Know Your Curves From North To South, PG-13, Dean/Castiel
Title: Know Your Curves From North To South
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Mid 5.03
Summary: Dean likes the look of beautiful things, always did. He owned so few of them growing up. The lifestyle just didn’t have room for them, they broke or tarnished or were too hard to hold. Castiel is a beautiful thing.
Disclaimer: All credit to those who do own it (obviously not me).
He likes the look of beautiful things, always did. He owned so few of them growing up. The lifestyle just didn’t have room for them, they broke or tarnished or were too hard to hold. Practicality was the way of the Winchesters and as strictly as they adhered to the rules of the gun (always consider a gun loaded, never let the muzzle cover anything you aren’t willing to shoot, keep your finger off the trigger until your sights are on target, be ready to fire twice for good measure) they held fast to that principle. The first beautiful thing he remembered claiming as his came the year he turned seven, a sliver of aquamarine glass burnished by seawater and sand, its edges made smooth over time.
He carried it with him, rolled the rounded rim across his weathered hands when no one was looking. Over time he wore a groove into its flat service, his very own worry stone. That made it even more important as no thumb would ever slip into the depression in quite the same way his did. It made the piece unique unto him. That sort of ownership was enough to have kept the trinket with him, its solid weight riding in his jean pocket every day until the moment he’d lost it. But that had been years ago. He didn’t even remember when exactly he had lost it.
For some reason he finds himself thinking about that piece of glass and it puts him in a sour mood as they move into Sioux City. Of course, it doesn’t help that it’s sweltering and that he’s sweating and cranky. Dean watches the sky and the road intermittently, waiting. The clouds herald an inevitable burst of rain but he’s hoping they’ll be able to take a detour before it starts. It won’t be anything special, it never is. It will be some motel that smells of moth balls and perma-sweat. If he’s lucky there’ll be a good selection of porn, some fancy wrapped soap and maybe some magic fingers. Or maybe this time respite won’t be found in a cheap motel but a greasy spoon that’s griddle has been seasoned over time. The pancakes will taste of bacon and bacon faintly of maple syrup. This won’t mean anything to Castiel but to him it’ll be a moment of bliss that will keep him going for days. Castiel’s head tilts towards him in question as he begins to check out via the latest off ramp. His response is autocorrecting, the steering wheel sliding through his hands easy as any lover. They continue north as the swollen sky lets loose a torrential downpour and a darkness that’s reflected in both of their expressions.
Lightning stretches its lilac tendrils across the sky. Its soldiers, the thunder and the rain, make it so difficult to see he’s coasting on auto-pilot and the hope that no one else could be stupid enough to drive around in this. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters as they hit a bump, hydroplaning forwards with a whoosh of speed and air. “Can’t you do anything about this,” he asks, indicating the weather with a gesturing hand.
“It is not as if I have a direct line, Dean. Not any longer,” he explains. “If I did, we have more pressing matters to attend to with my father than the weather.” It’s such an obvious Cas answer, thinks Dean, perfectly practical and completely annoying. Dean lets out a snort of frustration but refuses to turn to look at the angel.
“If I crash,” Dean says. “I’m going to take it out on your ass.”
Eventually it becomes too difficult to see. Dean eases the car onto the side of the road, coasting until the wet gravel grips the tires hard enough to slow them to a stop. Castiel looks at him but he doesn’t say a word. His simple, placid expression only waits for an answer. “You're looking at me again,” he mutters and Cas turns his face away.
-----------
He realizes with something close to wonder that the piece of sea glass is no longer important. In place of blue glass he has the clear blue eyes of an angel that know him better than he knows himself. Where his thumb once slipped into the worn grooves in the glass now it can dip into the furrowed silken skin of Cas’ collarbone, finding a perfect home there. This is better, so much better than a manufactured worry stone. Cas is flesh and warmth and breath and touch and Dean feels alive and more contented than he’s been for years. It’s momentary, the looming threat of Lucifer hangs too neatly over their heads, as sure as the grey clouds but when Castiel moans, moans with what
Dean is sure is the might of heaven, he can’t bring himself close to caring.
Castiel is a beautiful thing; he opens up like a flower to sunlight. Touches send the angel into spasms of pleasure and he clings and rides and digs the pads of his fingers into Dean’s forearms in a way that turns him on more than he dare admit. “C’mon,” he huffs against Castiel’s ear. He fumbles with the button on the angel’s pants, finds pants are difficult to get undone when the pants aren’t yours and don’t have the slim line of a woman’s. The Impala is slick and sleek but it’s a tight squeeze for a man and a woman, for two large men it’s nearly impossible but they manage. Everything about Castiel is awkward, the juxtaposed lines of them fill the back seat and Dean is barely able to gets his hands on any part of Cas. And he wants his hands on him. He wants his hands everywhere, but he doesn't even truly understand how this has happened.
“Hot,” he hears the angel whisper, as he turns his face into the crux of Dean’s shoulder.
“What’s that?” for a moment Dean is nervous. It’s not as if touching men or angels is in his purview. In fact it’s so far out of his wheelhouse he’s still not sure exactly what made him kiss Cas in the frist place. In the space of a moment he was fuming at being waylaid and the next he was pressing the angel into the embrace of the leather passenger seat. Part of him tells himself he’s righting the wrong from the whorehouse, making a man out of Castiel. Another part, the one who thinks this just might be wrong, blames the rain and the heat and the crazy situations he’s always finding himself in, as if the choice to have his hands fisted down another man’s pants and to be kissing him so hard were he not angelic he’d bruise are symptomatic of crazy weather, not personal crimes.
Castiel gasps. The suddenness of it rocks him into Dean’s lap. They both smile, tenitive and flushed. The reaction clarifies something for Dean whose fond laugh fills the car right after. “It’s supposed to.” Castiel then rests his forehead against the other man's shoulder muttering a dim and slightly embarassed “Oh,” before pressing a sloppy kiss to Dean’s parched mouth. They both realize the moment Castiel makes the choice to do that, that there would be no going back, that neither of them wanted to do so. Things would change once the rain stopped hammering, once it stopped mimicking the sounds of their heartbeats. Dean shuddered. “Don’t be frightened,” Castiel is quick to say.
-----------
They make love. After, they curl satiated into one another, Castiel tucked into Dean’s side. For a moment all is safe with the world. Then thoughts turn darker as they inevitably always do and Dean begins to wonder if maybe this is the last time the Impala will know the sounds of ecstasy, the last time the cab will smell of sex and sweat and promises. As if he knows, Castiel rests his hand on Dean’s cheek. He shrugs it off, too familiar even after what they’d shared, but he smiles at him. Castiel shakes his head and perhaps unconsciously snuggles into Dean’s warmth. They lay there until the rain stops, and then they linger a little longer.
The Impala is cleaned in the blink of an eye and they are back on the road in seven and a half minutes once the decision to get back on it is made. As Dean drives he considers angels. Their world is still unknown to him but he’s sure that copulation amongst God’ holy warriors isn’t exactly typical Saturday night fair. How much of Cas belongs to him now, he wonders? Dean was his first human friend, his first lover, his partner to his first rebellion in his multitude of years. Dean imagines as he presses their shoulders together that whatever part of himself Cas had given over to him while their bodies were intertwined was a fragile part, a very human part living amongst the glory that is faith, and God and hope. It's a heavy thought and his shoulders bow with the weight of it but he decideds to deal with what comes. He decides that he and Cas will deal with it together.
The thoughts are too heavy so he breaks the silence by saying “Told you I’d take it out on your ass.” His smile transistions from fond to that upturned leering gesure that had made a thousand women in a thousand towns weak kneed. This time the expression is all for Castiel.
He is graced with Cas’ rarified chuckle, a lyrical and carefree sound that makes Dean’s heart race, and the crimson of an angel's blush. “Yes, but you did not crash so…”
“I totally crashed, man. I can’t believe you didn’t notice.” He turns to look at him, a quick glance off the road. "I found this piece of glass when I seven..."
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Mid 5.03
Summary: Dean likes the look of beautiful things, always did. He owned so few of them growing up. The lifestyle just didn’t have room for them, they broke or tarnished or were too hard to hold. Castiel is a beautiful thing.
Disclaimer: All credit to those who do own it (obviously not me).
He likes the look of beautiful things, always did. He owned so few of them growing up. The lifestyle just didn’t have room for them, they broke or tarnished or were too hard to hold. Practicality was the way of the Winchesters and as strictly as they adhered to the rules of the gun (always consider a gun loaded, never let the muzzle cover anything you aren’t willing to shoot, keep your finger off the trigger until your sights are on target, be ready to fire twice for good measure) they held fast to that principle. The first beautiful thing he remembered claiming as his came the year he turned seven, a sliver of aquamarine glass burnished by seawater and sand, its edges made smooth over time.
He carried it with him, rolled the rounded rim across his weathered hands when no one was looking. Over time he wore a groove into its flat service, his very own worry stone. That made it even more important as no thumb would ever slip into the depression in quite the same way his did. It made the piece unique unto him. That sort of ownership was enough to have kept the trinket with him, its solid weight riding in his jean pocket every day until the moment he’d lost it. But that had been years ago. He didn’t even remember when exactly he had lost it.
For some reason he finds himself thinking about that piece of glass and it puts him in a sour mood as they move into Sioux City. Of course, it doesn’t help that it’s sweltering and that he’s sweating and cranky. Dean watches the sky and the road intermittently, waiting. The clouds herald an inevitable burst of rain but he’s hoping they’ll be able to take a detour before it starts. It won’t be anything special, it never is. It will be some motel that smells of moth balls and perma-sweat. If he’s lucky there’ll be a good selection of porn, some fancy wrapped soap and maybe some magic fingers. Or maybe this time respite won’t be found in a cheap motel but a greasy spoon that’s griddle has been seasoned over time. The pancakes will taste of bacon and bacon faintly of maple syrup. This won’t mean anything to Castiel but to him it’ll be a moment of bliss that will keep him going for days. Castiel’s head tilts towards him in question as he begins to check out via the latest off ramp. His response is autocorrecting, the steering wheel sliding through his hands easy as any lover. They continue north as the swollen sky lets loose a torrential downpour and a darkness that’s reflected in both of their expressions.
Lightning stretches its lilac tendrils across the sky. Its soldiers, the thunder and the rain, make it so difficult to see he’s coasting on auto-pilot and the hope that no one else could be stupid enough to drive around in this. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters as they hit a bump, hydroplaning forwards with a whoosh of speed and air. “Can’t you do anything about this,” he asks, indicating the weather with a gesturing hand.
“It is not as if I have a direct line, Dean. Not any longer,” he explains. “If I did, we have more pressing matters to attend to with my father than the weather.” It’s such an obvious Cas answer, thinks Dean, perfectly practical and completely annoying. Dean lets out a snort of frustration but refuses to turn to look at the angel.
“If I crash,” Dean says. “I’m going to take it out on your ass.”
Eventually it becomes too difficult to see. Dean eases the car onto the side of the road, coasting until the wet gravel grips the tires hard enough to slow them to a stop. Castiel looks at him but he doesn’t say a word. His simple, placid expression only waits for an answer. “You're looking at me again,” he mutters and Cas turns his face away.
-----------
He realizes with something close to wonder that the piece of sea glass is no longer important. In place of blue glass he has the clear blue eyes of an angel that know him better than he knows himself. Where his thumb once slipped into the worn grooves in the glass now it can dip into the furrowed silken skin of Cas’ collarbone, finding a perfect home there. This is better, so much better than a manufactured worry stone. Cas is flesh and warmth and breath and touch and Dean feels alive and more contented than he’s been for years. It’s momentary, the looming threat of Lucifer hangs too neatly over their heads, as sure as the grey clouds but when Castiel moans, moans with what
Dean is sure is the might of heaven, he can’t bring himself close to caring.
Castiel is a beautiful thing; he opens up like a flower to sunlight. Touches send the angel into spasms of pleasure and he clings and rides and digs the pads of his fingers into Dean’s forearms in a way that turns him on more than he dare admit. “C’mon,” he huffs against Castiel’s ear. He fumbles with the button on the angel’s pants, finds pants are difficult to get undone when the pants aren’t yours and don’t have the slim line of a woman’s. The Impala is slick and sleek but it’s a tight squeeze for a man and a woman, for two large men it’s nearly impossible but they manage. Everything about Castiel is awkward, the juxtaposed lines of them fill the back seat and Dean is barely able to gets his hands on any part of Cas. And he wants his hands on him. He wants his hands everywhere, but he doesn't even truly understand how this has happened.
“Hot,” he hears the angel whisper, as he turns his face into the crux of Dean’s shoulder.
“What’s that?” for a moment Dean is nervous. It’s not as if touching men or angels is in his purview. In fact it’s so far out of his wheelhouse he’s still not sure exactly what made him kiss Cas in the frist place. In the space of a moment he was fuming at being waylaid and the next he was pressing the angel into the embrace of the leather passenger seat. Part of him tells himself he’s righting the wrong from the whorehouse, making a man out of Castiel. Another part, the one who thinks this just might be wrong, blames the rain and the heat and the crazy situations he’s always finding himself in, as if the choice to have his hands fisted down another man’s pants and to be kissing him so hard were he not angelic he’d bruise are symptomatic of crazy weather, not personal crimes.
Castiel gasps. The suddenness of it rocks him into Dean’s lap. They both smile, tenitive and flushed. The reaction clarifies something for Dean whose fond laugh fills the car right after. “It’s supposed to.” Castiel then rests his forehead against the other man's shoulder muttering a dim and slightly embarassed “Oh,” before pressing a sloppy kiss to Dean’s parched mouth. They both realize the moment Castiel makes the choice to do that, that there would be no going back, that neither of them wanted to do so. Things would change once the rain stopped hammering, once it stopped mimicking the sounds of their heartbeats. Dean shuddered. “Don’t be frightened,” Castiel is quick to say.
-----------
They make love. After, they curl satiated into one another, Castiel tucked into Dean’s side. For a moment all is safe with the world. Then thoughts turn darker as they inevitably always do and Dean begins to wonder if maybe this is the last time the Impala will know the sounds of ecstasy, the last time the cab will smell of sex and sweat and promises. As if he knows, Castiel rests his hand on Dean’s cheek. He shrugs it off, too familiar even after what they’d shared, but he smiles at him. Castiel shakes his head and perhaps unconsciously snuggles into Dean’s warmth. They lay there until the rain stops, and then they linger a little longer.
The Impala is cleaned in the blink of an eye and they are back on the road in seven and a half minutes once the decision to get back on it is made. As Dean drives he considers angels. Their world is still unknown to him but he’s sure that copulation amongst God’ holy warriors isn’t exactly typical Saturday night fair. How much of Cas belongs to him now, he wonders? Dean was his first human friend, his first lover, his partner to his first rebellion in his multitude of years. Dean imagines as he presses their shoulders together that whatever part of himself Cas had given over to him while their bodies were intertwined was a fragile part, a very human part living amongst the glory that is faith, and God and hope. It's a heavy thought and his shoulders bow with the weight of it but he decideds to deal with what comes. He decides that he and Cas will deal with it together.
The thoughts are too heavy so he breaks the silence by saying “Told you I’d take it out on your ass.” His smile transistions from fond to that upturned leering gesure that had made a thousand women in a thousand towns weak kneed. This time the expression is all for Castiel.
He is graced with Cas’ rarified chuckle, a lyrical and carefree sound that makes Dean’s heart race, and the crimson of an angel's blush. “Yes, but you did not crash so…”
“I totally crashed, man. I can’t believe you didn’t notice.” He turns to look at him, a quick glance off the road. "I found this piece of glass when I seven..."