Fic: Whomever They Chose (girl!Dean/Castiel)
Three days! Previous ficlets here.
Title: Whomever They Chose
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Deanna/Castiel
Spoilers: Through 4x22
Length: ~2,000 words
Summary: Sequel to Daughter of Man, because the T was a little too U, even for me. Now it came about, when men began to multiply on the face of the land, and daughters were born to them, that the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful; and they took wives for themselves, whomever they chose. Or, Deanna and Castiel do sex the end.
Note: Thanks again to aesc for her help and encouragement.
Whomever They Chose
The moment she sees him again, she knows it’s only a matter of time.
He knows it too, she thinks. He doesn’t try to hide it anymore when he looks at her. He looks at her like a man now, but also like Cas, her Cas: bemused and bewildered and, like, freakin’ fond or something. He looks at her like he thinks she’s miraculous, which is ridiculous, because this time, he’s the one who came back.
He died for her and he came back. So, screw it. It’s only a matter of time before she’s taking what’s hers.
She kisses him before the first week is out. He goes still at first, then opens up for her so prettily. She loves the scrape of his stubble and the way his hands flutter, birdlike, unsure where they want to land. She’s already ready for more so she catches five flailing fingers and guides them unsubtly to her breast. Castiel lets out a rough little moan and to her disappointment gifts her with only the faintest brush before he draws back.
“Hey, c’mon,” she says, “you don’t have to be gentle with me.”
Blue eyes smile down at her. “Perhaps you need to be gentle with me.”
She finds herself grinning back. “You wanna take it slow, huh?”
His hands have moved to settle gently at her waist, and normally she thinks she’d be squirming away. But he inhales slowly, like he finds joy in the simple act of taking air into his lungs, and Deanna has to resist the urge to tuck her fingers into his belt loops. “I want to try everything,” he says, “take each experience as it comes.”
At the last second, Deanna decides not to say, I could make you come.
“All right,” she says instead. “I’ll just have to seduce you then.”
Somehow this translates into the two of them flirting like repressed teenagers at a church social. Deanna decides this is Sam’s fault: her brother’s near-constant presence makes it difficult for her to pull out her signature moves. After the time he caught her with that trucker in Tampa, Sam told her he was scarred for life, so she doesn’t see how she could possibly make it worse, but. But it’s kind fun of to share only the smallest of touches: hands brushing as research volumes are passed back and forth, thighs rubbing together beneath a Formica tabletop. Cas is either very bad or very good at hiding his reactions, and it seems to vary from moment to moment, how well he’s got his angelface on. So it’s fun to see whether he’ll jump or blush or stammer, or merely blink at her. And it’s even more fun when he starts to play along. She almost creamed her pants the first time he came up behind her and, unbeknownst to everyone else in the room, slid a palm down the small of her back and squeezed her ass.
Okay, maybe they’re not so repressed. They’re too busy stealing every one of Sam’s bathroom breaks and food runs to make out. Cas is significantly less handsy when they’re actually kissing, but the kissing, even just the kissing… Deanna hopes that Sam thinks the reason she’s smiling so much whenever he gets back is that she’s just really happy to see him.
“D,” he says at one point, “you do realize that the apocalypse is happening, right?”
“Yeah, so things are gloomy enough without us adding to it. Right, Cas?”
“Your smile certainly brightens my day,” Cas says, so deadpan that Sam simply rolls his eyes and returns to his laptop.
“My smile?” Deanna questions later.
“Well.” There’s something decidedly mischievous in Cas’ eyes. “Your mouth.”
“I’ll show you my mouth,” Deanna says. She pushes him back against the side of the Impala and sinks to her knees.
Afterwards, she’s a little worried that she broke him. He’s breathing heavily and he won’t quite look at her. “Did I break you?” she asks in all seriousness.
He shakes his head and pulls her a little too sharply to her feet. “It’s not,” he says, voice breathy. He won’t meet her eyes. “It’s not right…”
Her stomach plummets. “Oh, that’s just typical.” Her disgust with him makes her feel vile and violent toward herself. “You beg for a girl to get on her knees and then call her a whore once she’s down there.”
“I-what?” He blinks and reaches for her, but she pushed him away.
“Get fucked,” she says. “Or don’t. See if I care.”
She storms off, and the storming turns into a jog, turns into a run. It feels good to move, but she’s not watching where she’s going and a stray rock by the side of the road makes her turn her ankle. So she comes back to the motel room in just about the foulest mood ever.
Castiel is waiting for her. “It’s not right that I should not be able to reciprocate,” he says before she can protest, yell at him to get the fuck out. His voice like molasses over gravel: “There is a great deal that I am ignorant about in these matters. But I did some research.”
He is only able to scoop her into his arms so easily because she lets him, just like her lips let escape a surprised “oof” when her back hits the wall. He’s gripping her butt, holding her up in a position that should be impossible: his arms so skinny, his slim little shoulders. But when she tries to wrap her legs around his waist to ease his burden, he just boosts her higher. “Cas.” She stares down at him, puzzled. “What are you doing?”
He looks up at her with wide, innocent eyes. “I wish to pleasure you.”
Her eyebrow goes up. “Yeah? And just how do you expect to-oh.”
Oh holy crap. Apparently he expects to pleasure her right freakin’ here, mojoing away her pants and pressing his face into her sex like he’s suckling from a peach. Her hands slam back against the wall, scrambling for purchase. She digs her heels sharply into his back and writhes as his hands knead her ass as his tongue licks into her, exploratory, determined. She feels like she’s going to break through the wall, shuddering and gasping and shaking plaster from her hair. One thing’s for sure: she is never making fun of research ever again.
When she comes it feels like falling, but he hangs on tight, holds her as she thrashes before setting her gently back on shaky feet.
The first thing she does once she’s steady is to slug him in the shoulder. “Show off,” she says. “You trying to prove something to me?”
He nods, so serious, his lips swollen, his mouth obscenely wet. “There are subtleties to human communication which to me are not always immediately apparent.”
She laughs; it’s surprisingly genuine. “You think?” Another serious nod. “Look, Cas…rule number one, okay? Don’t kick a girl when she’s down or when she’s just gone down, got it?”
He looks bashful with his long lashes and shiny lips. “I believe I understand.”
She thwacks him again, herding him toward the bed. “And stop with this naïve crap. You’re not special holy angel stupid, Mr. Cunning Linguist. You’re just regular man stupid.” He tumbles back. “I know how to handle you.”
She does: stripping his clothes off the old-fashioned way, slicking him up with her own juices. “You sure you don’t still wanna go slow?” she asks, straddling his thighs, stroking him.
Cas says, “Nhgh,” intelligently.
She rocks forward and captures his mouth. “I taste good, don’t I?” she whispers. “Feel good, too. Wait and see.”
Through some trick of angelic self-control, he manages to push himself up enough to regard her through sloe eyes. “I’ve been waiting for billions of years.”
“Oh, so no pressure, huh?” The thought nevertheless gives her a thrill. She positions herself, circling her thumb around his cockhead as she guides it in. “Hey, there’s no chance of mystical angel babies, right?”
As expected, his eyes go comically wide. “What?”
“Just kidding, I’m on the pill.” She laughs; and laughing, she sinks down on him, and the laughter burbles up and changes as she rolls her shoulders, rolls her head back, adjusts to the feeling of him steely and hot inside her. “Oh, yes.”
“Yes,” echoes Cas, and she can feel him tremble where they are joined.
“You like that?” she asks, rocking a little. “I want to hear you tell me. Was I worth waiting for, Cas?”
“Yes,” he mutters, “yes,” moving his hips in time with hers. It’s a pretty slow and gentle fuck, really, but still he’s getting her, driving so deep. She buckles down, pins his arms at his sides and stares him down. “Worth every minute?”
He meets her eyes and stares back and it’s like she can see all of those years there, behind his wide human eyes. “For you I’d wait,” his breath hitches, “millennia and more.”
Okay, that’s really cheesy. That’s not the kind of line that should make her feel all warm and melty, that should throw her off her game enough for him to rear up, hold her tight and flip her onto her back, keeping himself snug inside her body. She lets out a huffing pant, her mouth inches from his mouth so they’re both breathing the same air. He’s not moving anymore, and the stillness feels too profound, the two of them staring into each other’s eyes. Deanna wants to rebel against it, the transformation of her fun fuck into some impossible fairytale thing, but then she figures, she’s in-she’s fucking an angel, here, so she’s pretty much screwed.
So she wraps her legs around his back and whispers, “Move, you dolt,” losing the last of her words in a kiss.
The sensation builds, sweeping into her with each stroke, but building from somewhere inside, too. His skin has remained cool beneath her touch; he hasn’t gotten sweaty like a normal man, but she can still feel his blood racing in the curve of his throat, and she tucks her head against the pale arc of his neck, shuddering and coming undone and digging her blunt nails against the bruiseproof skin of his back.
When he spills inside her not long after, losing himself in the greedy contractions of her muscles, she’s together enough to see the way his eyes roll back in his head, and she guides his slumping body to fall forward against her breasts. He nuzzles at them, thoughtfully. His curiosity is clearly insatiable: this can only be a good thing.
Another good thing: despite the aftershocks she can still feel, electric beneath his skin, he is wide awake, watching her with those intense, inhuman eyes of his. “That was…not quite what I expected.”
He makes being surprised sound positive, which she gets. “What were you expecting?” she asks, genuinely curious. What do angels expect out of sex? She obviously needs to answer this question: for Sam, and for science.
He appears to weigh his words. “Perhaps something more…reverent?”
She swallows. Parts of that had felt…a little too reverent to her, to be honest. “What, like some sort of every sperm is sacred kind of thing?”
He shakes his head. “I like your irreverence.”
“I like your…upper-arm strength,” she says, because if she were to launch into the real list of all his likeable qualities, this would get embarrassing. “Seriously, I can’t believe you get beat up as much as you do.”
He looks slightly hurt, and she likes that, too, her angel looking all sex-mussed and petulant. There’s a sudden tightness in her chest, and she pushes it away-not the time, seriously not the time; they could all die tomorrow and all she wants is to have some fun, and give Cas some fun, too. He certainly deserves it.
Would wait millennia. Jesus Christ.
“I’ll let you get some of your own back next time, I promise,” she says. “I like it rough.”
He traces a finger gently down the raised ridges on her shoulder, his eyes never leaving hers.
“If you say so,” he tells her.
Title: Whomever They Chose
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Deanna/Castiel
Spoilers: Through 4x22
Length: ~2,000 words
Summary: Sequel to Daughter of Man, because the T was a little too U, even for me. Now it came about, when men began to multiply on the face of the land, and daughters were born to them, that the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful; and they took wives for themselves, whomever they chose. Or, Deanna and Castiel do sex the end.
Note: Thanks again to aesc for her help and encouragement.
Whomever They Chose
The moment she sees him again, she knows it’s only a matter of time.
He knows it too, she thinks. He doesn’t try to hide it anymore when he looks at her. He looks at her like a man now, but also like Cas, her Cas: bemused and bewildered and, like, freakin’ fond or something. He looks at her like he thinks she’s miraculous, which is ridiculous, because this time, he’s the one who came back.
He died for her and he came back. So, screw it. It’s only a matter of time before she’s taking what’s hers.
She kisses him before the first week is out. He goes still at first, then opens up for her so prettily. She loves the scrape of his stubble and the way his hands flutter, birdlike, unsure where they want to land. She’s already ready for more so she catches five flailing fingers and guides them unsubtly to her breast. Castiel lets out a rough little moan and to her disappointment gifts her with only the faintest brush before he draws back.
“Hey, c’mon,” she says, “you don’t have to be gentle with me.”
Blue eyes smile down at her. “Perhaps you need to be gentle with me.”
She finds herself grinning back. “You wanna take it slow, huh?”
His hands have moved to settle gently at her waist, and normally she thinks she’d be squirming away. But he inhales slowly, like he finds joy in the simple act of taking air into his lungs, and Deanna has to resist the urge to tuck her fingers into his belt loops. “I want to try everything,” he says, “take each experience as it comes.”
At the last second, Deanna decides not to say, I could make you come.
“All right,” she says instead. “I’ll just have to seduce you then.”
Somehow this translates into the two of them flirting like repressed teenagers at a church social. Deanna decides this is Sam’s fault: her brother’s near-constant presence makes it difficult for her to pull out her signature moves. After the time he caught her with that trucker in Tampa, Sam told her he was scarred for life, so she doesn’t see how she could possibly make it worse, but. But it’s kind fun of to share only the smallest of touches: hands brushing as research volumes are passed back and forth, thighs rubbing together beneath a Formica tabletop. Cas is either very bad or very good at hiding his reactions, and it seems to vary from moment to moment, how well he’s got his angelface on. So it’s fun to see whether he’ll jump or blush or stammer, or merely blink at her. And it’s even more fun when he starts to play along. She almost creamed her pants the first time he came up behind her and, unbeknownst to everyone else in the room, slid a palm down the small of her back and squeezed her ass.
Okay, maybe they’re not so repressed. They’re too busy stealing every one of Sam’s bathroom breaks and food runs to make out. Cas is significantly less handsy when they’re actually kissing, but the kissing, even just the kissing… Deanna hopes that Sam thinks the reason she’s smiling so much whenever he gets back is that she’s just really happy to see him.
“D,” he says at one point, “you do realize that the apocalypse is happening, right?”
“Yeah, so things are gloomy enough without us adding to it. Right, Cas?”
“Your smile certainly brightens my day,” Cas says, so deadpan that Sam simply rolls his eyes and returns to his laptop.
“My smile?” Deanna questions later.
“Well.” There’s something decidedly mischievous in Cas’ eyes. “Your mouth.”
“I’ll show you my mouth,” Deanna says. She pushes him back against the side of the Impala and sinks to her knees.
Afterwards, she’s a little worried that she broke him. He’s breathing heavily and he won’t quite look at her. “Did I break you?” she asks in all seriousness.
He shakes his head and pulls her a little too sharply to her feet. “It’s not,” he says, voice breathy. He won’t meet her eyes. “It’s not right…”
Her stomach plummets. “Oh, that’s just typical.” Her disgust with him makes her feel vile and violent toward herself. “You beg for a girl to get on her knees and then call her a whore once she’s down there.”
“I-what?” He blinks and reaches for her, but she pushed him away.
“Get fucked,” she says. “Or don’t. See if I care.”
She storms off, and the storming turns into a jog, turns into a run. It feels good to move, but she’s not watching where she’s going and a stray rock by the side of the road makes her turn her ankle. So she comes back to the motel room in just about the foulest mood ever.
Castiel is waiting for her. “It’s not right that I should not be able to reciprocate,” he says before she can protest, yell at him to get the fuck out. His voice like molasses over gravel: “There is a great deal that I am ignorant about in these matters. But I did some research.”
He is only able to scoop her into his arms so easily because she lets him, just like her lips let escape a surprised “oof” when her back hits the wall. He’s gripping her butt, holding her up in a position that should be impossible: his arms so skinny, his slim little shoulders. But when she tries to wrap her legs around his waist to ease his burden, he just boosts her higher. “Cas.” She stares down at him, puzzled. “What are you doing?”
He looks up at her with wide, innocent eyes. “I wish to pleasure you.”
Her eyebrow goes up. “Yeah? And just how do you expect to-oh.”
Oh holy crap. Apparently he expects to pleasure her right freakin’ here, mojoing away her pants and pressing his face into her sex like he’s suckling from a peach. Her hands slam back against the wall, scrambling for purchase. She digs her heels sharply into his back and writhes as his hands knead her ass as his tongue licks into her, exploratory, determined. She feels like she’s going to break through the wall, shuddering and gasping and shaking plaster from her hair. One thing’s for sure: she is never making fun of research ever again.
When she comes it feels like falling, but he hangs on tight, holds her as she thrashes before setting her gently back on shaky feet.
The first thing she does once she’s steady is to slug him in the shoulder. “Show off,” she says. “You trying to prove something to me?”
He nods, so serious, his lips swollen, his mouth obscenely wet. “There are subtleties to human communication which to me are not always immediately apparent.”
She laughs; it’s surprisingly genuine. “You think?” Another serious nod. “Look, Cas…rule number one, okay? Don’t kick a girl when she’s down or when she’s just gone down, got it?”
He looks bashful with his long lashes and shiny lips. “I believe I understand.”
She thwacks him again, herding him toward the bed. “And stop with this naïve crap. You’re not special holy angel stupid, Mr. Cunning Linguist. You’re just regular man stupid.” He tumbles back. “I know how to handle you.”
She does: stripping his clothes off the old-fashioned way, slicking him up with her own juices. “You sure you don’t still wanna go slow?” she asks, straddling his thighs, stroking him.
Cas says, “Nhgh,” intelligently.
She rocks forward and captures his mouth. “I taste good, don’t I?” she whispers. “Feel good, too. Wait and see.”
Through some trick of angelic self-control, he manages to push himself up enough to regard her through sloe eyes. “I’ve been waiting for billions of years.”
“Oh, so no pressure, huh?” The thought nevertheless gives her a thrill. She positions herself, circling her thumb around his cockhead as she guides it in. “Hey, there’s no chance of mystical angel babies, right?”
As expected, his eyes go comically wide. “What?”
“Just kidding, I’m on the pill.” She laughs; and laughing, she sinks down on him, and the laughter burbles up and changes as she rolls her shoulders, rolls her head back, adjusts to the feeling of him steely and hot inside her. “Oh, yes.”
“Yes,” echoes Cas, and she can feel him tremble where they are joined.
“You like that?” she asks, rocking a little. “I want to hear you tell me. Was I worth waiting for, Cas?”
“Yes,” he mutters, “yes,” moving his hips in time with hers. It’s a pretty slow and gentle fuck, really, but still he’s getting her, driving so deep. She buckles down, pins his arms at his sides and stares him down. “Worth every minute?”
He meets her eyes and stares back and it’s like she can see all of those years there, behind his wide human eyes. “For you I’d wait,” his breath hitches, “millennia and more.”
Okay, that’s really cheesy. That’s not the kind of line that should make her feel all warm and melty, that should throw her off her game enough for him to rear up, hold her tight and flip her onto her back, keeping himself snug inside her body. She lets out a huffing pant, her mouth inches from his mouth so they’re both breathing the same air. He’s not moving anymore, and the stillness feels too profound, the two of them staring into each other’s eyes. Deanna wants to rebel against it, the transformation of her fun fuck into some impossible fairytale thing, but then she figures, she’s in-she’s fucking an angel, here, so she’s pretty much screwed.
So she wraps her legs around his back and whispers, “Move, you dolt,” losing the last of her words in a kiss.
The sensation builds, sweeping into her with each stroke, but building from somewhere inside, too. His skin has remained cool beneath her touch; he hasn’t gotten sweaty like a normal man, but she can still feel his blood racing in the curve of his throat, and she tucks her head against the pale arc of his neck, shuddering and coming undone and digging her blunt nails against the bruiseproof skin of his back.
When he spills inside her not long after, losing himself in the greedy contractions of her muscles, she’s together enough to see the way his eyes roll back in his head, and she guides his slumping body to fall forward against her breasts. He nuzzles at them, thoughtfully. His curiosity is clearly insatiable: this can only be a good thing.
Another good thing: despite the aftershocks she can still feel, electric beneath his skin, he is wide awake, watching her with those intense, inhuman eyes of his. “That was…not quite what I expected.”
He makes being surprised sound positive, which she gets. “What were you expecting?” she asks, genuinely curious. What do angels expect out of sex? She obviously needs to answer this question: for Sam, and for science.
He appears to weigh his words. “Perhaps something more…reverent?”
She swallows. Parts of that had felt…a little too reverent to her, to be honest. “What, like some sort of every sperm is sacred kind of thing?”
He shakes his head. “I like your irreverence.”
“I like your…upper-arm strength,” she says, because if she were to launch into the real list of all his likeable qualities, this would get embarrassing. “Seriously, I can’t believe you get beat up as much as you do.”
He looks slightly hurt, and she likes that, too, her angel looking all sex-mussed and petulant. There’s a sudden tightness in her chest, and she pushes it away-not the time, seriously not the time; they could all die tomorrow and all she wants is to have some fun, and give Cas some fun, too. He certainly deserves it.
Would wait millennia. Jesus Christ.
“I’ll let you get some of your own back next time, I promise,” she says. “I like it rough.”
He traces a finger gently down the raised ridges on her shoulder, his eyes never leaving hers.
“If you say so,” he tells her.