[fic] Magic Fingers - Supernatural - Dean/Castiel - R
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural and I make no money from this or any other fanfic I write
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Category: General
Rating: R
Warning: Language and violence. Spoilers for 5.10 Abandon All Hope
Title: Magic Fingers
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for evalens for the deancas_xmas fic exchange. I don’t know if this was exactly what you were hoping for. I went for the Dean whump - how could I resist? I hope you enjoy, evalens. Merry Christmas!
“The Winchesters knee-deep in crap on Christmas Eve,” Dean mumbled under his breath as he and Sam made their way hand over hand down the narrow rusted ladder than led deep into the city’s bowels. “How fucking typical.”
“What was that?” Sam asked from overhead, glancing down at his brother.
“Nothing, let’s just get this done and over with.”
“Right.”
Business as usual. Fuck. The Winchesters didn’t believe in holiday down time. Too many murderous monsters and demons. And since the rising of the witnesses, the Hunting world was short staffed by at least twenty. Twenty good men and women who had devoted their lives to protecting their fellow human beings from the things that went bump in the night. That made things difficult all around. It’s not like Hunters could exactly go out and recruit new members. So the burden settled even more heavily on those that remained.
Dean tried not to think of Jo and Ellen Harvelle, tried not to think of Bobby trapped in his wheelchair. Their numbers were dwindling fast but the monsters just kept on coming. It was a futile battle, and they all knew it, but it was one that needed to be fought regardless.
Still, he thought, touching down and finding himself ankle deep in sludge, for once he would like to celebrate the holiday - really celebrate it, not just drinking beer watching holiday football on the boob tube - the way everyone else did. The way everyone else seemed to take for granted. Christmas dinner with all the trimmings, presents under the tree. Family, friends, singing carols. Okay, maybe not that last one, but the rest sounded damned well idealistic.
And it was a pipe dream, he told himself harshly, and one he wasn’t going to waste any time on, especially now that they were on the trail of a shape shifter that had managed to rack up an impressive death toll. He’d managed to give them the slip, but Dean had winged him as he’d made a run for the sewers. The fucker was going down. Today. End of story.
Even as sewers went, the place was a freaking dump. The walls were wet, soft and crumbly, and in some areas completely collapsed. Rotting furniture from decades passed littered the narrow tunnels and the frigid air was thick with the noxious combination of human waste, mold… and death.
“This guy could use a woman’s touch,” Sam snorted, kicking aside a pile of moldering cardboard boxes that was spilling urine-yellow newspapers everywhere.
“Well, he’s going to have to settle for the Winchester touch,” Dean mumbled, pulling his gun from his holster. With practiced ease he checked the cartridge of bullets - silver, each and every one of them. Only surefire way to kill a shifter. Only three left, though. Damn. They were expensive as hell, but what could you do?
“Son of a bitch’s got to be around here somewhere,” he scanned the dim interior but there was so much junk… The shifter could be anywhere down here, he thought, disgusted. “God, I hate packrats.”
The soft plinking of dripping water could be heard along with the soft squeaks rats. Dean had caught a glimpse of a few of them in the bobbing white light of Sam’s flashlight and they were freaking huge. Sleek and plump and they showed no fear of humans, no fear whatsoever. One mean fucker the size of a small dog had sat up on its haunches and glared at them as they made their clumsy human way along the cluttered tunnels. It hadn’t scampered off until Dean had chucked a rusted tin can of peas at it and even then it moved in slow, sullen arrogance.
“Maybe he’s not down here?” Sam offered as their tunnel opened up onto some sort of crossroads. The ceiling soared up overhead and gray winter light filtered down through a manhole cover. The air was colder now and their breath plumed out in white fumes with each breath they took.
“Oh, it’s down here all right,” Dean snapped. “Somewhere. That greasy fucker couldn’t have gotten far.”
The brother’s searched around them carefully, guns at the ready. More trash was piled here along with discarded food containers from local fast food joints and what appeared to be a nest of soiled blankets. A scraggly pine tree that made Charlie Brown’s own tree look like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree in comparison stood in one corner, looking pitiful. A few colorful decorations had been hung from its wilted branches.
It seemed like they had found the creature’s lair.
Suddenly an enraged shriek filled the room, bouncing off the decrepit walls and echoing back at them from all directions. From the corner of his eyes, Dean caught faint movement.
“Dean!” Sam yelled, “Behind you!”
Dean whirled, too late. The son of a bitch had been hiding in a pile of rotten newspapers and other refuse. Trash flew everywhere as the creature erupted from the stash, howling and carrying, of all things, a wooden baseball bat.
The shifter - frozen in some sort of mid-transformation that made him look like some freakishly mutated human-fruit bat thing- sank its claws into his shoulders and, with a shriek of rage, sent him flying through the frigid air. He slammed back first into a crumbling pile of concrete blocks with a strangled cry. Red darts of pain tore through his body, his screaming nerve endings obliterating conscious thought.
“Dean!” Sam leveled his gun at the creature, but the shifter whirled and brought the bat down in a vicious swinging arc. The splintery wood glanced off his forearm and he grunted in pain. The gun flew from his hands, bounced off the pavement, and splashed into the noxious water, sinking quickly out of sight. Another lightning quick swing of the bat sent him reeling back as it struck him squarely in the chest. The air exploded out of his lungs and he collapsed to his knees, like a giant puppet with its strings cut.
Hissing in triumph, the shape shifter turned its attention back to Dean, who was trying to scramble to his feet. He had only managed to reach his knees when the monster grabbed him by the throat with one hand and slammed one clenched fist into his face. The coppery taste of blood blossomed in his mouth.
“You punch like a girl,” Dean growled, sniffling back blood.
The shifter shrieked again, wrapped both hands around his neck, digging claw-like fingers into the tender flesh, and began to throttle him. It dragged his head forward then slamming it back against the nearest cement block. Pain screamed through Dean’s skull, blinding white and huge. His vision faded around the edges, and his hands clawed at the hands wrapped around his throat, yanking ineffectively, in a desperate attempt to break free.
Red dots danced before his eyes and blackness began to gobble up even more of his vision. One hand fell away from his throat, fingers groping for something - anything - he might use against his assailant. No way in hell was he going to be taken out by a freaking shape shifter, he thought savagely. Sam would never let him live it down.
His fingers brushed against something cool, metallic. There was no mistaking his gun, as familiar to him as his own hand. Using fingers that felt thick and clumsy, he grabbed it from the ground and angled it up under the creature’s chin. There was a hiss of furious surprise as he pressed the smooth metal of the barrel into the slouching skin.
“Eat silver, you fugly son of a bitch,” Dean rasped and unceremoniously squeezed the trigger.
The shifter’s head exploded in a geyser of blood, brains and bone. Its body convulsed, fingers biting even deeper into his neck, before the loosening and finally, falling away altogether.
Dean collapsed, drawing in a long, sobbing breath. Consciousness wavered in and out. Blood and flecks of brain matter dripped down his face, clung to his hair and coat. He could feel heavier bits sliding beneath the collar of his shirt. He grimaced and spat blood, running his tongue over his teeth to make sure they were all accounted for.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice sounded so distant as he dragged himself first to his knees then his feet. His long legs closed the distance between them in no time. “You okay?”
Dean would have laughed if he wasn’t sure that doing so would send his brains oozing through the cracks in his skull.
“Peachy,” he mumbled. Is that my voice? He thought dimly. That hoarse croak? Jesus Christ.
On the back of that thought, he dropped his head back and allowing the encroaching darkness to finally overtake him.
***
When he regained consciousness, Dean found himself back in their motel room, lying spread eagle on his bed. His flannel shirt, pants and coat had been carefully removed and were draped over the back of the desk chair. They looked wet and the blood had been washed out so he guessed that couldn’t have been out too long.
“Sammy?”
Sam came out of the bathroom, hair damp, smelling of soap. “Thank God, you’re awake,” he said, coming over to the bed. “I was starting to worry.”
Dean cleared his throat and winced at the pain the action produced. Then the pain faded to just this side of bearable. “Nah, takes more than a rotten shifter to sink me,” he mumbled and even managed a smile, though he winced at the sting of his split lip.
“Can I get you anything? Water?”
“Aspirin would be awesome.”
Sam walked over to his bed and rifled through his duffle bag until he found what he was searching for. He held a small medicine bottle out to Dean, who accepted it gratefully.
He popped the top and poured the bottle’s contents into the palm of his hand. He frowned down at the two small pills, tapped the bottle against the palm of his hand then peered into the plastic depths.
Empty. Fucking great.
“Sorry.” Sam handed him a small paper cup of water then snagged the Impala’s keys from the dresser and headed for the door. “I’ll pick up some more when I get dinner. Okay?”
“How’s your arm?” Dean asked, concerned. He clearly remembered the shifter whacking his brother a couple times with that baseball bat. And what was up with that shit, anyway? What kind of monster kept a baseball bat on hand? Who did he think he was, Babe Ruth?
“Fine,” Sam clenched and unclenched his fist to show just how fine he was. “Bit sore, but nothing I can’t handle. “Look, I’ve got to go before all the store’s shut down for the holiday. Back in a bit.”
Grunting in reply, Dean popped the pills into his mouth, grimacing at their bitter taste. He washed them down with the water, crushed the cup, and sent it flying into the nearby trash bin.
Two points for Team Winchester! And the crowd goes wild! WHAAAHH!
Dean almost smiled, but even those small movements sent darting through his body, and the smile turned into a grimace. Damn, that son of a bitch had really done a number on him. Wincing, he got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. He legs were fine, it was his back that was fucked up. Two aspirin wasn’t going to cut it. Hell, a whole bottle might not be enough.
Now that Sam was gone, he was free to hiss out a pained breath as he dragged his tee shirt over his head. He twisted his torso just enough to catch a glimpse of his back, which was a mass of ugly purple bruises. Great.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” He mumbled and, reaching into the shower, turned on the hot water faucet. When the water was at the correct temperature - he checked with his hand first because the motel was a cheap one and sometimes the water heaters didn’t work like they should - he stripped off his remaining clothes and stepped into the porcelain tub, pulling the shower curtain closed behind him.
He was in the shower for almost twenty minutes, lathering up carefully with the sample sized shampoo and soaps the maid had set out for them when cleaning their room. He scrubbed vigorously making sure he got rid of every slimy trace of that shifter’s blood and brains. Satisfied that he was as clean as he ever would be, he let the water pound against his sore back for as long as the hot water held out.
When he got out, he grabbed one towel to wrap around his waist and another with which to dry his hair. He toweled off leisurely, noting that while his back still hurt like hell, it was at least better than it had been. The aspirin had also helped dull the pain, but there was just too much damage for it to be effective.
He made his way out to the bedroom, running the towel over his short hair with slow, languid movements.
“Hello, Dean.”
When he heard a familiar voice directly behind him, he practically jumped out of his skin. He whirled around, back protesting at the sudden movements.
“Don’t do that!” He snapped, holding one hand dramatically to his chest. “One of these days you’re going to give me a freaking heart attack.”
“I’m sorry,” Castiel murmured, lower his eyes apologetically. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Startle,” Dean corrected, “You startled me. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Hell, yeah. Chicks get scared. I startle. Sounds more manly. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”
“I see.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Dean walked past the angel to the bed and began rummaging through his duffle for some clean clothes. He tried very hard to appear nonchalant, but it was a bit disconcerting the way the angel gazed at him so steadily, so seriously as he stood there practically in the altogether with only a towel tied around his waste to keep him from going full frontal.
“Sam called me.” Castiel replied softly. “He said you had been hurt and asked for me to… check up on you.”
“What am I, a little kid?”
“He was worried, Dean.”
“Yeah, he’s a regular mother hen.” Dean sighed, shaking his head as he searched for one of his missing socks. He’d had them all balled together when he’d packed, but somehow one of them always ended up missing. He hated when that happened. Stupid socks.
Dean sensed the angel stepping closer, heard the concern in his voice as he got an eyeful of the nasty bruises that covered his back like angry storm clouds.
“I can help you, Dean.”
“Help, really?” He asked, straightening up and turning to look at his friend. “I thought you couldn’t use your angel powers to heal anymore. That’s what you told Bobby, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Castiel murmured, nodding his head sadly, “But still, I can help you feel better.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Better how?” All kinds of ideas flitted through his brain, but this was real life, not some freaky porno flick. Sam had once accused him of getting reality and porn mixed up. Maybe his brother had a point, because, damn, if the idea of an angel of the Lord helping him feel all kinds of better didn’t turn him on way more than it should.
“I can help ease your pain, if you’d let me.”
“Okay, fine. I’m game,” Dean shrugged and immediately regretted it. Damn, back pain was nothing to laugh at. “What do you want me to do?”
“First, we’ll need to loosen this,” Castiel tugged at the towel still tied around Dean’s waist.
“Hey!” Dean made a frantic grab to keep himself from flashing the angel. “A little warning there, pal!”
Unperturbed, Castiel gestured toward the bed, “Lie down.”
“Okay,” Dean moved toward the bed. Porn. Reality. Porn. Reality. Is this porn or is this reality? God, he hurt like hell so it was definitely reality because sex wasn’t supposed to hurt. At least not in a definite ouch kind of way. Good pain. The kind you just couldn’t get enough of. And what he was currently experiencing didn’t fall into that category at all.
“On your stomach,” Castiel urged, as Dean eased down onto the bed.
While he was getting situated on the bed, Castiel disappeared into the bathroom then returned carrying a few bath and hand towels. He stacked the towels at the foot of the bed, selected one of the bath towels and folded it with quick, efficient movements. Like he had done it thousands of times, which Dean thought was crazy. Where had an angel learned to fold towels?
“Lift up,” Castiel urged, and when Dean obeyed, he set the towel under him on the bed, just where his breastbone would rest. “Good,” He murmured, “Now lie back down.”
He reached for hand towel and went through the process all over again, this time resting it under Dean’s forehead. “What’s this for?” Dean asked, feeling foolish.
“It’ll help support your head and keep your neck straight.”
“Oh.” Dean said as if that made perfect sense.
The third towel Castiel rested under his ankles. “To help support your lower back,” he explained patiently. Then: “Do you have any lubrication?”
“What?” Dean twisted around, suddenly panicked. “What the hell do you need lube for?”
“Massage oil decreases the friction created on the skin and prevents the pulling of hairs.” Castiel glanced toward Sam’s duffle bag, still open on his bed. “I doubt you have any massage oils on hand, but any lotion would work for now.”
“Oh.” Dean repeated, then cleared his throat and returned his head to the folded towel. “Yeah, that makes sense.” He waved his hand in the general direction of Sam’s duffle. “Sam’s got all kinds of girly shit like that. Don’t use regular baby oil - it makes me feel greasy.”
“As you wish.”
Castiel retrieved some lotion, then stood at the side of the bed, facing Dean. Good God, Dean thought when he saw the bottle. It’s pink. I’m going to lay here on my stomach like some chick and let an angel smear pink body lotion all over me. What in hell has the world come to?
Carefully, the angel poured a small amount of lotion into his cupped hand - and, yes, Dean noted cynically, it was pink - and rubbed his hands together slowly, presumably to warm it.
“Are you ready?”
Dean rolled his eyes so he could see the angel looming over him, hands slicked with oil and ready to lay those hands upon him. He suppressed a small shiver. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he mumbled.
Castiel placed one hand on the small of Dean’s back and the other between his shoulder blades, right over his heart. His hands were warm, slightly rough as if his vessel, Jimmy Novak, had enjoyed working with his hands. Dean found that he didn’t mind at all. It freaked him out to shake hands with a man whose hands were baby soft. A guy’s hands were supposed to be a little rough. That’s one of the things that differentiated men from women, damn it.
Still working carefully, Castiel applied pressure using his thumbs and dragged them simultaneously down along his back on either side of his spine, keeping the movements slow. “How does that feel?” Cas murmured.
Dean made a small hmm sound in his throat, indicating that all was well.
Satisfied, the angel began to spread the lotion evenly over Dean’s back, from mid-back to the tops of his hips using smooth gliding strokes. When his hands slicked under the towel to caress the rising curve of his ass, Dean gasped, his whole body tensing.
“Whoa, time out!”
“I won’t hurt you, Dean,” Castiel murmured in a low, soothing voice, “Nor will I do anything to cause you discomfort. If at any time you wish me to stop, just say so and I will.”
“Okay,” Dean muttered, shakily, “That’s good to know.”
Castiel continued spreading the lotion over Dean’s back. In one long stroke he slide the palms of his hands down either side of his spine, sweeping out when he reached the hips, then moving back up along the spine again. It felt nice, Dean realized, sensual rather than sexual. He closed his eyes and made a mental effort to relax. Castiel was as good as his word, he knew, and he wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, not intentionally at least.
“Where the hell did you learn how to do this, Cas?”
“China.” He said in way of explanation. “I have watched over Mankind for over two thousand years.” Castiel murmured, hands continuing to gently sweep over Dean’s back. “I have had the opportunity to watch and learn many things. Things that I have not had to opportunity to practice until my recent descent to earth.”
“Like giving back massages?”
“Yes, among other things.” Castiel pressed his palms flat against Dean’s back and began to slide them in opposite directions, moving outward to either side of the back, starting at the lower back and moving his way slowly up toward the shoulders.
Oh my God, Dean thought, deliriously, that feels fantastic.
He cracked open one eye, a mischievous grin playing along his lips. “What other things do you want to ‘practice’?”
Castiel’s hands hesitated as they began to knead the fleshy, muscular area of the shoulders. “Many things,” He said simply. After a while, he moved slowly to the mid back area, tending to the muscles carefully so as not to cause pain.
“Like what things?” Dean persisted.
There was silence for a few moments as Cas stroked his hands lower and began kneading the muscles of his buttocks. Dean drew in a shaky breath and tried to ignore the way his body was responding to his friend’s innocent caresses. He was just trying to help ease his back pain, for God’s sake. He probably had no idea that in the process he was stirring up a whole different kind of ache.
“Come on, Cas,” He cajoled, voice rough. “You can tell me.”
“There are too many to name.” Castiel whispered as his hands continued to work their magic over Dean’s body.
“How about top ten?” Silence from his angel friend. “Top five?”
“Shh, you should be resting your throat.”
“Stubborn son of a bitch,” Dean mumbled under his breath, then obediently fell silent. It was easy enough to do. The sensations of Castiel’s hands working over his flesh were absolutely a-fucking-mazing.
Gliding his hands slowly and deliberately along Dean’s back, Castiel sought out areas in his muscles that felt hard or tight. When he encountered such areas - and there were many of them - he used his thumbs and fingers an applied pressure to the knots.
Dean gasped as he found one particular painful spot.
“Am I hurting you, Dean?”
“No, just a tender spot is all. Carry on.”
As with the other knots, Castiel applied steady pressure and the pain increased until Dean jus about wanted to scream. An unmanly whimpering sound built in his throat, but Dean viciously strangled it before it had a chance to escape. Then, as if by magic, the pain began to subside.
Dean moaned low in his throat. “That feels… really good.” In ways you couldn’t possibly imagine, he mentally added feeling a flush creep over his face. He was glad Castiel couldn’t see his face, the expressions that he was making. He’d think he was hurting him for sure and that wasn’t what he was doing to him at all. Just the opposite, in fact.
The massage continued for several more blissful minutes and when Castiel stepped back, announcing that he was finished, Dean felt like a whole new man. The pain in his back had disappeared, even if those bruises would still be ugly as hell for at least another week.
“God, Cas,” he breathed shakily, “You’re better than all the Magic Fingers in the world. And that’s saying a lot.”
He could hear the bemused smile in Castiel’s voice even if he couldn’t see it. “Thank you.”
Slowly, Dean sat up and swung his legs out over the edge of the bed. The towel slipped and fell away, exposing the truth about how he was feeling. Hastily, he grabbed the towel and tucked it back into place, but the damage had been done.
Christ, I just flashed an angel! I’m going to Hell… again. And this time I definitely deserve it.
Castiel averted his eyes quickly and grabbed the last of the hand towels from the bottom of the bed. Keeping his eyes focused on the other side of the room, he used it to wipe away the excess lotion from his not quite steady hands.
Dean stood hurriedly, stammering. “Hey, I didn’t mean to, uh, embarrass you like that.”
“It’s fine.” Castiel murmured, turning his gaze back to Dean. “Accidents happen.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.” Dean ran his fingers through his short hair. “I don’t know how to thank you… for what you’ve done. That was above and beyond, dude. Seriously.”
Castiel smiled, warm and soft. “You may consider it my.. Christmas present to you, if you wish.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dean stepped closer until the lines of their bodies were almost touching. Reaching out, he cupped the angel’s face and brought their lips together in what he considered an almost chaste kiss. Just a press of skin on skin and a little devilish flick of the tongue to keep things interesting. An unspoken invitation of sorts.
Castiel gasped quietly, and his hands fluttered uncertainly to Dean’s shoulders, where they rested lightly, those magic fingers of his digging in slightly, pulling him closer so that their bodies pressed together.
Dean pulled back his head an inch or so, a seductive smile playing along his lips. “Then you can consider that my Thank You card.”
THE END
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Category: General
Rating: R
Warning: Language and violence. Spoilers for 5.10 Abandon All Hope
Title: Magic Fingers
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for evalens for the deancas_xmas fic exchange. I don’t know if this was exactly what you were hoping for. I went for the Dean whump - how could I resist? I hope you enjoy, evalens. Merry Christmas!
“The Winchesters knee-deep in crap on Christmas Eve,” Dean mumbled under his breath as he and Sam made their way hand over hand down the narrow rusted ladder than led deep into the city’s bowels. “How fucking typical.”
“What was that?” Sam asked from overhead, glancing down at his brother.
“Nothing, let’s just get this done and over with.”
“Right.”
Business as usual. Fuck. The Winchesters didn’t believe in holiday down time. Too many murderous monsters and demons. And since the rising of the witnesses, the Hunting world was short staffed by at least twenty. Twenty good men and women who had devoted their lives to protecting their fellow human beings from the things that went bump in the night. That made things difficult all around. It’s not like Hunters could exactly go out and recruit new members. So the burden settled even more heavily on those that remained.
Dean tried not to think of Jo and Ellen Harvelle, tried not to think of Bobby trapped in his wheelchair. Their numbers were dwindling fast but the monsters just kept on coming. It was a futile battle, and they all knew it, but it was one that needed to be fought regardless.
Still, he thought, touching down and finding himself ankle deep in sludge, for once he would like to celebrate the holiday - really celebrate it, not just drinking beer watching holiday football on the boob tube - the way everyone else did. The way everyone else seemed to take for granted. Christmas dinner with all the trimmings, presents under the tree. Family, friends, singing carols. Okay, maybe not that last one, but the rest sounded damned well idealistic.
And it was a pipe dream, he told himself harshly, and one he wasn’t going to waste any time on, especially now that they were on the trail of a shape shifter that had managed to rack up an impressive death toll. He’d managed to give them the slip, but Dean had winged him as he’d made a run for the sewers. The fucker was going down. Today. End of story.
Even as sewers went, the place was a freaking dump. The walls were wet, soft and crumbly, and in some areas completely collapsed. Rotting furniture from decades passed littered the narrow tunnels and the frigid air was thick with the noxious combination of human waste, mold… and death.
“This guy could use a woman’s touch,” Sam snorted, kicking aside a pile of moldering cardboard boxes that was spilling urine-yellow newspapers everywhere.
“Well, he’s going to have to settle for the Winchester touch,” Dean mumbled, pulling his gun from his holster. With practiced ease he checked the cartridge of bullets - silver, each and every one of them. Only surefire way to kill a shifter. Only three left, though. Damn. They were expensive as hell, but what could you do?
“Son of a bitch’s got to be around here somewhere,” he scanned the dim interior but there was so much junk… The shifter could be anywhere down here, he thought, disgusted. “God, I hate packrats.”
The soft plinking of dripping water could be heard along with the soft squeaks rats. Dean had caught a glimpse of a few of them in the bobbing white light of Sam’s flashlight and they were freaking huge. Sleek and plump and they showed no fear of humans, no fear whatsoever. One mean fucker the size of a small dog had sat up on its haunches and glared at them as they made their clumsy human way along the cluttered tunnels. It hadn’t scampered off until Dean had chucked a rusted tin can of peas at it and even then it moved in slow, sullen arrogance.
“Maybe he’s not down here?” Sam offered as their tunnel opened up onto some sort of crossroads. The ceiling soared up overhead and gray winter light filtered down through a manhole cover. The air was colder now and their breath plumed out in white fumes with each breath they took.
“Oh, it’s down here all right,” Dean snapped. “Somewhere. That greasy fucker couldn’t have gotten far.”
The brother’s searched around them carefully, guns at the ready. More trash was piled here along with discarded food containers from local fast food joints and what appeared to be a nest of soiled blankets. A scraggly pine tree that made Charlie Brown’s own tree look like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree in comparison stood in one corner, looking pitiful. A few colorful decorations had been hung from its wilted branches.
It seemed like they had found the creature’s lair.
Suddenly an enraged shriek filled the room, bouncing off the decrepit walls and echoing back at them from all directions. From the corner of his eyes, Dean caught faint movement.
“Dean!” Sam yelled, “Behind you!”
Dean whirled, too late. The son of a bitch had been hiding in a pile of rotten newspapers and other refuse. Trash flew everywhere as the creature erupted from the stash, howling and carrying, of all things, a wooden baseball bat.
The shifter - frozen in some sort of mid-transformation that made him look like some freakishly mutated human-fruit bat thing- sank its claws into his shoulders and, with a shriek of rage, sent him flying through the frigid air. He slammed back first into a crumbling pile of concrete blocks with a strangled cry. Red darts of pain tore through his body, his screaming nerve endings obliterating conscious thought.
“Dean!” Sam leveled his gun at the creature, but the shifter whirled and brought the bat down in a vicious swinging arc. The splintery wood glanced off his forearm and he grunted in pain. The gun flew from his hands, bounced off the pavement, and splashed into the noxious water, sinking quickly out of sight. Another lightning quick swing of the bat sent him reeling back as it struck him squarely in the chest. The air exploded out of his lungs and he collapsed to his knees, like a giant puppet with its strings cut.
Hissing in triumph, the shape shifter turned its attention back to Dean, who was trying to scramble to his feet. He had only managed to reach his knees when the monster grabbed him by the throat with one hand and slammed one clenched fist into his face. The coppery taste of blood blossomed in his mouth.
“You punch like a girl,” Dean growled, sniffling back blood.
The shifter shrieked again, wrapped both hands around his neck, digging claw-like fingers into the tender flesh, and began to throttle him. It dragged his head forward then slamming it back against the nearest cement block. Pain screamed through Dean’s skull, blinding white and huge. His vision faded around the edges, and his hands clawed at the hands wrapped around his throat, yanking ineffectively, in a desperate attempt to break free.
Red dots danced before his eyes and blackness began to gobble up even more of his vision. One hand fell away from his throat, fingers groping for something - anything - he might use against his assailant. No way in hell was he going to be taken out by a freaking shape shifter, he thought savagely. Sam would never let him live it down.
His fingers brushed against something cool, metallic. There was no mistaking his gun, as familiar to him as his own hand. Using fingers that felt thick and clumsy, he grabbed it from the ground and angled it up under the creature’s chin. There was a hiss of furious surprise as he pressed the smooth metal of the barrel into the slouching skin.
“Eat silver, you fugly son of a bitch,” Dean rasped and unceremoniously squeezed the trigger.
The shifter’s head exploded in a geyser of blood, brains and bone. Its body convulsed, fingers biting even deeper into his neck, before the loosening and finally, falling away altogether.
Dean collapsed, drawing in a long, sobbing breath. Consciousness wavered in and out. Blood and flecks of brain matter dripped down his face, clung to his hair and coat. He could feel heavier bits sliding beneath the collar of his shirt. He grimaced and spat blood, running his tongue over his teeth to make sure they were all accounted for.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice sounded so distant as he dragged himself first to his knees then his feet. His long legs closed the distance between them in no time. “You okay?”
Dean would have laughed if he wasn’t sure that doing so would send his brains oozing through the cracks in his skull.
“Peachy,” he mumbled. Is that my voice? He thought dimly. That hoarse croak? Jesus Christ.
On the back of that thought, he dropped his head back and allowing the encroaching darkness to finally overtake him.
***
When he regained consciousness, Dean found himself back in their motel room, lying spread eagle on his bed. His flannel shirt, pants and coat had been carefully removed and were draped over the back of the desk chair. They looked wet and the blood had been washed out so he guessed that couldn’t have been out too long.
“Sammy?”
Sam came out of the bathroom, hair damp, smelling of soap. “Thank God, you’re awake,” he said, coming over to the bed. “I was starting to worry.”
Dean cleared his throat and winced at the pain the action produced. Then the pain faded to just this side of bearable. “Nah, takes more than a rotten shifter to sink me,” he mumbled and even managed a smile, though he winced at the sting of his split lip.
“Can I get you anything? Water?”
“Aspirin would be awesome.”
Sam walked over to his bed and rifled through his duffle bag until he found what he was searching for. He held a small medicine bottle out to Dean, who accepted it gratefully.
He popped the top and poured the bottle’s contents into the palm of his hand. He frowned down at the two small pills, tapped the bottle against the palm of his hand then peered into the plastic depths.
Empty. Fucking great.
“Sorry.” Sam handed him a small paper cup of water then snagged the Impala’s keys from the dresser and headed for the door. “I’ll pick up some more when I get dinner. Okay?”
“How’s your arm?” Dean asked, concerned. He clearly remembered the shifter whacking his brother a couple times with that baseball bat. And what was up with that shit, anyway? What kind of monster kept a baseball bat on hand? Who did he think he was, Babe Ruth?
“Fine,” Sam clenched and unclenched his fist to show just how fine he was. “Bit sore, but nothing I can’t handle. “Look, I’ve got to go before all the store’s shut down for the holiday. Back in a bit.”
Grunting in reply, Dean popped the pills into his mouth, grimacing at their bitter taste. He washed them down with the water, crushed the cup, and sent it flying into the nearby trash bin.
Two points for Team Winchester! And the crowd goes wild! WHAAAHH!
Dean almost smiled, but even those small movements sent darting through his body, and the smile turned into a grimace. Damn, that son of a bitch had really done a number on him. Wincing, he got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. He legs were fine, it was his back that was fucked up. Two aspirin wasn’t going to cut it. Hell, a whole bottle might not be enough.
Now that Sam was gone, he was free to hiss out a pained breath as he dragged his tee shirt over his head. He twisted his torso just enough to catch a glimpse of his back, which was a mass of ugly purple bruises. Great.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” He mumbled and, reaching into the shower, turned on the hot water faucet. When the water was at the correct temperature - he checked with his hand first because the motel was a cheap one and sometimes the water heaters didn’t work like they should - he stripped off his remaining clothes and stepped into the porcelain tub, pulling the shower curtain closed behind him.
He was in the shower for almost twenty minutes, lathering up carefully with the sample sized shampoo and soaps the maid had set out for them when cleaning their room. He scrubbed vigorously making sure he got rid of every slimy trace of that shifter’s blood and brains. Satisfied that he was as clean as he ever would be, he let the water pound against his sore back for as long as the hot water held out.
When he got out, he grabbed one towel to wrap around his waist and another with which to dry his hair. He toweled off leisurely, noting that while his back still hurt like hell, it was at least better than it had been. The aspirin had also helped dull the pain, but there was just too much damage for it to be effective.
He made his way out to the bedroom, running the towel over his short hair with slow, languid movements.
“Hello, Dean.”
When he heard a familiar voice directly behind him, he practically jumped out of his skin. He whirled around, back protesting at the sudden movements.
“Don’t do that!” He snapped, holding one hand dramatically to his chest. “One of these days you’re going to give me a freaking heart attack.”
“I’m sorry,” Castiel murmured, lower his eyes apologetically. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Startle,” Dean corrected, “You startled me. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Hell, yeah. Chicks get scared. I startle. Sounds more manly. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”
“I see.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Dean walked past the angel to the bed and began rummaging through his duffle for some clean clothes. He tried very hard to appear nonchalant, but it was a bit disconcerting the way the angel gazed at him so steadily, so seriously as he stood there practically in the altogether with only a towel tied around his waste to keep him from going full frontal.
“Sam called me.” Castiel replied softly. “He said you had been hurt and asked for me to… check up on you.”
“What am I, a little kid?”
“He was worried, Dean.”
“Yeah, he’s a regular mother hen.” Dean sighed, shaking his head as he searched for one of his missing socks. He’d had them all balled together when he’d packed, but somehow one of them always ended up missing. He hated when that happened. Stupid socks.
Dean sensed the angel stepping closer, heard the concern in his voice as he got an eyeful of the nasty bruises that covered his back like angry storm clouds.
“I can help you, Dean.”
“Help, really?” He asked, straightening up and turning to look at his friend. “I thought you couldn’t use your angel powers to heal anymore. That’s what you told Bobby, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Castiel murmured, nodding his head sadly, “But still, I can help you feel better.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Better how?” All kinds of ideas flitted through his brain, but this was real life, not some freaky porno flick. Sam had once accused him of getting reality and porn mixed up. Maybe his brother had a point, because, damn, if the idea of an angel of the Lord helping him feel all kinds of better didn’t turn him on way more than it should.
“I can help ease your pain, if you’d let me.”
“Okay, fine. I’m game,” Dean shrugged and immediately regretted it. Damn, back pain was nothing to laugh at. “What do you want me to do?”
“First, we’ll need to loosen this,” Castiel tugged at the towel still tied around Dean’s waist.
“Hey!” Dean made a frantic grab to keep himself from flashing the angel. “A little warning there, pal!”
Unperturbed, Castiel gestured toward the bed, “Lie down.”
“Okay,” Dean moved toward the bed. Porn. Reality. Porn. Reality. Is this porn or is this reality? God, he hurt like hell so it was definitely reality because sex wasn’t supposed to hurt. At least not in a definite ouch kind of way. Good pain. The kind you just couldn’t get enough of. And what he was currently experiencing didn’t fall into that category at all.
“On your stomach,” Castiel urged, as Dean eased down onto the bed.
While he was getting situated on the bed, Castiel disappeared into the bathroom then returned carrying a few bath and hand towels. He stacked the towels at the foot of the bed, selected one of the bath towels and folded it with quick, efficient movements. Like he had done it thousands of times, which Dean thought was crazy. Where had an angel learned to fold towels?
“Lift up,” Castiel urged, and when Dean obeyed, he set the towel under him on the bed, just where his breastbone would rest. “Good,” He murmured, “Now lie back down.”
He reached for hand towel and went through the process all over again, this time resting it under Dean’s forehead. “What’s this for?” Dean asked, feeling foolish.
“It’ll help support your head and keep your neck straight.”
“Oh.” Dean said as if that made perfect sense.
The third towel Castiel rested under his ankles. “To help support your lower back,” he explained patiently. Then: “Do you have any lubrication?”
“What?” Dean twisted around, suddenly panicked. “What the hell do you need lube for?”
“Massage oil decreases the friction created on the skin and prevents the pulling of hairs.” Castiel glanced toward Sam’s duffle bag, still open on his bed. “I doubt you have any massage oils on hand, but any lotion would work for now.”
“Oh.” Dean repeated, then cleared his throat and returned his head to the folded towel. “Yeah, that makes sense.” He waved his hand in the general direction of Sam’s duffle. “Sam’s got all kinds of girly shit like that. Don’t use regular baby oil - it makes me feel greasy.”
“As you wish.”
Castiel retrieved some lotion, then stood at the side of the bed, facing Dean. Good God, Dean thought when he saw the bottle. It’s pink. I’m going to lay here on my stomach like some chick and let an angel smear pink body lotion all over me. What in hell has the world come to?
Carefully, the angel poured a small amount of lotion into his cupped hand - and, yes, Dean noted cynically, it was pink - and rubbed his hands together slowly, presumably to warm it.
“Are you ready?”
Dean rolled his eyes so he could see the angel looming over him, hands slicked with oil and ready to lay those hands upon him. He suppressed a small shiver. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he mumbled.
Castiel placed one hand on the small of Dean’s back and the other between his shoulder blades, right over his heart. His hands were warm, slightly rough as if his vessel, Jimmy Novak, had enjoyed working with his hands. Dean found that he didn’t mind at all. It freaked him out to shake hands with a man whose hands were baby soft. A guy’s hands were supposed to be a little rough. That’s one of the things that differentiated men from women, damn it.
Still working carefully, Castiel applied pressure using his thumbs and dragged them simultaneously down along his back on either side of his spine, keeping the movements slow. “How does that feel?” Cas murmured.
Dean made a small hmm sound in his throat, indicating that all was well.
Satisfied, the angel began to spread the lotion evenly over Dean’s back, from mid-back to the tops of his hips using smooth gliding strokes. When his hands slicked under the towel to caress the rising curve of his ass, Dean gasped, his whole body tensing.
“Whoa, time out!”
“I won’t hurt you, Dean,” Castiel murmured in a low, soothing voice, “Nor will I do anything to cause you discomfort. If at any time you wish me to stop, just say so and I will.”
“Okay,” Dean muttered, shakily, “That’s good to know.”
Castiel continued spreading the lotion over Dean’s back. In one long stroke he slide the palms of his hands down either side of his spine, sweeping out when he reached the hips, then moving back up along the spine again. It felt nice, Dean realized, sensual rather than sexual. He closed his eyes and made a mental effort to relax. Castiel was as good as his word, he knew, and he wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, not intentionally at least.
“Where the hell did you learn how to do this, Cas?”
“China.” He said in way of explanation. “I have watched over Mankind for over two thousand years.” Castiel murmured, hands continuing to gently sweep over Dean’s back. “I have had the opportunity to watch and learn many things. Things that I have not had to opportunity to practice until my recent descent to earth.”
“Like giving back massages?”
“Yes, among other things.” Castiel pressed his palms flat against Dean’s back and began to slide them in opposite directions, moving outward to either side of the back, starting at the lower back and moving his way slowly up toward the shoulders.
Oh my God, Dean thought, deliriously, that feels fantastic.
He cracked open one eye, a mischievous grin playing along his lips. “What other things do you want to ‘practice’?”
Castiel’s hands hesitated as they began to knead the fleshy, muscular area of the shoulders. “Many things,” He said simply. After a while, he moved slowly to the mid back area, tending to the muscles carefully so as not to cause pain.
“Like what things?” Dean persisted.
There was silence for a few moments as Cas stroked his hands lower and began kneading the muscles of his buttocks. Dean drew in a shaky breath and tried to ignore the way his body was responding to his friend’s innocent caresses. He was just trying to help ease his back pain, for God’s sake. He probably had no idea that in the process he was stirring up a whole different kind of ache.
“Come on, Cas,” He cajoled, voice rough. “You can tell me.”
“There are too many to name.” Castiel whispered as his hands continued to work their magic over Dean’s body.
“How about top ten?” Silence from his angel friend. “Top five?”
“Shh, you should be resting your throat.”
“Stubborn son of a bitch,” Dean mumbled under his breath, then obediently fell silent. It was easy enough to do. The sensations of Castiel’s hands working over his flesh were absolutely a-fucking-mazing.
Gliding his hands slowly and deliberately along Dean’s back, Castiel sought out areas in his muscles that felt hard or tight. When he encountered such areas - and there were many of them - he used his thumbs and fingers an applied pressure to the knots.
Dean gasped as he found one particular painful spot.
“Am I hurting you, Dean?”
“No, just a tender spot is all. Carry on.”
As with the other knots, Castiel applied steady pressure and the pain increased until Dean jus about wanted to scream. An unmanly whimpering sound built in his throat, but Dean viciously strangled it before it had a chance to escape. Then, as if by magic, the pain began to subside.
Dean moaned low in his throat. “That feels… really good.” In ways you couldn’t possibly imagine, he mentally added feeling a flush creep over his face. He was glad Castiel couldn’t see his face, the expressions that he was making. He’d think he was hurting him for sure and that wasn’t what he was doing to him at all. Just the opposite, in fact.
The massage continued for several more blissful minutes and when Castiel stepped back, announcing that he was finished, Dean felt like a whole new man. The pain in his back had disappeared, even if those bruises would still be ugly as hell for at least another week.
“God, Cas,” he breathed shakily, “You’re better than all the Magic Fingers in the world. And that’s saying a lot.”
He could hear the bemused smile in Castiel’s voice even if he couldn’t see it. “Thank you.”
Slowly, Dean sat up and swung his legs out over the edge of the bed. The towel slipped and fell away, exposing the truth about how he was feeling. Hastily, he grabbed the towel and tucked it back into place, but the damage had been done.
Christ, I just flashed an angel! I’m going to Hell… again. And this time I definitely deserve it.
Castiel averted his eyes quickly and grabbed the last of the hand towels from the bottom of the bed. Keeping his eyes focused on the other side of the room, he used it to wipe away the excess lotion from his not quite steady hands.
Dean stood hurriedly, stammering. “Hey, I didn’t mean to, uh, embarrass you like that.”
“It’s fine.” Castiel murmured, turning his gaze back to Dean. “Accidents happen.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.” Dean ran his fingers through his short hair. “I don’t know how to thank you… for what you’ve done. That was above and beyond, dude. Seriously.”
Castiel smiled, warm and soft. “You may consider it my.. Christmas present to you, if you wish.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dean stepped closer until the lines of their bodies were almost touching. Reaching out, he cupped the angel’s face and brought their lips together in what he considered an almost chaste kiss. Just a press of skin on skin and a little devilish flick of the tongue to keep things interesting. An unspoken invitation of sorts.
Castiel gasped quietly, and his hands fluttered uncertainly to Dean’s shoulders, where they rested lightly, those magic fingers of his digging in slightly, pulling him closer so that their bodies pressed together.
Dean pulled back his head an inch or so, a seductive smile playing along his lips. “Then you can consider that my Thank You card.”
THE END