Beyond Gratitude
Title: Beyond Gratitude
Author:kadiel_krieger
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel
Rating: Adult
Wordcount: 1,577
Warnings: Hood!Humping. If that's really something to be warned about.
Spoilers: Through 4x22. Anything else is conjecture as I am a spoilerphobe.
Disclaimer: I would do questionable things with these boys if I owned them, but I do not.
Summary: Castiel saves Sam from his reckless guilt. Dean appreciates it, a lot. Expanding with porn upon this drabble for Prompt #001 at deancas100.
Author's Note: Cheer!Fic for thevinegarworks. Sorry it's late? They wouldn't cooperate. Many thanks to fullonswayzeed for the thorough and speedy beta. ♥
The sky smears gunmetal grey against the horizon the day Dean finally succumbs to the serpentine temptation slithering in his gut. Sam lays broken but breathing across the backseat. Castiel hovers close, rumpled and silent, waiting.
Even with the cavalcade of horrors caught between them like insects in amber, Dean still finds himself unwilling, unable to go it alone. Without Sammy the war just isn't worth waging. So there are no words to fully express what Cas has given him.
Deliverance, purpose, loyalty, and a thousand other ineffable concepts that Dean has no hope of straightening out in this life or the next. He's never quite mastered the art of heartfelt declarations anyway, never had the need. He speaks best in tones of flesh and blood and bone.
Which might be why it feels natural to wrap his hand around Cas' ridiculous tie, tug him close and pour the gratitude out the only way he can. It startles them both, that first tentative brush of lips. Dean breathes deep, sharp crystalline webs laced across the surface of his lungs. When he finally exhales, he lets his gaze drift, stares at the break of Cas' trousers over the top of his shoes. Because this is a conversation that's been a long year coming and he doesn't know where to begin.
"Dean..."
His name rumbles in Cas' chest, a freight train blowing through corn country. It's all lit up with the thrumming power that puts an ache in Dean's molars every time Cas strays within reaching distance. Only now it's coiling, flashing bright up his spine, raising the hair on the back of his neck and gooseflesh on his arms even in the middle of Savannah summer.
"Dean, I am not certain if this is..."
The thought never runs to completion, because the hesitation in Cas' classically resolute cadence betrays the truth. That short stutter will likely be the closest he gets to open consent.
It's enough for Dean, though. And when he leans in with actual intent, it has more to do with want than gratitude. He wraps the tie tighter, twice around his fist, anchoring himself. Cas looks at him, and Dean sees a flicker of something behind his eyes before he goes completely still, the air shimmering hot and stifling. He knows it won't last, that eventually Cas will snap out of it and slip this earthly plane.
So he steals what he can, like he always has. He tips his head slowly and presses his lips to Cas' again, his tongue slipping of its own volition to lick away the dry heat. For a long moment, nothing happens, but then he feels Cas surrender, a small huff of breath against his skin and he's kissing back. Controlled and careful, like Dean's a fragile porcelain teacup he's scared will shatter if he applies too much pressure.
Fuck that.
Dean abandons the tie in favor of fisting two handfuls of trench coat and yanks Castiel closer, pushes his tongue between yielding lips until his air fails. Again the tempo's a little off because it takes Cas a second to catch on. When he does, he brings a maelstrom to bear, fierce and hungry, unrelenting. The firm sweep of warm tongue leaves behind a tart, cloying aftertaste in Dean's mouth, bittersweet with all the reasons this shouldn't be happening. But even through four layers of clothes Castiel's fingers find home unerringly, clutching pressure against the brand he left what feels like a lifetime ago, his other hand a warm heavy weight on Dean's hip. Dean's eyes fly open and he pulls back on a gasp. Cas follows after, shuffles closer, crowding Dean until he stumbles, his instincts shot and his knees buckled by the Impala's bumper.
Maybe Cas was right after all. Maybe this really isn't a good idea. Maybe the otherworldly inferno flaming in those too blue depths is something he shouldn't want to dance in, come undone in. But Dean has never been good at doing the smart thing, the right thing - not even in best of times. What he should feel is regret; shame for the thousand ways he diminishes Castiel's glory, sullies his grace with all the damaged, greedy, grasping, humanity that seeps from his very pores. He should feel remorse for compensating Castiel's unwavering trust in him with impossible demands that leave him forever removed from the ranks of his brethren, cast out and carrying a price on his head - not fallen, but faltering for his faith in Dean.
But the only thing he feels is need - need to let that faith fill up all the gaping fissures in his soul, need to keep the only person that's ever truly believed in him close, need to pull him closer.
No matter how unworthy he is.
"Cas..." he says, more a ragged sub-vocal push of breath than anything substantial. Dean still can't find the elusive words that will make sense of this. Castiel either doesn't want or doesn't need them, because his fingers are an urgent silencing force against Dean's lips as he sidles closer, bending him back across the hood of the Impala like a spring sapling, willing and ridiculously pliable under his attentions.
And maybe Dean has been waiting for this all along, if he's being completely honest, ever since Uriel was called upon to intercede on heaven's behalf. Certainly since Cas made his stand, threw Dean up against the wall of that well-appointed heavenly holding cell and clapped a hand across his mouth, laying things bare in his eyes that neither of them will ever say aloud.
Because they don't need to.
A sudden shift drags him back into the present, Cas' fingers replaced by the slick slide of insistent lips and Dean feels safer and more solid in this moment than he has since Dad died. His baby, all sleek hard curves against his back and Cas truly hovering, the bedraggled tail of his trench coat flared behind him and bunched tight against Dean's kneecaps, his body curved cautiously away from all of the places Dean wishes it were touching. Too careful. Too gentle. Too polite.
"Cas, please..." he croaks, his throat aching, his blood humming hot everywhere. When he tries to find purchase, pull Castiel down against him, he falls short. And this time the hand that covers his mouth trembles, like it's out of sync with the rest of Cas' stoic facade, like he's hanging by a thread.
It takes one more tug to make Cas unravel, his arms wrapped tight, his tongue darting out to taste the salt and dirt, the leftover copper tang of the blood spilt saving Sam still staining Cas' fingers. Cas folds and falls, warm and wild, limbs loose and twisted with Dean's, his hip sloped against the nascent bulge behind Dean's fly. And he can't help but rock into it, his hands roving and grasping, pulling Cas to him tighter, wishing for all the world he could swallow him whole, make Cas his and his alone.
When Cas moves against him the first time, he swears he can see stars sparking his periphery. The rough drag of denim and cotton, the coarse grit of a stubbled cheek against his neck, the soft spill of his name sighed in reverence all conspire to wipe away any lingering doubt.
Dean gives himself to it. He feels his cock twitch and his jaw clench as Cas moves again, a maddeningly slow grind that pulls a muffled moan from between his lips. He arches into it, levers himself up and tries to speed the pace, because God it's been too long and he doesn't have it in him to take this slow. Not with Cas, never with Cas. He nips the fingers clamped across his lips until they slide sideways, palming the hood. Then Cas is looking at him again, through him again, his chest held aloft on shaking arms, and Dean feels oddly naked in the way he often does under the weight of Cas' regard. Only now all it stirs is hunger. He leans up to crush their lips together, his head clanking hollow when Cas follows him back down, consuming him until Dean can almost taste the ashes.
"Fuck. Cas," he breathes, all other words abandoned in the onslaught. And he's struck for a moment by the complete absurdity of this, the gravel road and the grey wash of sky blinking at him past the disheveled tangle of Cas' hair. That he can have this. That it really is Cas working hard against him, making hushed choking sounds of pleasure that go straight to his groin and draw him closer to the edge. Because he doesn't deserve it.
But then he didn't deserve to be raised either.
So he clings and thrusts, rides the soft curve of Cas' hip all the way to fucking Xanadu, spilling hard and fast, every muscle seized rigid and aching. Then he's gone, the stars in his periphery flaring bright and pulsing, the tense line of Cas' jaw sliding in and out of focus. And he can't help himself, in the throes of slow-witted afterglow - he has to touch, has to thread his fingers through the short hair spiking at the nape of Cas's neck. He has to twist and stretch and lick the bead of sweat sliding behind Cas' ear.
He has to whisper, "Cas," and watch that beautiful chaos unfold.
Author:kadiel_krieger
Pairing(s): Dean/Castiel
Rating: Adult
Wordcount: 1,577
Warnings: Hood!Humping. If that's really something to be warned about.
Spoilers: Through 4x22. Anything else is conjecture as I am a spoilerphobe.
Disclaimer: I would do questionable things with these boys if I owned them, but I do not.
Summary: Castiel saves Sam from his reckless guilt. Dean appreciates it, a lot. Expanding with porn upon this drabble for Prompt #001 at deancas100.
Author's Note: Cheer!Fic for thevinegarworks. Sorry it's late? They wouldn't cooperate. Many thanks to fullonswayzeed for the thorough and speedy beta. ♥
The sky smears gunmetal grey against the horizon the day Dean finally succumbs to the serpentine temptation slithering in his gut. Sam lays broken but breathing across the backseat. Castiel hovers close, rumpled and silent, waiting.
Even with the cavalcade of horrors caught between them like insects in amber, Dean still finds himself unwilling, unable to go it alone. Without Sammy the war just isn't worth waging. So there are no words to fully express what Cas has given him.
Deliverance, purpose, loyalty, and a thousand other ineffable concepts that Dean has no hope of straightening out in this life or the next. He's never quite mastered the art of heartfelt declarations anyway, never had the need. He speaks best in tones of flesh and blood and bone.
Which might be why it feels natural to wrap his hand around Cas' ridiculous tie, tug him close and pour the gratitude out the only way he can. It startles them both, that first tentative brush of lips. Dean breathes deep, sharp crystalline webs laced across the surface of his lungs. When he finally exhales, he lets his gaze drift, stares at the break of Cas' trousers over the top of his shoes. Because this is a conversation that's been a long year coming and he doesn't know where to begin.
"Dean..."
His name rumbles in Cas' chest, a freight train blowing through corn country. It's all lit up with the thrumming power that puts an ache in Dean's molars every time Cas strays within reaching distance. Only now it's coiling, flashing bright up his spine, raising the hair on the back of his neck and gooseflesh on his arms even in the middle of Savannah summer.
"Dean, I am not certain if this is..."
The thought never runs to completion, because the hesitation in Cas' classically resolute cadence betrays the truth. That short stutter will likely be the closest he gets to open consent.
It's enough for Dean, though. And when he leans in with actual intent, it has more to do with want than gratitude. He wraps the tie tighter, twice around his fist, anchoring himself. Cas looks at him, and Dean sees a flicker of something behind his eyes before he goes completely still, the air shimmering hot and stifling. He knows it won't last, that eventually Cas will snap out of it and slip this earthly plane.
So he steals what he can, like he always has. He tips his head slowly and presses his lips to Cas' again, his tongue slipping of its own volition to lick away the dry heat. For a long moment, nothing happens, but then he feels Cas surrender, a small huff of breath against his skin and he's kissing back. Controlled and careful, like Dean's a fragile porcelain teacup he's scared will shatter if he applies too much pressure.
Fuck that.
Dean abandons the tie in favor of fisting two handfuls of trench coat and yanks Castiel closer, pushes his tongue between yielding lips until his air fails. Again the tempo's a little off because it takes Cas a second to catch on. When he does, he brings a maelstrom to bear, fierce and hungry, unrelenting. The firm sweep of warm tongue leaves behind a tart, cloying aftertaste in Dean's mouth, bittersweet with all the reasons this shouldn't be happening. But even through four layers of clothes Castiel's fingers find home unerringly, clutching pressure against the brand he left what feels like a lifetime ago, his other hand a warm heavy weight on Dean's hip. Dean's eyes fly open and he pulls back on a gasp. Cas follows after, shuffles closer, crowding Dean until he stumbles, his instincts shot and his knees buckled by the Impala's bumper.
Maybe Cas was right after all. Maybe this really isn't a good idea. Maybe the otherworldly inferno flaming in those too blue depths is something he shouldn't want to dance in, come undone in. But Dean has never been good at doing the smart thing, the right thing - not even in best of times. What he should feel is regret; shame for the thousand ways he diminishes Castiel's glory, sullies his grace with all the damaged, greedy, grasping, humanity that seeps from his very pores. He should feel remorse for compensating Castiel's unwavering trust in him with impossible demands that leave him forever removed from the ranks of his brethren, cast out and carrying a price on his head - not fallen, but faltering for his faith in Dean.
But the only thing he feels is need - need to let that faith fill up all the gaping fissures in his soul, need to keep the only person that's ever truly believed in him close, need to pull him closer.
No matter how unworthy he is.
"Cas..." he says, more a ragged sub-vocal push of breath than anything substantial. Dean still can't find the elusive words that will make sense of this. Castiel either doesn't want or doesn't need them, because his fingers are an urgent silencing force against Dean's lips as he sidles closer, bending him back across the hood of the Impala like a spring sapling, willing and ridiculously pliable under his attentions.
And maybe Dean has been waiting for this all along, if he's being completely honest, ever since Uriel was called upon to intercede on heaven's behalf. Certainly since Cas made his stand, threw Dean up against the wall of that well-appointed heavenly holding cell and clapped a hand across his mouth, laying things bare in his eyes that neither of them will ever say aloud.
Because they don't need to.
A sudden shift drags him back into the present, Cas' fingers replaced by the slick slide of insistent lips and Dean feels safer and more solid in this moment than he has since Dad died. His baby, all sleek hard curves against his back and Cas truly hovering, the bedraggled tail of his trench coat flared behind him and bunched tight against Dean's kneecaps, his body curved cautiously away from all of the places Dean wishes it were touching. Too careful. Too gentle. Too polite.
"Cas, please..." he croaks, his throat aching, his blood humming hot everywhere. When he tries to find purchase, pull Castiel down against him, he falls short. And this time the hand that covers his mouth trembles, like it's out of sync with the rest of Cas' stoic facade, like he's hanging by a thread.
It takes one more tug to make Cas unravel, his arms wrapped tight, his tongue darting out to taste the salt and dirt, the leftover copper tang of the blood spilt saving Sam still staining Cas' fingers. Cas folds and falls, warm and wild, limbs loose and twisted with Dean's, his hip sloped against the nascent bulge behind Dean's fly. And he can't help but rock into it, his hands roving and grasping, pulling Cas to him tighter, wishing for all the world he could swallow him whole, make Cas his and his alone.
When Cas moves against him the first time, he swears he can see stars sparking his periphery. The rough drag of denim and cotton, the coarse grit of a stubbled cheek against his neck, the soft spill of his name sighed in reverence all conspire to wipe away any lingering doubt.
Dean gives himself to it. He feels his cock twitch and his jaw clench as Cas moves again, a maddeningly slow grind that pulls a muffled moan from between his lips. He arches into it, levers himself up and tries to speed the pace, because God it's been too long and he doesn't have it in him to take this slow. Not with Cas, never with Cas. He nips the fingers clamped across his lips until they slide sideways, palming the hood. Then Cas is looking at him again, through him again, his chest held aloft on shaking arms, and Dean feels oddly naked in the way he often does under the weight of Cas' regard. Only now all it stirs is hunger. He leans up to crush their lips together, his head clanking hollow when Cas follows him back down, consuming him until Dean can almost taste the ashes.
"Fuck. Cas," he breathes, all other words abandoned in the onslaught. And he's struck for a moment by the complete absurdity of this, the gravel road and the grey wash of sky blinking at him past the disheveled tangle of Cas' hair. That he can have this. That it really is Cas working hard against him, making hushed choking sounds of pleasure that go straight to his groin and draw him closer to the edge. Because he doesn't deserve it.
But then he didn't deserve to be raised either.
So he clings and thrusts, rides the soft curve of Cas' hip all the way to fucking Xanadu, spilling hard and fast, every muscle seized rigid and aching. Then he's gone, the stars in his periphery flaring bright and pulsing, the tense line of Cas' jaw sliding in and out of focus. And he can't help himself, in the throes of slow-witted afterglow - he has to touch, has to thread his fingers through the short hair spiking at the nape of Cas's neck. He has to twist and stretch and lick the bead of sweat sliding behind Cas' ear.
He has to whisper, "Cas," and watch that beautiful chaos unfold.