter, sick taste in Dean’s mouth, somewhere between anger and disgust and guilt all at once. And Dean’s meant to be fighting the Devil, so it’s easier to just not look at Cas at all so that he doesn’t get distracted by whatever he’s decided he’s doing with his life these days.
Something that’s being spectacularly difficult to do when they’re stuck in this dirty, cramped place trying not to make too much noise so the Croats outside don’t hear them.
“Fuck.”
It’s the first word either of them have said since they found a place to hide, and it doesn’t come from Dean. Dean’s head shoots up from where he’s been resolutely not looking at Cas. His eyebrows soon follow, because as many human vices as Cas has picked up along the way (most of them from Dean, and there’s that old guilt again, like a conditioned reflex), swearing isn’t one of them as a rule.
And then his eyes drop to where Cas’s are looking, and he bites back a swear himself, because shit. Shit, he’d somehow managed to forget that Cas spends most of his time on a trip with all the other hippies these days, probably because, even though he has the habit of rambling till the cows come home while he’s on a high, he still manages to stay frighteningly lucid.
It figures that he’d run dry and need a hit of whatever the hell it is he’s currently siphoning off the medical supplies now, in the middle of a hotzone, right when there isn’t any hope in Hell of getting one, Dean thinks sourly.
“Well, that’s just fantastic,” he mutters under his breath, probably still loud enough for Cas to hear. Not that he really cares if Cas hears him or not, it’s his own fucking fault for being dependent on the stupid things in the first place. Dean wonders how long it’ll be before the idiot starts going into withdrawal, and great, just great, that’s the last thing he wants to be dealing with right now, Cas crashing in the wake of his own stupidity. For hell’s sake, he doesn’t even know what the guy’s been taking, or how much of it.
For a moment, he fervently wishes for a panic room to lock him in while it works its way out of his system, somewhere where he won’t have to see, but that thought dredges up memories that Dean does not want to think about, and he shoots it down.
“Yeah, it’s just peachy,” Cas deadpans, showing that he did hear him after all. “So what’s the plan, Fearless Leader?” He has that bitter, broken smirk on, the one that’s been making more and more of an appearance over the last year, and Dean ignores it. He also ignores the slight shake in Cas’s voice.
“The plan is that we wait here until we can get out without being cut down by Croats, unless you’ve suddenly got a better one,” he says brusquely.
There’s a pause. Then Cas says, so nonchalantly that it’s obvious he’s faking, “That could take a few hours.”
“Yep,” says Dean, unrelenting. “So suck it up and buckle down, ‘cause we’re gonna be here a while.”
✎✎✎
It’s about half an hour later that the shaking starts. Cas curls up as small as he can, knees drawn up and arms wrapped tight around his sides and just sits there shivering and breathing harshly, knuckles turning white as he grips his skinny arms and mutters something under his breath that probably isn’t even English. He doesn’t try and attract Dean’s attention from where he’s focusing it on steadfastly ignoring him. Dean feels a weird mix of grateful that Cas can still take a hint, and guilty that Cas doesn’t expect Dean to give a shit anymore.
He’s wrong, of course. Dean does still give a shit, which is the whole fucking problem because Dean is in no shape to fix himself, let alone other people.
“S’cold,” Cas slurs suddenly. “Don’t you think it’s cold?”
No, actually, Dean doesn’t. He thinks it’s Cas’s own damn fault for being stupid enough to go into withdrawal from his drug addiction right here and now. Between the shaking and the sweat making his hair visibly damp even from where Dean’s sitting, it’s no wonder the poor bastard feels cold.
“It’s July, Cas,” he says wearily, leaning his head back on the wall and listening to the sound of something clattering, smashing outside. Jesus. He hopes the Croats get bored soon so he can get them both the hell out of dodge, because he’s not sure how much more of a delirious, not-that-drugged-up-anymore Castiel he can take. “’Course it’s not cold.”
“Feels cold,” Cas insists, or at least Dean thinks that’s what he’s insisting; it’s difficult to tell when a particularly violent shiver is making his teeth and even his voice shake.
“Well that’s your own damn fault, isn’t it?” Dean snipes, and he is so not in the mood for dealing with this crap.
“Right,” Cas laughs hollowly. “Sure it is.”
“Are you gonna shut up?”
“That an order, Fearless Leader?” and God damn it if Dean isn’t sick of that particular nickname. He can’t remember when it first popped out of Cas’s mouth - it might have been the first time after they caught that one demon bitch for information and she just wouldn’t talk, and he and Cas had ended up right in each other’s faces afterwards and barely this side of screaming at each other. Either way it doesn’t really matter; now Cas has taken to pulling it out whenever he feels like trying to rile Dean up. Which is apparently every five minutes or so.
“If I say yes, will you keep your mouth shut?”
“Probably not,” Cas shrugs, before a tremor passes through him again and he follows that up with a heartfelt “Shit,” breathing unsteadily and kneading his eyes with the heels of his palms. All props to Cas’s amazing stubborn streak, though, that doesn’t stop him from continuing blithely on with, “And I’m sure that wasn’t the answer you were looking for, right?”
It’s more than a little pathetic.
“Well let’s see, uh, considering that we’re more likely to get found from whatever’s outside hearing your inane babbling than anything else, yeah, I was kinda looking for you shutting your trap.” Dean rolls his eyes, because this is ridiculous. Once upon a time Cas got on his nerves and under his skin purely by accident. Now he goes out of his way to do it on purpose, just because he knows he still can. “Jesus. What happened to the time when getting you to do any talking was the hard thing.”
“Uh, well,” Cas says conversationally, but the effect’s ruined by the way his hands are shaking as he pushes them through his hair, “The way I remember it, there was -”
“Rhetorical question, Cas,” Dean snaps under his breath. “Just - Christ, do me a favour and don’t do whatever sharing-and-caring hippie druggie thing you’ve got going on. Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, just keep it there.” 90% of whatever’s going on probably revolves around when and where he’s going to get his next hit, Dean thinks with a kind of disgusted snort, but whatever.
Cas stares at him for a bit with eyes that are just a little too wild, slack and out of focus. “Right,” he huffs, dragging the syllables out longer than they should. “’Cause what does whatever goes on inside a stupid druggie’s head matter.” Dean doesn’t dignify that statement with an answer. He keeps his head turned resolutely away and tries to ignore the sudden sound of dry retching from Cas’s corner.
“You know what’s funny?” Cas asks afterwards, his voice sounding a little weak, notes of hysteria worming their way in. “You know what’s really, really funny?” Why no, Cas, I don’t, Dean thinks to himself. You feel like enlightening me? “How much of a dick you are these days.” Dean has about enough time to think that wow, even for Cas that’s direct, before he ploughs on with, “You know you’re not the only one who misses Sam.”
Dean’s snarky inner monologue, the one he’s using to distract himself from this piss-poor situation, up and runs as that one sentence hits him in the gut. He’s too blindsided to even react yet, because Cas is one of maybe four, five people tops in Chitaqua who know about Sam, one of the two left who actually knew him personally, which means he’s also more than well aware of the unspoken rule: never mention Dean’s brother around him.
Dean becomes aware that he’s stopped breathing, and he takes in a breath slowly, dangerously, fixing Cas with a glare. “Excuse me?”
“What, you think I didn’t notice that you only started getting worse after Sam went?” The worst part is that Dean can’t deny it. After Detroit was when he started torturing again; when he finally figured that it was better for everyone just to shoot the infected on sight; hell, when he started blowing Cas off as a waste of time, figuring he’d find someone else to help him cope with his recently not-angelic angst.
But because it’s true, and because even just mentioning Sam still rips holes open in Dean somewhere deep down where it never has enough time to start scarring over, Dean ignores it, pushes it down and away in favour of being angry.
“Cas,” he growls, hands curling into fists at his sides. He belatedly realizes that he’s got to his feet at some point, and the small part of him that isn’t shaking with rage wonders when that happened. “I swear, if you don’t shut your mouth right now so help me -”
“What? You’ll shut it for me?” Cas snorts. “Go ahead. It’s not like it’ll change anything,” and oh, that is it. Something inside Dean snaps and before he can think about what he’s doing, he’s across the room and yanking Cas up roughly by a large handful of jacket, pinning him to the wall with one hand on his chest and the other covering Cas’s surprised mouth.
Dean opens his mouth to yell some more, to snarl about how Cas doesn’t know jack shit about Sam or however it is he thinks Dean feels, but something about the situation they’re in gives him pause, takes all the wind out of his sails before he’s even gotten going. Because standing like this, staring at Cas who’s pinned up to a freaking wall with Dean’s hand over his mouth, reminds him uncomfortably and all-too-vividly of another room, another wall where Dean was the one with a hand over his mouth and the end of the world hadn’t started happening just that second.
Judging from the look in Cas’s eyes, he remembers it too.
Dean takes his hand away from the other man’s mouth and sighs shortly. He can’t even stay mad for long anymore. He’s too tired, and it’s too much energy to even bother trying. Before Detroit, they’d run into Famine once, and he’d told Dean quite gleefully that he was dead inside.
He’s really beginning to believe it.
Cas sways slightly on his feet, a shiver that Dean can feel right the way up his arm passing through him, and lets out a short sigh himself, gravitating slowly forward into Dean’s space without really realizing he’s doing it. His bowed head rests just below Dean’s shoulder, and now Dean just feels… lost. There was some sort of script they were following, the one where they sniped and fought and suddenly it’s been misplaced.
Cas huffs out a long, slow breath, shaking still against Dean. “What are we even doing?” he asks softly, sounding a little hopeless. Up close, Cas is near drenched in sweat, his hair and face damp with it. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was running a fever.
Dean doesn’t know if Cas was fishing for an answer, but he gives him one anyway, short and brusque. “Hell if I know.”
Cas mutters something then, too low for Dean to catch but which might have been something about being sick of making things up as they went, and then -
And then the next minute Cas has leaned up and he’s kissing him.
It’s a desperate, almost mindless sort of kiss, open-mouthed and instinctual as Cas tries to coax his lips open, and Dean’s so taken aback that for a moment he lets him, lets Cas part his lips and cling to Dean’s arms with shaking hands, a white-knuckled grip like Dean’s some terrible excuse for a liferaft or something.
And then the rest of Dean’s brain kicks back in and remembers where they are, and he pulls himself away, tries to put himself at arm’s length. It doesn’t work because Cas still has his fingers embedded in his jacket.
“What the hell, Cas?” It’s not the first time, sure - far from it, actually - but for a start, it’s been a while, and for another, here? Now?
“I don’t know,” Cas replies, and the edge in his voice like he’s about to start hysterically laughing is enough to shut Dean up. “I don’t know -” and their mouths meet again, anything but gentle as Cas surges up against him, biting at Dean’s lip and anchoring himself to him.
And well, Dean’s always been crap at resisting temptation, and this has already gone far beyond that. He gives back as good as he’s getting, one hand coming up to tangle in Cas’s sweat-damp hair while the other runs down his ribs, sliding under his jacket and around to rest on the small of his back and tug him closer, flush against Dean’s body. Cas whimpers into his mouth, his grip on Dean’s arms tightening, and Dean feels the sound travel straight down to join where Cas is starting to rock his hips against him.
Dean pulls his mouth away and pushes forward until Cas’s back meets the wall and he can grind his own hips down, trap Cas between the wall and Dean’s body to control his shaking and feel where Cas is growing hard against him. Cas’s breathing is harsh, needy pants as Dean roughly licks his way down Cas’s jaw, the side of his neck, lips and tongue slipping easily over damp skin.
Cas’s hands disentangle themselves from Dean’s sleeves and grip tight, traveling up over his shoulders and down under his jacket to lift up his t-shirt, palms splaying over the skin of Dean’s back and using it as leverage to thrust up harder against Dean’s already uncomfortably tight jeans. Cas hisses, muttering something indistinct when Dean bites at his neck, fingers briefly curling and digging nails into Dean’s back. He drags them down, and Dean swears, knowing that’ll leave marks, as Cas’s shaking hands find the button on his jeans and fumble it and the zip open and his mouth finds Dean’s again, kissing hungrily.
Dean is in no position (oh hell, no position at all) to complain when Cas’s hand finds his cock and curls around it, surprisingly gently considering how he’s rutting himself against Dean’s thigh. When Cas starts stroking, every new tremor of his body going directly from his hand to Dean’s body, Dean hisses and swears again, fuckfuckfuck as he rocks his hips into Cas’s fingers. Cas gasps back in answer, head buried and mouth open against his collarbone, the edges of his teeth just digging in. Dean swears, again, because even through the pleasure he’s getting right now, he can’t help a small, twisted curl of unease at this, at how needy and desperate Cas is as he works Dean with one hand and rubs against the top of his thigh while he does it. Because yeah, Cas has been needy for it before, but not like this, not like he’s trying to work himself right into Dean’s skin like Dean’s the only thing keeping him from breaking apart.
Fucking drugs and fucking angels and fucking everything, he thinks, and moves both of his hands to catch Cas’s hips as he tries to fuck into Dean’s thigh again. “Cas. Hey, Cas, wait a sec,” he rasps, temporarily losing his train of thought as the hand wrapped around him squeezes and drives a moan out of his throat. Cas looks up at him with clouded blue eyes, warm breath puffing out against Dean’s neck. His hand doesn’t stop moving, but Dean grits his teeth and doesn’t let that deter him, sliding one hand easily down the side of Cas’s ill-fitting jeans to press his fingers into a hip that’s too much bone and not enough flesh, sweat pooling in the crevices of his skin. Cas’s breath flutters softly, a quiet Dean escaping his lips and that, that is how he finally knows he’s getting to him, undoing his jeans with his other hand and sliding it inside, letting Cas rock against his palm.
“That’s better,” he breathes as Cas lets out little moans against Dean’s neck, the rhythm of his hand stuttering slightly as Dean’s other hand, the one not jerking Cas off, rubs and squeezes his ass. They’re both rocking against each other, hips stuttering into hands and Cas holding himself as steady as he can with one hand braced against Dean’s back, every muscle pulled taut and fingernails digging in as he clutches at him, and Dean knows he isn’t going to last with the way Cas is touching him.
“Hey,” he breathes roughly against Cas’s ear, a low moan his only answer. “You close?”
There’s another moan that sounds as good as a yes, and it’s maybe two, three strokes of Dean’s hand before Cas lets out a long moan and closes his mouth around Dean’s shoulder, teeth digging into his skin through layers of jacket and t-shirt as he stutters his way through orgasm, his hand on Dean suddenly becoming erratic until Dean swears and comes into that fast unsteady rhythm, his hands gripping tight at Cas’s hips and ass.
When the white noise in his head fades, Dean finds all of Cas’s weight leaning heavily against him, mussed black hair and unsteady breath buried in his neck and Cas’s hands still on his skin, resting loosely against his back. Dean nudges him, calls Cas’s name, but apparently the guy’s either too blissed out or too worn out to answer. So Dean shrugs, thinking that at least he’s not babbling nonsense anymore, and wipes his hand on the back of Cas’s jeans before he brings his arms up to wrap around slight shoulders, feeling those little tremors passing through Cas’s worn body. And Jesus, it’s pathetic, the two of them, but Dean can’t feel angry anymore, just… just tired. He’s tired, and Cas is tired, and they’re both the wrong side of broken and dealing with it in all the wrong ways, and fuck him if that isn’t the biggest kick in the gut of all. Cas shifts in his arms, face twisting for a moment as he mutters something about wanting to go back, or to fly again, or something else like that that makes Dean’s throat tight with guilt, but all he says is, “Yeah, we’ll get you back soon so you can grab… whatever it is you need,” and he hates himself for saying it, but he doesn’t have time to try and fix what he broke now, and this time when he adds, “You druggie,” there’s no malice to it, and Cas huffs out a little delirious laugh.
He can’t fix them right now, but there’s still moments like this, and right now in this fucked-up world of theirs, that’s just going to have to do.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: future!Dean and future!Castiel
Pairing?: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17. It's angsty porn, mmkay.
Summary: Of course Dean would wind up getting caught in a hotspot one of those days. And, of course, of fucking course, he would wind up getting stuck with Cas.
Word Count: 3517
Notes: Upon mentioning on plurk that I was in one of those moods that would result in either angst or porn, I was challenged to write both in the form of End-verse dean/cas sex. I delivered. In my head this is set after Cas started doing drugs but before the orgies became a regular thing, so probably sometime in 2013. idk, you guys fill in your own blanks. Also, I decided to stop locking my porn to friends, lol. I might go back and unlock the old entries when I can be bothered.
Warnings: Standard 2014-verse warnings apply; drug abuse, withdrawal written by someone who's never had any kind of experience with it and looked everything up on the internet, Dean's filthy mouth, porn, and my terrible porn writing. Oh, and this is also unbeta'd. I THINK THAT COVERS EVERYTHING.
✎ ✎ ✎
Of course Dean would wind up getting caught in a hotspot one of those days.
And, of course, of fucking course, he would wind up getting stuck with Cas.
It’s not like they’re backed into a corner with no chance of escaping and Croats swarming all over them or anything as stupidly melodramatic as that. And, yeah, okay, credit where credit’s due, Cas kinda saved Dean’s ass earlier out there, so it’s not as if he’s gotten stuck with someone completely useless while they hole up in a dilapidated, dark and damp excuse for a shell of a building, hoping that no demon zombies are going to get curious enough to come looking.
But the problem is, it’s Cas. And Dean can hardly stand even to look at Castiel anymore these days. In Dean’s mind, ‘Cas’ is still an awkward angel in an ugly trenchcoat who’s a bit less of a dick than all the other dicks with wings.
Not the small, slight, all too fucking human thing in jeans and a worn green jacket crouched against the wall across from him.
See, the thing is that the man Cas is now is so far removed from what he was that it leaves a bitter, sick taste in Dean’s mouth, somewhere between anger and disgust and guilt all at once. And Dean’s meant to be fighting the Devil, so it’s easier to just not look at Cas at all so that he doesn’t get distracted by whatever he’s decided he’s doing with his life these days.
Something that’s being spectacularly difficult to do when they’re stuck in this dirty, cramped place trying not to make too much noise so the Croats outside don’t hear them.
“Fuck.”
It’s the first word either of them have said since they found a place to hide, and it doesn’t come from Dean. Dean’s head shoots up from where he’s been resolutely not looking at Cas. His eyebrows soon follow, because as many human vices as Cas has picked up along the way (most of them from Dean, and there’s that old guilt again, like a conditioned reflex), swearing isn’t one of them as a rule.
And then his eyes drop to where Cas’s are looking, and he bites back a swear himself, because shit. Shit, he’d somehow managed to forget that Cas spends most of his time on a trip with all the other hippies these days, probably because, even though he has the habit of rambling till the cows come home while he’s on a high, he still manages to stay frighteningly lucid.
It figures that he’d run dry and need a hit of whatever the hell it is he’s currently siphoning off the medical supplies now, in the middle of a hotzone, right when there isn’t any hope in Hell of getting one, Dean thinks sourly.
“Well, that’s just fantastic,” he mutters under his breath, probably still loud enough for Cas to hear. Not that he really cares if Cas hears him or not, it’s his own fucking fault for being dependent on the stupid things in the first place. Dean wonders how long it’ll be before the idiot starts going into withdrawal, and great, just great, that’s the last thing he wants to be dealing with right now, Cas crashing in the wake of his own stupidity. For hell’s sake, he doesn’t even know what the guy’s been taking, or how much of it.
For a moment, he fervently wishes for a panic room to lock him in while it works its way out of his system, somewhere where he won’t have to see, but that thought dredges up memories that Dean does not want to think about, and he shoots it down.
“Yeah, it’s just peachy,” Cas deadpans, showing that he did hear him after all. “So what’s the plan, Fearless Leader?” He has that bitter, broken smirk on, the one that’s been making more and more of an appearance over the last year, and Dean ignores it. He also ignores the slight shake in Cas’s voice.
“The plan is that we wait here until we can get out without being cut down by Croats, unless you’ve suddenly got a better one,” he says brusquely.
There’s a pause. Then Cas says, so nonchalantly that it’s obvious he’s faking, “That could take a few hours.”
“Yep,” says Dean, unrelenting. “So suck it up and buckle down, ‘cause we’re gonna be here a while.”
✎✎✎
It’s about half an hour later that the shaking starts. Cas curls up as small as he can, knees drawn up and arms wrapped tight around his sides and just sits there shivering and breathing harshly, knuckles turning white as he grips his skinny arms and mutters something under his breath that probably isn’t even English. He doesn’t try and attract Dean’s attention from where he’s focusing it on steadfastly ignoring him. Dean feels a weird mix of grateful that Cas can still take a hint, and guilty that Cas doesn’t expect Dean to give a shit anymore.
He’s wrong, of course. Dean does still give a shit, which is the whole fucking problem because Dean is in no shape to fix himself, let alone other people.
“S’cold,” Cas slurs suddenly. “Don’t you think it’s cold?”
No, actually, Dean doesn’t. He thinks it’s Cas’s own damn fault for being stupid enough to go into withdrawal from his drug addiction right here and now. Between the shaking and the sweat making his hair visibly damp even from where Dean’s sitting, it’s no wonder the poor bastard feels cold.
“It’s July, Cas,” he says wearily, leaning his head back on the wall and listening to the sound of something clattering, smashing outside. Jesus. He hopes the Croats get bored soon so he can get them both the hell out of dodge, because he’s not sure how much more of a delirious, not-that-drugged-up-anymore Castiel he can take. “’Course it’s not cold.”
“Feels cold,” Cas insists, or at least Dean thinks that’s what he’s insisting; it’s difficult to tell when a particularly violent shiver is making his teeth and even his voice shake.
“Well that’s your own damn fault, isn’t it?” Dean snipes, and he is so not in the mood for dealing with this crap.
“Right,” Cas laughs hollowly. “Sure it is.”
“Are you gonna shut up?”
“That an order, Fearless Leader?” and God damn it if Dean isn’t sick of that particular nickname. He can’t remember when it first popped out of Cas’s mouth - it might have been the first time after they caught that one demon bitch for information and she just wouldn’t talk, and he and Cas had ended up right in each other’s faces afterwards and barely this side of screaming at each other. Either way it doesn’t really matter; now Cas has taken to pulling it out whenever he feels like trying to rile Dean up. Which is apparently every five minutes or so.
“If I say yes, will you keep your mouth shut?”
“Probably not,” Cas shrugs, before a tremor passes through him again and he follows that up with a heartfelt “Shit,” breathing unsteadily and kneading his eyes with the heels of his palms. All props to Cas’s amazing stubborn streak, though, that doesn’t stop him from continuing blithely on with, “And I’m sure that wasn’t the answer you were looking for, right?”
It’s more than a little pathetic.
“Well let’s see, uh, considering that we’re more likely to get found from whatever’s outside hearing your inane babbling than anything else, yeah, I was kinda looking for you shutting your trap.” Dean rolls his eyes, because this is ridiculous. Once upon a time Cas got on his nerves and under his skin purely by accident. Now he goes out of his way to do it on purpose, just because he knows he still can. “Jesus. What happened to the time when getting you to do any talking was the hard thing.”
“Uh, well,” Cas says conversationally, but the effect’s ruined by the way his hands are shaking as he pushes them through his hair, “The way I remember it, there was -”
“Rhetorical question, Cas,” Dean snaps under his breath. “Just - Christ, do me a favour and don’t do whatever sharing-and-caring hippie druggie thing you’ve got going on. Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, just keep it there.” 90% of whatever’s going on probably revolves around when and where he’s going to get his next hit, Dean thinks with a kind of disgusted snort, but whatever.
Cas stares at him for a bit with eyes that are just a little too wild, slack and out of focus. “Right,” he huffs, dragging the syllables out longer than they should. “’Cause what does whatever goes on inside a stupid druggie’s head matter.” Dean doesn’t dignify that statement with an answer. He keeps his head turned resolutely away and tries to ignore the sudden sound of dry retching from Cas’s corner.
“You know what’s funny?” Cas asks afterwards, his voice sounding a little weak, notes of hysteria worming their way in. “You know what’s really, really funny?” Why no, Cas, I don’t, Dean thinks to himself. You feel like enlightening me? “How much of a dick you are these days.” Dean has about enough time to think that wow, even for Cas that’s direct, before he ploughs on with, “You know you’re not the only one who misses Sam.”
Dean’s snarky inner monologue, the one he’s using to distract himself from this piss-poor situation, up and runs as that one sentence hits him in the gut. He’s too blindsided to even react yet, because Cas is one of maybe four, five people tops in Chitaqua who know about Sam, one of the two left who actually knew him personally, which means he’s also more than well aware of the unspoken rule: never mention Dean’s brother around him.
Dean becomes aware that he’s stopped breathing, and he takes in a breath slowly, dangerously, fixing Cas with a glare. “Excuse me?”
“What, you think I didn’t notice that you only started getting worse after Sam went?” The worst part is that Dean can’t deny it. After Detroit was when he started torturing again; when he finally figured that it was better for everyone just to shoot the infected on sight; hell, when he started blowing Cas off as a waste of time, figuring he’d find someone else to help him cope with his recently not-angelic angst.
But because it’s true, and because even just mentioning Sam still rips holes open in Dean somewhere deep down where it never has enough time to start scarring over, Dean ignores it, pushes it down and away in favour of being angry.
“Cas,” he growls, hands curling into fists at his sides. He belatedly realizes that he’s got to his feet at some point, and the small part of him that isn’t shaking with rage wonders when that happened. “I swear, if you don’t shut your mouth right now so help me -”
“What? You’ll shut it for me?” Cas snorts. “Go ahead. It’s not like it’ll change anything,” and oh, that is it. Something inside Dean snaps and before he can think about what he’s doing, he’s across the room and yanking Cas up roughly by a large handful of jacket, pinning him to the wall with one hand on his chest and the other covering Cas’s surprised mouth.
Dean opens his mouth to yell some more, to snarl about how Cas doesn’t know jack shit about Sam or however it is he thinks Dean feels, but something about the situation they’re in gives him pause, takes all the wind out of his sails before he’s even gotten going. Because standing like this, staring at Cas who’s pinned up to a freaking wall with Dean’s hand over his mouth, reminds him uncomfortably and all-too-vividly of another room, another wall where Dean was the one with a hand over his mouth and the end of the world hadn’t started happening just that second.
Judging from the look in Cas’s eyes, he remembers it too.
Dean takes his hand away from the other man’s mouth and sighs shortly. He can’t even stay mad for long anymore. He’s too tired, and it’s too much energy to even bother trying. Before Detroit, they’d run into Famine once, and he’d told Dean quite gleefully that he was dead inside.
He’s really beginning to believe it.
Cas sways slightly on his feet, a shiver that Dean can feel right the way up his arm passing through him, and lets out a short sigh himself, gravitating slowly forward into Dean’s space without really realizing he’s doing it. His bowed head rests just below Dean’s shoulder, and now Dean just feels… lost. There was some sort of script they were following, the one where they sniped and fought and suddenly it’s been misplaced.
Cas huffs out a long, slow breath, shaking still against Dean. “What are we even doing?” he asks softly, sounding a little hopeless. Up close, Cas is near drenched in sweat, his hair and face damp with it. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was running a fever.
Dean doesn’t know if Cas was fishing for an answer, but he gives him one anyway, short and brusque. “Hell if I know.”
Cas mutters something then, too low for Dean to catch but which might have been something about being sick of making things up as they went, and then -
And then the next minute Cas has leaned up and he’s kissing him.
It’s a desperate, almost mindless sort of kiss, open-mouthed and instinctual as Cas tries to coax his lips open, and Dean’s so taken aback that for a moment he lets him, lets Cas part his lips and cling to Dean’s arms with shaking hands, a white-knuckled grip like Dean’s some terrible excuse for a liferaft or something.
And then the rest of Dean’s brain kicks back in and remembers where they are, and he pulls himself away, tries to put himself at arm’s length. It doesn’t work because Cas still has his fingers embedded in his jacket.
“What the hell, Cas?” It’s not the first time, sure - far from it, actually - but for a start, it’s been a while, and for another, here? Now?
“I don’t know,” Cas replies, and the edge in his voice like he’s about to start hysterically laughing is enough to shut Dean up. “I don’t know -” and their mouths meet again, anything but gentle as Cas surges up against him, biting at Dean’s lip and anchoring himself to him.
And well, Dean’s always been crap at resisting temptation, and this has already gone far beyond that. He gives back as good as he’s getting, one hand coming up to tangle in Cas’s sweat-damp hair while the other runs down his ribs, sliding under his jacket and around to rest on the small of his back and tug him closer, flush against Dean’s body. Cas whimpers into his mouth, his grip on Dean’s arms tightening, and Dean feels the sound travel straight down to join where Cas is starting to rock his hips against him.
Dean pulls his mouth away and pushes forward until Cas’s back meets the wall and he can grind his own hips down, trap Cas between the wall and Dean’s body to control his shaking and feel where Cas is growing hard against him. Cas’s breathing is harsh, needy pants as Dean roughly licks his way down Cas’s jaw, the side of his neck, lips and tongue slipping easily over damp skin.
Cas’s hands disentangle themselves from Dean’s sleeves and grip tight, traveling up over his shoulders and down under his jacket to lift up his t-shirt, palms splaying over the skin of Dean’s back and using it as leverage to thrust up harder against Dean’s already uncomfortably tight jeans. Cas hisses, muttering something indistinct when Dean bites at his neck, fingers briefly curling and digging nails into Dean’s back. He drags them down, and Dean swears, knowing that’ll leave marks, as Cas’s shaking hands find the button on his jeans and fumble it and the zip open and his mouth finds Dean’s again, kissing hungrily.
Dean is in no position (oh hell, no position at all) to complain when Cas’s hand finds his cock and curls around it, surprisingly gently considering how he’s rutting himself against Dean’s thigh. When Cas starts stroking, every new tremor of his body going directly from his hand to Dean’s body, Dean hisses and swears again, fuckfuckfuck as he rocks his hips into Cas’s fingers. Cas gasps back in answer, head buried and mouth open against his collarbone, the edges of his teeth just digging in. Dean swears, again, because even through the pleasure he’s getting right now, he can’t help a small, twisted curl of unease at this, at how needy and desperate Cas is as he works Dean with one hand and rubs against the top of his thigh while he does it. Because yeah, Cas has been needy for it before, but not like this, not like he’s trying to work himself right into Dean’s skin like Dean’s the only thing keeping him from breaking apart.
Fucking drugs and fucking angels and fucking everything, he thinks, and moves both of his hands to catch Cas’s hips as he tries to fuck into Dean’s thigh again. “Cas. Hey, Cas, wait a sec,” he rasps, temporarily losing his train of thought as the hand wrapped around him squeezes and drives a moan out of his throat. Cas looks up at him with clouded blue eyes, warm breath puffing out against Dean’s neck. His hand doesn’t stop moving, but Dean grits his teeth and doesn’t let that deter him, sliding one hand easily down the side of Cas’s ill-fitting jeans to press his fingers into a hip that’s too much bone and not enough flesh, sweat pooling in the crevices of his skin. Cas’s breath flutters softly, a quiet Dean escaping his lips and that, that is how he finally knows he’s getting to him, undoing his jeans with his other hand and sliding it inside, letting Cas rock against his palm.
“That’s better,” he breathes as Cas lets out little moans against Dean’s neck, the rhythm of his hand stuttering slightly as Dean’s other hand, the one not jerking Cas off, rubs and squeezes his ass. They’re both rocking against each other, hips stuttering into hands and Cas holding himself as steady as he can with one hand braced against Dean’s back, every muscle pulled taut and fingernails digging in as he clutches at him, and Dean knows he isn’t going to last with the way Cas is touching him.
“Hey,” he breathes roughly against Cas’s ear, a low moan his only answer. “You close?”
There’s another moan that sounds as good as a yes, and it’s maybe two, three strokes of Dean’s hand before Cas lets out a long moan and closes his mouth around Dean’s shoulder, teeth digging into his skin through layers of jacket and t-shirt as he stutters his way through orgasm, his hand on Dean suddenly becoming erratic until Dean swears and comes into that fast unsteady rhythm, his hands gripping tight at Cas’s hips and ass.
When the white noise in his head fades, Dean finds all of Cas’s weight leaning heavily against him, mussed black hair and unsteady breath buried in his neck and Cas’s hands still on his skin, resting loosely against his back. Dean nudges him, calls Cas’s name, but apparently the guy’s either too blissed out or too worn out to answer. So Dean shrugs, thinking that at least he’s not babbling nonsense anymore, and wipes his hand on the back of Cas’s jeans before he brings his arms up to wrap around slight shoulders, feeling those little tremors passing through Cas’s worn body. And Jesus, it’s pathetic, the two of them, but Dean can’t feel angry anymore, just… just tired. He’s tired, and Cas is tired, and they’re both the wrong side of broken and dealing with it in all the wrong ways, and fuck him if that isn’t the biggest kick in the gut of all. Cas shifts in his arms, face twisting for a moment as he mutters something about wanting to go back, or to fly again, or something else like that that makes Dean’s throat tight with guilt, but all he says is, “Yeah, we’ll get you back soon so you can grab… whatever it is you need,” and he hates himself for saying it, but he doesn’t have time to try and fix what he broke now, and this time when he adds, “You druggie,” there’s no malice to it, and Cas huffs out a little delirious laugh.
He can’t fix them right now, but there’s still moments like this, and right now in this fucked-up world of theirs, that’s just going to have to do.