[FIC]: Soldiers of the Dust (Dean/Castiel, Adult)
Title: Soldiers of the Dust
Author: nyoka @ chocolate_muse
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Count: ~5,700
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and Kripke. I own nothing and no one.
Warnings/Spoilers: Takes place in the time period between 5.03 and 5.04.
Notes: Written for eretria as part of castielfest, working with several prompted ideas including, cuddling, first-time, and touch!fic. Thanks and much love to selu for the beta.
Summary: Sometimes in the dark they touch.
+
The warehouse is derelict, old and dingy, covered in a thick patina of grime and dust. Through the windows, the world is a haze, a blur of colors and shapes, a murky dance of rain and fire. All along Tobacco Road, the sky hangs low, heavy with storm clouds, thick with smoke. The morning rain drums against the windows, and the wind whistles through the cracks in the pane. It's warm, a hint of the humid heat the day will force down.
Dean's covered in a light sweat, slicking down the curve of his spine, pooling in the hollow of his throat. His body is stiff, a mess of bruised muscles and new aches. His fingers are full of blisters, smudged with gun oil and grease, a week's worth of blood and dirt caked under his nails. He hasn't slept in two days.
The brick digs deep into Dean's back as he slides down the wall, dropping his ass to the floor. When he draws his legs up, his boots skim along the grooves in the crumbling concrete. He takes a Beretta from his duffel, loads and unloads the magazine, repetitive actions to pass the time. He moves on to his favorite sawed-off, taking it apart, cleaning it, relearning its shape with his hands. Calming and familiar: the cool gunmetal sliding against his palm, the angled dip of steel, the perfect solidity of form. On his tongue, there's the taste of oil and gunpowder, of home.
"Dean."
Castiel is watching him, face inscrutable in the shadows of the warehouse.
Dean frowns, carefully puts his guns away. When he finally stumbles to his feet, Castiel is still looking at him, the dim light sliding across his owl eyes, the air growing heavier with his presence.
Dean leans back, rests his head against the wall, lets his thoughts scatter for a moment, running over his latest few hunts: the mogwai in Boston, the vamp nest in Duluth, the ghost ship in Gulfport, and this most recent salt-and-burn in a haunted tobacco factory in Durham.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, opens them and turns to face Castiel. Thunder sounds somewhere to the west, and Dean shifts on his feet and asks, "What's the latest, Cas?"
"News of another skirmish between angels and demons outside of Houston," Castiel reports. "The second one this week."
"Don't mess with Texas," Dean cracks, the words rolling heavy on his tongue as he remembers the last time Sam and he passed through W's home state, a case involving a haunted military barracks in Fort Polk.
Dean inhales slowly, blinks against the memory. The dim light in the warehouse must finally be getting to him. He looks up when Castiel speaks again. "Perhaps you should call him," Castiel says, voice quiet and knowing.
Dean runs a hand through his hair, laughs softly. "I don't think that's a good idea," he says, pausing to examine the blood stain on the cuff of his flannel. "I'm doing fine on my own."
Castiel shoots him a look that is all disbelief, and Dean sighs, wanting to argue the point further but the words fade when he opens his mouth. He turns away before any of the doubt shows on his face.
Castiel doesn't say another word, simply stands silent and still, face creased in thought. The rain continues a light pitter-patter against the windows, and when Dean turns to look at the darkening sky beyond, he wonders how Sam's doing on his own. Knows they made the right choice. Hopes they did.
Thunder rolls overhead, like a steady drumbeat of war. A reminder of how far they've come and how far they have yet to go. Dean drags in a deep lung-full of air, scrunching his nose at the taste of wet, rotting wood and mildew.
"We should go," Castiel says, and Dean startles at the sound of his voice. He turns to find the angel standing close behind him, hovering, waiting.
"Yeah," Dean murmurs. Castiel's hand is warm on his shoulder, but Dean shivers when the tips of Castiel's fingers skim the side of his neck. A simple gesture, but Dean's body wars with it.
Dean coughs, his throat gone dry. "Let's go." He nods sharply. Nods again before turning to grab his duffle.
It's raining even harder when Dean races to the Impala and throws his bag of supplies into the trunk. He's soaked to the skin by the time he climbs into the driver's seat, the car dipping under his weight. When he starts the engine, he glances over to Castiel, surprised to find him catching a ride this time around. He's been popping in and out a lot more lately, checking up on him. Dean wants to be annoyed, but mostly he's glad for the company.
Castiel shifts in his seat, obviously uncomfortable in the confining space of the car. He's frowning, eyeing the wipers with a fair amount of suspicion as they swish across the windshield.
Dean laughs softly and shakes his head, maneuvering the car onto the slick highway. The storm moves across the horizon, the rain soaks deep into the red Carolina soil.
+
Sometimes in the dark they touch.
Accidents really. A brush of shoulders in passing, a slide of hand over arm, fingers sweeping against fingers.
Touch can be finite; touch can be lasting. So long in hell, Dean had forgotten the salt-slick imperfection of skin rubbing against skin. He had forgotten that hands could bring comfort as well as pain.
+
"A ham and turkey sub?" Dean asks, voice hopeful.
"A lost Sumerian scroll," Cas offers, placing the paper bag gently on top of the motel bed. "Found in a magic shop in Eugene, Oregon."
"Dude, you have got to bring me back better gifts," Dean says, settling down at the table to sip at his cooling coffee. He picks up the newspaper, sends it rustling as he scans the metro section. "What have your brothers been up to?
"Five of them set a trap for me outside of Barcelona yesterday," Cas says, and the comment forces Dean's head up from the article about a factory fire in downtown Burlington.
"Yeah?" Dean asks, frowning. "You kick their asses or what?"
Castiel sits in the vacant chair across from Dean and sighs. "I managed to elude escape again." He sounds and looks tired, his eyes growing dark and heavy.
Dean meets his gaze, runs a hand through his dirty hair. Sighs. "Listen, Cas," he starts, trying to rack his brain for words of comfort. He's never been good with words. Left that part to Sammy. Dean's better with actions, decisions. But sometimes there are so many things Dean wants to ask Cas, to say to him. But the words are heavy, get stuck somewhere in the back of his throat with all the other stuff he's never been able to say. Instead Dean sits for a moment and looks out the window at the leaves turning colors in the trees. He scratches at his stubbled jaw. He wraps his hands around his paper cup of coffee when he gets the urge to wrap his hand around Castiel's hand.
"So...you want to play Scrabble?" Dean offers after a long moment. Dean's tried to teach Cas a decent game like poker, but the poor misguided angel only ever wants to play Scrabble. Or Chess. Such a freaking nerd.
The corner of Castiel's mouth twitches in something resembling a smile. "Only if you want to lose."
+
A rough night in Miami.
Cas slides off his coat, lays it next to Dean's own on the chair. Worn leather jacket pressing against tattered trench coat. They're a study in contrast.
Dean slumps down on the edge of the motel bed, pulls at the filthy t-shirt on his back, tugging it over his head and tossing it to the floor. Dean's covered in sweat, grainy with dust. He's scratched up all to hell, bleeding like a motherfucker. He wipes his hands on his jeans, smearing bloody fingerprints on the dirty denim. He's killed something nasty every damn day this week.
Cas kneels beside Dean at the edge of the bed. "Dean," he whispers. Smoothes a hand over his sweat-slick shoulder blade. "Here," he says. "Let me help."
Shivering, Dean whispers, "Yeah, okay."
When Castiel's fingertips brush over his skin, Dean's body heats at the familiar touch. Cas isn't as mojoed up as he use to be, but he can at least do a decent stitch on a wound. His movements are precise and focused as he dabs at the pale, bruised flesh around Dean's collarbone and chest with peroxide. He cleans the long, curving cut that winds from Dean's shoulder to his left pectoral. It's not deep, but when he's done Dean notices that Castiel's hands are stained with his blood. It's disconcerting.
"Thanks," Dean breathes, needing to say something. Feeling like he's given too much away, let too much in. Cas is always getting too close, too damn close.
Castiel watches Dean for a long moment, looks as if he's going to say something important. But all he manages is a tired sigh and a well-practiced, "You should be more careful."
Dean's mouth quirks. "I should be a lot of things. Drunk, dead, and buried..."
"Dean."
"Cas," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "I saved that girl, didn't I?"
"Yes, you saved the girl," Cas says, frustration evident in his voice. He rises to his feet and tosses the bloody rags in the trash.
Dean turns to take in their current surroundings. The motel room is damp and poorly-lit. Dean scrubbed Lysol over all the surfaces before he salted the windows earlier, but he can still smell the mold.
Dean stands up and turns to dig around his duffle. He really needs to do laundry. He sniffs at the black t-shirt from yesterday; it still smells of him: dust and musk, smoke and blood. It's worn and soft though, so he tugs it on and drops down onto his back in the bed.
Cas is still looking at him like he wants to hit him over the head with something really hard. Or fuck him senseless. Dean tries not to dwell too hard on the latter idea because it makes something under his skin itch with need.
"So...you keep saving me," Dean comments into the silence, trying to get his mind on the right track. He thinks back to how Cas kicked serious demon ass on the hunt earlier.
"Have you ever considered that maybe you're worth saving?" The question is quiet and soft, earnest almost, even though Castiel's expression remains tense.
Dean chuckles, uneasy. He hates when Cas says shit like that. Dean's never been worth much. Definitely not worth that. Instead of responding, Dean slumps backwards in the bed. Lies there and stares up at the ceiling for a minute, maybe an hour. He's waiting for Cas to sit beside him -- waiting for the tell-tale dip of the mattress, the heat of his body pressing close, the steady in and out flow of his breathing. The way he occupies space and time, how the air itself vibrates and shifts around him.
Dean's not surprised when Castiel's hand presses cool on his shoulder, his thumb touching the bare skin below the sleeve of his t-shirt. "You are," Cas says. "Do you believe me?"
Dean doesn't say anything, can't say anything; he just closes his eyes. Counts to fifty. Takes a deep breath and lets it go.
In the morning, he'll head north. In the morning, maybe his whole damn life will finally make sense.
+
Late July, a diner at the corner of 12th and Maple. For the first time, Dean's notices that his hands look a lot like his father's hands used to. Rough and dry; sun-baked, blistered, and calloused. A swelling city of blue veins beneath a tender puff of reddening skin. The serpentine, pink, and puckered scar along his right hand is a mirror image to the one John once bore on his left hand.
Dean rests his hands on the formica tabletop and watches as Castiel takes a seat across from him in the booth, his borrowed hands folding neatly on the table. Dean is fascinated by the fact that Castiel has learned to work with the smooth, white-collared hands of his vessel. Those hands are too pale and too soft, meant for sunless days spent at a computer keyboard in an office cubicle, meant for nights folded and held in supplication and prayer.
Dean watches as Castiel fingers the ritual knife, setting it out on the table, unconcerned by any possible curious eyes in the diner. It's the weapon Dean needs to kill the changeling, but Dean only takes in the ornately jeweled handle for a brief moment before turning to focus on the strip of sunlight settling across Castiel's knuckles.
Maybe an artist's hands, a writer or an academic. Meant to be covered in ink and charcoal, pressed against paper cool to the touch.
Dean fists his own hands in his lap, raises his head to find Castiel staring at him intently.
"Dean," Castiel says, voice a deep rumble. "Touch it."
Dean blinks, feeling dizzy, out of sorts. He raises a hand to wrap it around the handle of the knife, its smooth crescent-shaped silver blade glinting in the sun. Dean should understand the intimate curve of a blade. After thirty years butchering souls, he should miss the weight of a knife in his palm. His hand shouldn't shake like this.
Dean startles when Castiel's hand covers his own. "Like this," Castiel directs, long fingers curling against Dean's knuckle, reassuring. "Hold it like this." The heat of Castiel's hand surrounds Dean's own hand like a glove.
+
Before dawn, lying awake with his face pressed into the center of his pillow, Dean's muscles tense from dreams of the Pit. There's sulfur in his nose, fire in his gut, and Dean's eyes blur with sense memory. His body shivers at the press of cool night air against his sweaty skin, at the press of fingers moving over him in comfort and quiet contemplation.
"Cas," Dean says roughly, hating the sound of his own voice, the broken whimper, the vulnerability. Hating himself.
Castiel draws closer, a steadying hand on Dean's hipbone and another on his shoulder blade. For a moment, everything in the world is dark except for the fierce light of Castiel's eyes.
"You should get more sleep," Castiel says, his hand running over the small of Dean's back.
Dean wants to protest both the suggestion and the touch, but he already feels the heavy weight of his lids, the gentling pressure of Castiel's palm. Sometimes it feels like the only time he can manage a full-night's sleep is with the angel watching him.
Cas never asks, never pushes Dean to talk about it. He just accepts the fact that Dean will wake up screaming some nights, somehow knows this is the closest thing to comfort Dean's got other than the bottle and some quick fuck in the seedy bar down the road. Cas never asks, just gathers him with words and touch, standing with him as he battles night terrors, the same as he does in the day against the armies of heaven and hell.
Sometimes Cas will stretch out beside him, his solid weight dipping the bed, his deft fingers finding and working out the knots of tension in Dean's shoulders. Dean will lie still as stone, counting out each single breath, hungering for the bone-deep press of those fingers. Castiel's body is always warm through his clothes, and the feel of it pressing against his own keeps Dean steady, keeps his head clear.
Under the cover of night, Dean will allow this. The touch, the comfort, the stillness that he spends most of his days running from. Hands ghosting down the fragile curve of his back, skating across the knobs of his arched spine, his body stretched long and trembling.
+
Touch is simple; touch is complex.
Touch is power, feeling the shift of muscle beneath skin, knowing the rhythm of the actions that direct a specific movement, release a certain sound. It's Castiel parting the darkness with a flick of wrist, learning Dean's entire history with the press of his smooth fingertips along the tense line of Dean's shoulders.
Touch is claiming: the feel of a hand curving along a sharp-etched torso, fingers mapping the hard ridges of muscle and bone. Touch is making and unmaking, in all the ways Castiel has already done for Dean -- down to his very skin and bones, to his tissue and cells.
Touch is renewal; touch is redemption.
+
There is a road in the Delta that moves like the river. When Dean shuffles his feet, his worn boots float along the sunburnt blacktop. He’s been chasing his own shadow for miles and miles, been chasing the bitter flavor of guilt in the back of his throat. From the road, black silt rises like a wave, and Dean’s drowning in it.
This is a believer’s land. There's a church on every corner, and the words Castiel whispers to him when they enter them are solemn like a prayer. Dean has gotten use to the way Castiel's voice and touch resonate throughout his body, along his skin, in his bones, settling as heat in his belly.
Sometimes Castiel wields words like he wields a sword. Sharp, precise, exacting. Sometimes his words are softer, unsure. Like he's still trying to understand how to connect emotion to the string of consonants and vowels spilling out of his mouth.
"We were too late," Cas says, and Dean turns to see him standing at the door of the little one-room Baptist church on Main Street. Dean sighs and nods, tries not to think too hard about another battle lost. He looks back toward the dirt road that meanders through town. A harsh wind is blowing in from the west, pricking his skin, stinging his eyes. Demons torched the entire community, left nothing but the stink of corpses and sulfur on the air.
"We're too late a lot these days," Dean says, shaking his head. He rubs the palms of his hands together, zips his jacket up. It's chilly out and the trees whisper in the breeze.
Nothing in his world has ever come easy, and Dean knows this war won't let them go without forcing them to lose more than they've ever lost before. He sees it in the way Cas looks at him, in the way Sammy's so broken he probably won't ever be fixed again. He sees their future in every blade and every bullet. In every dead thing they leave behind.
The world falls quiet, a haze of sunlight and dust. Dean turns when Cas comes to stand beside him, placing a hand on Dean's back. A simple act of reassurance.
+
A back road in the middle of Georgia in early August, sun and dust and ivy-covered woods. Dean's parked on the side of the road, thirty miles from the nearest town. Sitting on the hood of the Impala, Dean nurses a beer while Castiel watches the dark line of the road. The Doors are drifting out of the car, and Dean smiles because this is the end, my beautiful friend.
Dean glances at Cas, notices how the sun lines his jaw and tufts of hair. Asks, "How's the search for Big Papa going?"
Castiel's wide blue eyes flicker his way, his hand winding subconsciously around the amulet. Dean flushes when he thinks about it sliding against Castiel's bare chest after years of sliding against his own. Dean smirks, fingers the warm beer can in his hands. He feels hot, needy.
"I was in Beirut yesterday," Cas says after a moment, voice gone as soft as the sky at dusk. "There was a dying child there. She was so close to death she knew what I was the moment she saw me. As she lie in the hospital bed, she turned to me and asked: 'Angel, have you come to take me to heaven with you?'"
"Well," Dean frowns, shaking his head. "That's sad as fuck."
"Yes," Cas says, running his hand back and forth against his thigh, one of the nervous ticks he's picked up the longer he's been in his vessel.
"Do you ever miss it?" Dean asks, starring down at the ground between his boots. "Heaven?"
Cas is quiet for a long time, and Dean turns to listen to the crickets and cicadas in the weeds, the thump-thump rhythm of the coming night, so much like his own heartbeat.
When he turns to look at Cas again, Dean watches the play of emotions making their way across his face; regret, guilt, loss. Something else Dean can't name, something Cas probably doesn't understand himself.
"There are many things I miss about it," Castiel says eventually, turning to meet Dean's gaze. "I miss it like one misses their childhood. Everything seemed simpler when I was in heaven. I knew my place, my duty."
Dean nods, understanding. As much as Sam use to complain about the life they led growing up, Dean never saw it the way Sam did. There are still times when Dean will close his eyes and relive his favorite childhood moments, when he and Sammy were young and felt as if they owned the world, when everything seemed possible. He remembers that time in Santa Fe back in '94 when he got his tonsils out and Sam wouldn't leave his bedside for an entire week. How Dad had let them eat ice cream and pudding pops for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. How they sat in the hospital room shooting the shit, watching The Simpsons. Being a family.
Dean sighs, shaking away the memories. To distract himself, he pulls one of Castiel's hands into his own. He can't help it; Castiel's hands mean comfort, relief. He takes a moment to examine Castiel's fingers, long and slender, thick-knuckled and strong. "I tried my best. With Sam. With Dad," he says, voice rougher than he'd like. "I know it wasn't enough. But I tried."
Cas is carefully watching the way Dean's lining their hands up, pressing them palm to palm. "You were a fine brother and son." Castiel's voice is soft, comforting.
Dean snorts. "Look at the mess I made of everything."
"You did what you believed to be right," Castiel says, tangling their fingers together.
Dean huffs a laugh, too tired to say anything to that. For a while, the sound of their uneven breathing is the only noise in the woods. There's a softness to the world right now, to the way Castiel is sitting so still, so present in his body; there's a softness to the movement of his fingers pressing along Dean's own.
"I don't judge you," Castiel continues quietly. "You've led a life unlike anyone else."
Dean thinks about all those monsters out there in the dark. Of a life defined by fire, blood, silver, gunpowder, and metal. Of the familiar weight of a gun in his hand. Of exhaustion beyond exhaustion. Dean thinks of demons and angels, and saying fuck you to destiny every damn chance he gets.
He thinks about being here on top of the Impala sitting hand in hand with an angel. He wants to say something, anything, to not pick apart what he's feeling right now, to bury it all down low. But he's never been good with words; instead he just squeezes Castiel's hand, hopes that says enough.
Cas tilts his head Dean's way, his lips tugging up in that shy, almost-smile he'll get sometimes when he realizes he's feeling good, feeling something human. Dean grins, shakes his head. Wonders how long they've been heading here, stumbling in the dark toward each other. Wonders if they're more than stolen touches and words shared in secret.
This is the end, my only friend. My only friend, the end.
+
The sky is smooth black velvet, moonless and starless; infinite. Here in the dark of night, it should be easier to say the unsayable things. It should be, but it isn't.
"Tell me," Cas whispers.
Dean's breath catches, holds. He wants to. "I can't." He swallows, quiets. He doesn't know what to say to Castiel. Thinks he should say, stop touching me, stop saving me, stop believing in me. Thinks he should admit, I'm poison. I'm shit. Not worth it. Dean knows he ruins everything by touching it. Knows he'll fuck up Cas like he fucked up Sam.
Dean exhales, tastes salt and dust in the air. Castiel's fingers curl in the denim of Dean's jeans, filthy, dust-covered, and ripped at the knees. Cas is moving closer, so close his breath ghosts warm against Dean's cheek. Dean wants to kiss him. Goddammit, he wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss this fucking angel so much he can't stand it.
Dean breathes deep, his hands squeezing into fists at his sides. Castiel's own hands move against Dean's flushed skin, thumbs stroking softly over Dean's jawline, long fingers brushing against Dean's neck. His touch is fever hot, so damn hot he's branding his mark into Dean's skin all over again. Dean's breathing quickens, body shivering, heart thundering, head pounding. He doesn't understand why his body always responds like this, why it feels like he's never felt a touch like this before.
Dean doesn't know what to do with Cas, this sonofabitch with eyes so wide and huge, flashing sharp in the night. Sometimes Dean forgets there's so much power inside of Cas. Touching his hand to Castiel's forearm, Dean thinks he can feel it, all that energy seeping through his skin, all that light waiting to burst free.
Dean presses his palm against Castiel's chest, spreading his fingers over his heart, feeling the solid beat of it; human heart, human body. This living, breathing not-quite human thing in front of him. They stand that way for a long time, until Dean grabs Cas like he's something he's about to lose, something he needs to hold on to. He turns his face into Castiel's neck, breathes in deep.
Dean knows he's not allowed this; he's not allowed anything for himself. The things he touches, he breaks. The people he loves, he loses. Dean pulls back just a bit, his eyes drifting over Castiel's face. "I don't. I can't."
"I know," Cas says, voice low and rough, his breath puffing warm against Dean's neck. His fingers circle Dean's wrist, and Dean watches as Cas lifts his hand higher, draws Dean's palm to his mouth and just holds it there for a moment. Dean almost jerks away when Castiel's warm, dry lips begin to move against the sensitive skin of his palm; a soft kiss. He gasps when Cas begins to whisper what sounds like a prayer into the palm of his hand. The feel of Castiel's hot, damp breath sends Dean tensing, wanting.
"You really fuck me up," Dean says, because Cas gets into head and makes him insane. Dean's whole body leans closer as Castiel works his mouth over his hand, lips trailing along Dean's fingers, pressing spit-slick lines against his pulse.
Dean isn't allowed to want this, to have this. But when Castiel pushes Dean's palm against his lips again, Dean can't help but trace his fingers over the curve of Castiel's mouth, brushing his thumb across Castiel's lower lip.
Cas kisses Dean's hand one last time, before pulling Dean close. Dean pushes his face into the crook of Castiel's neck, melts in his heat, in the fire burning just under Castiel's skin. He closes his eyes, breathes.
He doesn't know when they climb into the Impala, when they curl up together in the back seat like there's actually enough space for two grown men. He only knows that at some point in the middle of the night he wakes up tangled in Castiel's long arms, chests sliding together, legs entwining, knees bumping. Wakes up to Cas watching him with those soft, sleepless, old-soul eyes.
Thing is, Dean doesn't cuddle. Except for all the times he does. He suspects that any of the awkwardness he should be feeling about the hand worshipping thing is negated by the fact that Cas is warm, familiar. Cas is comfort, especially when the rest of the world doesn't offer much of that these days. Dean's laughing at himself when he curls closer to Castiel, tangling their fingers together. He falls asleep to Castiel's solid warmth pressing against him, the two of them touching in the fading dark.
+
It starts in a motel room in Shreveport. Dean falls back onto the bed with Cas on top of him, shuddering and gasping. They wrestle for a moment, hands grappling, each trying to get the upper hand. Cas emerges victorious when he straddles Dean, pulls him tight and close until their bodies are flush and moving together. Dean allows Cas to guide them both over the edge, the words finally, finally, finally run through his mind. Finally, he can take; finally, he can have.
Dean's shaking: hands trembling, body surging, and want burning in his belly, sliding up his spine. After everything he's done, all the shit he's seen, this. This. Dean doesn't have words for this. All he has is a simple give and take, and the fear and the hope of going down an unknown road and seeing where it leads.
Dean stops thinking the moment Cas crushes their mouths together in a kiss that sets fire to his body. Dean fists a hand in Castiel's hair, tastes the sound of his name on Castiel's lips. Castiel gathers him in, rocks him close as their mouths move together, lips clinging, tongues slicking. Dean groans low in his throat, bucking forward as Cas changes their angle. "Fuck," he whimpers into the kiss, moving closer so that his mouth never leaves Castiel's own, working his tongue inside deeper, while his cock slots up against Castiel's erection.
They kiss until they can't breathe and then kiss some more just because they can. Soft and slow and sweet, until Dean feels like he's losing his mind, going dizzy from the lack of oxygen. He pulls away, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t want to give this up for even a second. They press closer, hips lining up, bodies molding together, folding up into perfect angles. They breathe together, the air charged and heavy, electric.
Castiel cradles Dean’s face, looks Dean in the eyes. "Dean," he exhales. "Please."
Dean's breathes, sharp and broken, and then he sinks his teeth into Castiel's bottom lip, his mouth trailing over Castiel's stubbled jaw, sliding up and down the slope of his chin. Dean buries his face in Castiel's neck, sucks on the soft skin there, tongue mapping the rapid pulse beat.
"Cas," Dean whispers into his ear, reaching down between them, working their pants open so that their cocks spring free, their shafts hardening, leaking, and rubbing. They rut together, frantic, rushed, and fevered, all hot skin, slick sweat, and rhythmic motion. Dean breathes against the warm, moist spot behind Castiel’s ear, while Cas digs his fingers into Dean's back, speeding them up. For the longest time, their cocks bump and grind in sweet, wet friction.
Castiel's arms tighten around Dean, trapping him close. Dean thrusts up as Cas thrusts down, Castiel's heated gaze locking on his. Castiel covers Dean's hand with his own, tangles their fingers together as he thrusts down once, twice, again and again, rides them until they're both coming, sticky and hot and soft as butter.
Dean wants to bury himself here, deep beneath Castiel's skin; he wants to forget, for just a moment, everything outside: the burning world, the desperate hours. When Cas whispers his name like it's something holy, like this is all something blessed, Dean feels weightless with it, lost in the thrill-jolt of skin on skin, the push-pull of hands on hips, the smooth-slide of kiss after kiss. This is Cas breaking him wide open, laying him bare, while the whole world rushes right on by.
+
They’re standing on a cliff at the edge of the world.
Dean's breath is running rough and ragged. The ocean has gone bloody with the sunset, and its foaming waves hit the rocky shoreline where Dean just threw a selkie to its death.
Dean turns as Cas approaches him, shoes slipping over the rocky terrain. "That was unexpected," Castiel says, stepping close. A sea breeze ruffles through Castiel's hair, and Dean has the urge to run his hands through it.
"Unexpected is the word of the week," Dean says, smirking.
"It's a good word," Cas says, shuffling closer, eyes warming in the soft autumn sunlight. "I believe it's worth quite a few points in Scrabble."
Dean shakes his head, smiling wide. They'll have to go soon, but he doesn't argue when Cas brings them close together, so close they're sharing breath. Dean presses his face to Castiel's neck, slides his hands under his trench coat, seeking the hidden warmth of skin through the cotton of his dress shirt.
Sometimes touch is simply this: a reminder that these bodies were made for more than war and sacrifice.
-fin-
Author: nyoka @ chocolate_muse
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Count: ~5,700
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and Kripke. I own nothing and no one.
Warnings/Spoilers: Takes place in the time period between 5.03 and 5.04.
Notes: Written for eretria as part of castielfest, working with several prompted ideas including, cuddling, first-time, and touch!fic. Thanks and much love to selu for the beta.
Summary: Sometimes in the dark they touch.
+
The warehouse is derelict, old and dingy, covered in a thick patina of grime and dust. Through the windows, the world is a haze, a blur of colors and shapes, a murky dance of rain and fire. All along Tobacco Road, the sky hangs low, heavy with storm clouds, thick with smoke. The morning rain drums against the windows, and the wind whistles through the cracks in the pane. It's warm, a hint of the humid heat the day will force down.
Dean's covered in a light sweat, slicking down the curve of his spine, pooling in the hollow of his throat. His body is stiff, a mess of bruised muscles and new aches. His fingers are full of blisters, smudged with gun oil and grease, a week's worth of blood and dirt caked under his nails. He hasn't slept in two days.
The brick digs deep into Dean's back as he slides down the wall, dropping his ass to the floor. When he draws his legs up, his boots skim along the grooves in the crumbling concrete. He takes a Beretta from his duffel, loads and unloads the magazine, repetitive actions to pass the time. He moves on to his favorite sawed-off, taking it apart, cleaning it, relearning its shape with his hands. Calming and familiar: the cool gunmetal sliding against his palm, the angled dip of steel, the perfect solidity of form. On his tongue, there's the taste of oil and gunpowder, of home.
"Dean."
Castiel is watching him, face inscrutable in the shadows of the warehouse.
Dean frowns, carefully puts his guns away. When he finally stumbles to his feet, Castiel is still looking at him, the dim light sliding across his owl eyes, the air growing heavier with his presence.
Dean leans back, rests his head against the wall, lets his thoughts scatter for a moment, running over his latest few hunts: the mogwai in Boston, the vamp nest in Duluth, the ghost ship in Gulfport, and this most recent salt-and-burn in a haunted tobacco factory in Durham.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, opens them and turns to face Castiel. Thunder sounds somewhere to the west, and Dean shifts on his feet and asks, "What's the latest, Cas?"
"News of another skirmish between angels and demons outside of Houston," Castiel reports. "The second one this week."
"Don't mess with Texas," Dean cracks, the words rolling heavy on his tongue as he remembers the last time Sam and he passed through W's home state, a case involving a haunted military barracks in Fort Polk.
Dean inhales slowly, blinks against the memory. The dim light in the warehouse must finally be getting to him. He looks up when Castiel speaks again. "Perhaps you should call him," Castiel says, voice quiet and knowing.
Dean runs a hand through his hair, laughs softly. "I don't think that's a good idea," he says, pausing to examine the blood stain on the cuff of his flannel. "I'm doing fine on my own."
Castiel shoots him a look that is all disbelief, and Dean sighs, wanting to argue the point further but the words fade when he opens his mouth. He turns away before any of the doubt shows on his face.
Castiel doesn't say another word, simply stands silent and still, face creased in thought. The rain continues a light pitter-patter against the windows, and when Dean turns to look at the darkening sky beyond, he wonders how Sam's doing on his own. Knows they made the right choice. Hopes they did.
Thunder rolls overhead, like a steady drumbeat of war. A reminder of how far they've come and how far they have yet to go. Dean drags in a deep lung-full of air, scrunching his nose at the taste of wet, rotting wood and mildew.
"We should go," Castiel says, and Dean startles at the sound of his voice. He turns to find the angel standing close behind him, hovering, waiting.
"Yeah," Dean murmurs. Castiel's hand is warm on his shoulder, but Dean shivers when the tips of Castiel's fingers skim the side of his neck. A simple gesture, but Dean's body wars with it.
Dean coughs, his throat gone dry. "Let's go." He nods sharply. Nods again before turning to grab his duffle.
It's raining even harder when Dean races to the Impala and throws his bag of supplies into the trunk. He's soaked to the skin by the time he climbs into the driver's seat, the car dipping under his weight. When he starts the engine, he glances over to Castiel, surprised to find him catching a ride this time around. He's been popping in and out a lot more lately, checking up on him. Dean wants to be annoyed, but mostly he's glad for the company.
Castiel shifts in his seat, obviously uncomfortable in the confining space of the car. He's frowning, eyeing the wipers with a fair amount of suspicion as they swish across the windshield.
Dean laughs softly and shakes his head, maneuvering the car onto the slick highway. The storm moves across the horizon, the rain soaks deep into the red Carolina soil.
+
Sometimes in the dark they touch.
Accidents really. A brush of shoulders in passing, a slide of hand over arm, fingers sweeping against fingers.
Touch can be finite; touch can be lasting. So long in hell, Dean had forgotten the salt-slick imperfection of skin rubbing against skin. He had forgotten that hands could bring comfort as well as pain.
+
"A ham and turkey sub?" Dean asks, voice hopeful.
"A lost Sumerian scroll," Cas offers, placing the paper bag gently on top of the motel bed. "Found in a magic shop in Eugene, Oregon."
"Dude, you have got to bring me back better gifts," Dean says, settling down at the table to sip at his cooling coffee. He picks up the newspaper, sends it rustling as he scans the metro section. "What have your brothers been up to?
"Five of them set a trap for me outside of Barcelona yesterday," Cas says, and the comment forces Dean's head up from the article about a factory fire in downtown Burlington.
"Yeah?" Dean asks, frowning. "You kick their asses or what?"
Castiel sits in the vacant chair across from Dean and sighs. "I managed to elude escape again." He sounds and looks tired, his eyes growing dark and heavy.
Dean meets his gaze, runs a hand through his dirty hair. Sighs. "Listen, Cas," he starts, trying to rack his brain for words of comfort. He's never been good with words. Left that part to Sammy. Dean's better with actions, decisions. But sometimes there are so many things Dean wants to ask Cas, to say to him. But the words are heavy, get stuck somewhere in the back of his throat with all the other stuff he's never been able to say. Instead Dean sits for a moment and looks out the window at the leaves turning colors in the trees. He scratches at his stubbled jaw. He wraps his hands around his paper cup of coffee when he gets the urge to wrap his hand around Castiel's hand.
"So...you want to play Scrabble?" Dean offers after a long moment. Dean's tried to teach Cas a decent game like poker, but the poor misguided angel only ever wants to play Scrabble. Or Chess. Such a freaking nerd.
The corner of Castiel's mouth twitches in something resembling a smile. "Only if you want to lose."
+
A rough night in Miami.
Cas slides off his coat, lays it next to Dean's own on the chair. Worn leather jacket pressing against tattered trench coat. They're a study in contrast.
Dean slumps down on the edge of the motel bed, pulls at the filthy t-shirt on his back, tugging it over his head and tossing it to the floor. Dean's covered in sweat, grainy with dust. He's scratched up all to hell, bleeding like a motherfucker. He wipes his hands on his jeans, smearing bloody fingerprints on the dirty denim. He's killed something nasty every damn day this week.
Cas kneels beside Dean at the edge of the bed. "Dean," he whispers. Smoothes a hand over his sweat-slick shoulder blade. "Here," he says. "Let me help."
Shivering, Dean whispers, "Yeah, okay."
When Castiel's fingertips brush over his skin, Dean's body heats at the familiar touch. Cas isn't as mojoed up as he use to be, but he can at least do a decent stitch on a wound. His movements are precise and focused as he dabs at the pale, bruised flesh around Dean's collarbone and chest with peroxide. He cleans the long, curving cut that winds from Dean's shoulder to his left pectoral. It's not deep, but when he's done Dean notices that Castiel's hands are stained with his blood. It's disconcerting.
"Thanks," Dean breathes, needing to say something. Feeling like he's given too much away, let too much in. Cas is always getting too close, too damn close.
Castiel watches Dean for a long moment, looks as if he's going to say something important. But all he manages is a tired sigh and a well-practiced, "You should be more careful."
Dean's mouth quirks. "I should be a lot of things. Drunk, dead, and buried..."
"Dean."
"Cas," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "I saved that girl, didn't I?"
"Yes, you saved the girl," Cas says, frustration evident in his voice. He rises to his feet and tosses the bloody rags in the trash.
Dean turns to take in their current surroundings. The motel room is damp and poorly-lit. Dean scrubbed Lysol over all the surfaces before he salted the windows earlier, but he can still smell the mold.
Dean stands up and turns to dig around his duffle. He really needs to do laundry. He sniffs at the black t-shirt from yesterday; it still smells of him: dust and musk, smoke and blood. It's worn and soft though, so he tugs it on and drops down onto his back in the bed.
Cas is still looking at him like he wants to hit him over the head with something really hard. Or fuck him senseless. Dean tries not to dwell too hard on the latter idea because it makes something under his skin itch with need.
"So...you keep saving me," Dean comments into the silence, trying to get his mind on the right track. He thinks back to how Cas kicked serious demon ass on the hunt earlier.
"Have you ever considered that maybe you're worth saving?" The question is quiet and soft, earnest almost, even though Castiel's expression remains tense.
Dean chuckles, uneasy. He hates when Cas says shit like that. Dean's never been worth much. Definitely not worth that. Instead of responding, Dean slumps backwards in the bed. Lies there and stares up at the ceiling for a minute, maybe an hour. He's waiting for Cas to sit beside him -- waiting for the tell-tale dip of the mattress, the heat of his body pressing close, the steady in and out flow of his breathing. The way he occupies space and time, how the air itself vibrates and shifts around him.
Dean's not surprised when Castiel's hand presses cool on his shoulder, his thumb touching the bare skin below the sleeve of his t-shirt. "You are," Cas says. "Do you believe me?"
Dean doesn't say anything, can't say anything; he just closes his eyes. Counts to fifty. Takes a deep breath and lets it go.
In the morning, he'll head north. In the morning, maybe his whole damn life will finally make sense.
+
Late July, a diner at the corner of 12th and Maple. For the first time, Dean's notices that his hands look a lot like his father's hands used to. Rough and dry; sun-baked, blistered, and calloused. A swelling city of blue veins beneath a tender puff of reddening skin. The serpentine, pink, and puckered scar along his right hand is a mirror image to the one John once bore on his left hand.
Dean rests his hands on the formica tabletop and watches as Castiel takes a seat across from him in the booth, his borrowed hands folding neatly on the table. Dean is fascinated by the fact that Castiel has learned to work with the smooth, white-collared hands of his vessel. Those hands are too pale and too soft, meant for sunless days spent at a computer keyboard in an office cubicle, meant for nights folded and held in supplication and prayer.
Dean watches as Castiel fingers the ritual knife, setting it out on the table, unconcerned by any possible curious eyes in the diner. It's the weapon Dean needs to kill the changeling, but Dean only takes in the ornately jeweled handle for a brief moment before turning to focus on the strip of sunlight settling across Castiel's knuckles.
Maybe an artist's hands, a writer or an academic. Meant to be covered in ink and charcoal, pressed against paper cool to the touch.
Dean fists his own hands in his lap, raises his head to find Castiel staring at him intently.
"Dean," Castiel says, voice a deep rumble. "Touch it."
Dean blinks, feeling dizzy, out of sorts. He raises a hand to wrap it around the handle of the knife, its smooth crescent-shaped silver blade glinting in the sun. Dean should understand the intimate curve of a blade. After thirty years butchering souls, he should miss the weight of a knife in his palm. His hand shouldn't shake like this.
Dean startles when Castiel's hand covers his own. "Like this," Castiel directs, long fingers curling against Dean's knuckle, reassuring. "Hold it like this." The heat of Castiel's hand surrounds Dean's own hand like a glove.
+
Before dawn, lying awake with his face pressed into the center of his pillow, Dean's muscles tense from dreams of the Pit. There's sulfur in his nose, fire in his gut, and Dean's eyes blur with sense memory. His body shivers at the press of cool night air against his sweaty skin, at the press of fingers moving over him in comfort and quiet contemplation.
"Cas," Dean says roughly, hating the sound of his own voice, the broken whimper, the vulnerability. Hating himself.
Castiel draws closer, a steadying hand on Dean's hipbone and another on his shoulder blade. For a moment, everything in the world is dark except for the fierce light of Castiel's eyes.
"You should get more sleep," Castiel says, his hand running over the small of Dean's back.
Dean wants to protest both the suggestion and the touch, but he already feels the heavy weight of his lids, the gentling pressure of Castiel's palm. Sometimes it feels like the only time he can manage a full-night's sleep is with the angel watching him.
Cas never asks, never pushes Dean to talk about it. He just accepts the fact that Dean will wake up screaming some nights, somehow knows this is the closest thing to comfort Dean's got other than the bottle and some quick fuck in the seedy bar down the road. Cas never asks, just gathers him with words and touch, standing with him as he battles night terrors, the same as he does in the day against the armies of heaven and hell.
Sometimes Cas will stretch out beside him, his solid weight dipping the bed, his deft fingers finding and working out the knots of tension in Dean's shoulders. Dean will lie still as stone, counting out each single breath, hungering for the bone-deep press of those fingers. Castiel's body is always warm through his clothes, and the feel of it pressing against his own keeps Dean steady, keeps his head clear.
Under the cover of night, Dean will allow this. The touch, the comfort, the stillness that he spends most of his days running from. Hands ghosting down the fragile curve of his back, skating across the knobs of his arched spine, his body stretched long and trembling.
+
Touch is simple; touch is complex.
Touch is power, feeling the shift of muscle beneath skin, knowing the rhythm of the actions that direct a specific movement, release a certain sound. It's Castiel parting the darkness with a flick of wrist, learning Dean's entire history with the press of his smooth fingertips along the tense line of Dean's shoulders.
Touch is claiming: the feel of a hand curving along a sharp-etched torso, fingers mapping the hard ridges of muscle and bone. Touch is making and unmaking, in all the ways Castiel has already done for Dean -- down to his very skin and bones, to his tissue and cells.
Touch is renewal; touch is redemption.
+
There is a road in the Delta that moves like the river. When Dean shuffles his feet, his worn boots float along the sunburnt blacktop. He’s been chasing his own shadow for miles and miles, been chasing the bitter flavor of guilt in the back of his throat. From the road, black silt rises like a wave, and Dean’s drowning in it.
This is a believer’s land. There's a church on every corner, and the words Castiel whispers to him when they enter them are solemn like a prayer. Dean has gotten use to the way Castiel's voice and touch resonate throughout his body, along his skin, in his bones, settling as heat in his belly.
Sometimes Castiel wields words like he wields a sword. Sharp, precise, exacting. Sometimes his words are softer, unsure. Like he's still trying to understand how to connect emotion to the string of consonants and vowels spilling out of his mouth.
"We were too late," Cas says, and Dean turns to see him standing at the door of the little one-room Baptist church on Main Street. Dean sighs and nods, tries not to think too hard about another battle lost. He looks back toward the dirt road that meanders through town. A harsh wind is blowing in from the west, pricking his skin, stinging his eyes. Demons torched the entire community, left nothing but the stink of corpses and sulfur on the air.
"We're too late a lot these days," Dean says, shaking his head. He rubs the palms of his hands together, zips his jacket up. It's chilly out and the trees whisper in the breeze.
Nothing in his world has ever come easy, and Dean knows this war won't let them go without forcing them to lose more than they've ever lost before. He sees it in the way Cas looks at him, in the way Sammy's so broken he probably won't ever be fixed again. He sees their future in every blade and every bullet. In every dead thing they leave behind.
The world falls quiet, a haze of sunlight and dust. Dean turns when Cas comes to stand beside him, placing a hand on Dean's back. A simple act of reassurance.
+
A back road in the middle of Georgia in early August, sun and dust and ivy-covered woods. Dean's parked on the side of the road, thirty miles from the nearest town. Sitting on the hood of the Impala, Dean nurses a beer while Castiel watches the dark line of the road. The Doors are drifting out of the car, and Dean smiles because this is the end, my beautiful friend.
Dean glances at Cas, notices how the sun lines his jaw and tufts of hair. Asks, "How's the search for Big Papa going?"
Castiel's wide blue eyes flicker his way, his hand winding subconsciously around the amulet. Dean flushes when he thinks about it sliding against Castiel's bare chest after years of sliding against his own. Dean smirks, fingers the warm beer can in his hands. He feels hot, needy.
"I was in Beirut yesterday," Cas says after a moment, voice gone as soft as the sky at dusk. "There was a dying child there. She was so close to death she knew what I was the moment she saw me. As she lie in the hospital bed, she turned to me and asked: 'Angel, have you come to take me to heaven with you?'"
"Well," Dean frowns, shaking his head. "That's sad as fuck."
"Yes," Cas says, running his hand back and forth against his thigh, one of the nervous ticks he's picked up the longer he's been in his vessel.
"Do you ever miss it?" Dean asks, starring down at the ground between his boots. "Heaven?"
Cas is quiet for a long time, and Dean turns to listen to the crickets and cicadas in the weeds, the thump-thump rhythm of the coming night, so much like his own heartbeat.
When he turns to look at Cas again, Dean watches the play of emotions making their way across his face; regret, guilt, loss. Something else Dean can't name, something Cas probably doesn't understand himself.
"There are many things I miss about it," Castiel says eventually, turning to meet Dean's gaze. "I miss it like one misses their childhood. Everything seemed simpler when I was in heaven. I knew my place, my duty."
Dean nods, understanding. As much as Sam use to complain about the life they led growing up, Dean never saw it the way Sam did. There are still times when Dean will close his eyes and relive his favorite childhood moments, when he and Sammy were young and felt as if they owned the world, when everything seemed possible. He remembers that time in Santa Fe back in '94 when he got his tonsils out and Sam wouldn't leave his bedside for an entire week. How Dad had let them eat ice cream and pudding pops for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. How they sat in the hospital room shooting the shit, watching The Simpsons. Being a family.
Dean sighs, shaking away the memories. To distract himself, he pulls one of Castiel's hands into his own. He can't help it; Castiel's hands mean comfort, relief. He takes a moment to examine Castiel's fingers, long and slender, thick-knuckled and strong. "I tried my best. With Sam. With Dad," he says, voice rougher than he'd like. "I know it wasn't enough. But I tried."
Cas is carefully watching the way Dean's lining their hands up, pressing them palm to palm. "You were a fine brother and son." Castiel's voice is soft, comforting.
Dean snorts. "Look at the mess I made of everything."
"You did what you believed to be right," Castiel says, tangling their fingers together.
Dean huffs a laugh, too tired to say anything to that. For a while, the sound of their uneven breathing is the only noise in the woods. There's a softness to the world right now, to the way Castiel is sitting so still, so present in his body; there's a softness to the movement of his fingers pressing along Dean's own.
"I don't judge you," Castiel continues quietly. "You've led a life unlike anyone else."
Dean thinks about all those monsters out there in the dark. Of a life defined by fire, blood, silver, gunpowder, and metal. Of the familiar weight of a gun in his hand. Of exhaustion beyond exhaustion. Dean thinks of demons and angels, and saying fuck you to destiny every damn chance he gets.
He thinks about being here on top of the Impala sitting hand in hand with an angel. He wants to say something, anything, to not pick apart what he's feeling right now, to bury it all down low. But he's never been good with words; instead he just squeezes Castiel's hand, hopes that says enough.
Cas tilts his head Dean's way, his lips tugging up in that shy, almost-smile he'll get sometimes when he realizes he's feeling good, feeling something human. Dean grins, shakes his head. Wonders how long they've been heading here, stumbling in the dark toward each other. Wonders if they're more than stolen touches and words shared in secret.
This is the end, my only friend. My only friend, the end.
+
The sky is smooth black velvet, moonless and starless; infinite. Here in the dark of night, it should be easier to say the unsayable things. It should be, but it isn't.
"Tell me," Cas whispers.
Dean's breath catches, holds. He wants to. "I can't." He swallows, quiets. He doesn't know what to say to Castiel. Thinks he should say, stop touching me, stop saving me, stop believing in me. Thinks he should admit, I'm poison. I'm shit. Not worth it. Dean knows he ruins everything by touching it. Knows he'll fuck up Cas like he fucked up Sam.
Dean exhales, tastes salt and dust in the air. Castiel's fingers curl in the denim of Dean's jeans, filthy, dust-covered, and ripped at the knees. Cas is moving closer, so close his breath ghosts warm against Dean's cheek. Dean wants to kiss him. Goddammit, he wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss this fucking angel so much he can't stand it.
Dean breathes deep, his hands squeezing into fists at his sides. Castiel's own hands move against Dean's flushed skin, thumbs stroking softly over Dean's jawline, long fingers brushing against Dean's neck. His touch is fever hot, so damn hot he's branding his mark into Dean's skin all over again. Dean's breathing quickens, body shivering, heart thundering, head pounding. He doesn't understand why his body always responds like this, why it feels like he's never felt a touch like this before.
Dean doesn't know what to do with Cas, this sonofabitch with eyes so wide and huge, flashing sharp in the night. Sometimes Dean forgets there's so much power inside of Cas. Touching his hand to Castiel's forearm, Dean thinks he can feel it, all that energy seeping through his skin, all that light waiting to burst free.
Dean presses his palm against Castiel's chest, spreading his fingers over his heart, feeling the solid beat of it; human heart, human body. This living, breathing not-quite human thing in front of him. They stand that way for a long time, until Dean grabs Cas like he's something he's about to lose, something he needs to hold on to. He turns his face into Castiel's neck, breathes in deep.
Dean knows he's not allowed this; he's not allowed anything for himself. The things he touches, he breaks. The people he loves, he loses. Dean pulls back just a bit, his eyes drifting over Castiel's face. "I don't. I can't."
"I know," Cas says, voice low and rough, his breath puffing warm against Dean's neck. His fingers circle Dean's wrist, and Dean watches as Cas lifts his hand higher, draws Dean's palm to his mouth and just holds it there for a moment. Dean almost jerks away when Castiel's warm, dry lips begin to move against the sensitive skin of his palm; a soft kiss. He gasps when Cas begins to whisper what sounds like a prayer into the palm of his hand. The feel of Castiel's hot, damp breath sends Dean tensing, wanting.
"You really fuck me up," Dean says, because Cas gets into head and makes him insane. Dean's whole body leans closer as Castiel works his mouth over his hand, lips trailing along Dean's fingers, pressing spit-slick lines against his pulse.
Dean isn't allowed to want this, to have this. But when Castiel pushes Dean's palm against his lips again, Dean can't help but trace his fingers over the curve of Castiel's mouth, brushing his thumb across Castiel's lower lip.
Cas kisses Dean's hand one last time, before pulling Dean close. Dean pushes his face into the crook of Castiel's neck, melts in his heat, in the fire burning just under Castiel's skin. He closes his eyes, breathes.
He doesn't know when they climb into the Impala, when they curl up together in the back seat like there's actually enough space for two grown men. He only knows that at some point in the middle of the night he wakes up tangled in Castiel's long arms, chests sliding together, legs entwining, knees bumping. Wakes up to Cas watching him with those soft, sleepless, old-soul eyes.
Thing is, Dean doesn't cuddle. Except for all the times he does. He suspects that any of the awkwardness he should be feeling about the hand worshipping thing is negated by the fact that Cas is warm, familiar. Cas is comfort, especially when the rest of the world doesn't offer much of that these days. Dean's laughing at himself when he curls closer to Castiel, tangling their fingers together. He falls asleep to Castiel's solid warmth pressing against him, the two of them touching in the fading dark.
+
It starts in a motel room in Shreveport. Dean falls back onto the bed with Cas on top of him, shuddering and gasping. They wrestle for a moment, hands grappling, each trying to get the upper hand. Cas emerges victorious when he straddles Dean, pulls him tight and close until their bodies are flush and moving together. Dean allows Cas to guide them both over the edge, the words finally, finally, finally run through his mind. Finally, he can take; finally, he can have.
Dean's shaking: hands trembling, body surging, and want burning in his belly, sliding up his spine. After everything he's done, all the shit he's seen, this. This. Dean doesn't have words for this. All he has is a simple give and take, and the fear and the hope of going down an unknown road and seeing where it leads.
Dean stops thinking the moment Cas crushes their mouths together in a kiss that sets fire to his body. Dean fists a hand in Castiel's hair, tastes the sound of his name on Castiel's lips. Castiel gathers him in, rocks him close as their mouths move together, lips clinging, tongues slicking. Dean groans low in his throat, bucking forward as Cas changes their angle. "Fuck," he whimpers into the kiss, moving closer so that his mouth never leaves Castiel's own, working his tongue inside deeper, while his cock slots up against Castiel's erection.
They kiss until they can't breathe and then kiss some more just because they can. Soft and slow and sweet, until Dean feels like he's losing his mind, going dizzy from the lack of oxygen. He pulls away, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t want to give this up for even a second. They press closer, hips lining up, bodies molding together, folding up into perfect angles. They breathe together, the air charged and heavy, electric.
Castiel cradles Dean’s face, looks Dean in the eyes. "Dean," he exhales. "Please."
Dean's breathes, sharp and broken, and then he sinks his teeth into Castiel's bottom lip, his mouth trailing over Castiel's stubbled jaw, sliding up and down the slope of his chin. Dean buries his face in Castiel's neck, sucks on the soft skin there, tongue mapping the rapid pulse beat.
"Cas," Dean whispers into his ear, reaching down between them, working their pants open so that their cocks spring free, their shafts hardening, leaking, and rubbing. They rut together, frantic, rushed, and fevered, all hot skin, slick sweat, and rhythmic motion. Dean breathes against the warm, moist spot behind Castiel’s ear, while Cas digs his fingers into Dean's back, speeding them up. For the longest time, their cocks bump and grind in sweet, wet friction.
Castiel's arms tighten around Dean, trapping him close. Dean thrusts up as Cas thrusts down, Castiel's heated gaze locking on his. Castiel covers Dean's hand with his own, tangles their fingers together as he thrusts down once, twice, again and again, rides them until they're both coming, sticky and hot and soft as butter.
Dean wants to bury himself here, deep beneath Castiel's skin; he wants to forget, for just a moment, everything outside: the burning world, the desperate hours. When Cas whispers his name like it's something holy, like this is all something blessed, Dean feels weightless with it, lost in the thrill-jolt of skin on skin, the push-pull of hands on hips, the smooth-slide of kiss after kiss. This is Cas breaking him wide open, laying him bare, while the whole world rushes right on by.
+
They’re standing on a cliff at the edge of the world.
Dean's breath is running rough and ragged. The ocean has gone bloody with the sunset, and its foaming waves hit the rocky shoreline where Dean just threw a selkie to its death.
Dean turns as Cas approaches him, shoes slipping over the rocky terrain. "That was unexpected," Castiel says, stepping close. A sea breeze ruffles through Castiel's hair, and Dean has the urge to run his hands through it.
"Unexpected is the word of the week," Dean says, smirking.
"It's a good word," Cas says, shuffling closer, eyes warming in the soft autumn sunlight. "I believe it's worth quite a few points in Scrabble."
Dean shakes his head, smiling wide. They'll have to go soon, but he doesn't argue when Cas brings them close together, so close they're sharing breath. Dean presses his face to Castiel's neck, slides his hands under his trench coat, seeking the hidden warmth of skin through the cotton of his dress shirt.
Sometimes touch is simply this: a reminder that these bodies were made for more than war and sacrifice.
-fin-