Fic: "Homesick Flesh" [NC-17, Dean/Cas - for help_nz]
TITLE: “Homesick Flesh”
AUTHOR:
nanoochka
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Dean/Castiel, sort-of implied Castiel/Balthazar
SPOILERS: Through 6.15
WARNINGS: Aside from dirty sex, what more do you want?
WORDCOUNT: 6,590
SUMMARY: It’s bad enough that all Dean and Cas do these days is fight; they have to add jealousy to the mix, too?
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all associated content is the property of Eric Kripke and The CW. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written-finally-in response to e0wyn ’s prompt for the help_nz charity auction. She wanted to see Dean get jealous and possessive over Cas after seeing him with Balthazar, but then also suggested that I could write porn. So I’m doing both. Angst courtesy of too much Auden before bed. Meanwhile, endless love to
fossarian for getting me through this with my sanity in tact, and to
cautionzombies for the last-minute sloppiness check.
“Homesick Flesh” by
nanoochka
Castiel must have expected Dean to call a second time after the business with Raphael was-mostly-laid to rest; he probably wouldn’t have shown up otherwise. Dean wants to be annoyed by this knowledge, because it’s a sad state of affairs when not even a blowjob is enough to tempt an angel back down to earth half the time, but that seems to be the way of it lately. Dean knows it has nothing to do with the quality of the head or Cas’s desire for it-his confidence in both those things is pretty high-and tries to reassure himself that few others can predict Castiel’s behaviour half so accurately, even if he doesn’t know much of what’s going on in Cas’s head these days.
There’s a lot happening in Heaven, Dean knows; scary, awful things he can read in the tired set of Castiel’s eyes and the constant strain in his jaw. Castiel has become little more than a spring wound too tight, metal coiled and brittle and waiting to snap. Having worn the look most of his life, Dean recognizes it on sight, knows that it is the face of someone who has started to hate his own existence. Dean is more saddened by this than anything because, angry and stubborn as he is, Castiel is the one thing Dean doesn’t think he could ever hate. No matter how much of humanity rubs off on him, Cas is still so pure and genuinely uncorrupt that this downward spiral breaks Dean’s already-shattered heart. More frustrating still is the knowledge that he can’t do anything to help; he can’t promise more than quiet support or reassurance that Castiel still has friends on Earth, for what little it matters-that he still has Dean, for better or worse.
The thought strikes him, though, that Balthazar does understand; he can help, can offer more than just remote support and empty platitudes for which Castiel has about as much use as an asshole on his elbow. Balthazar has made Dean obsolete.
Jealousy is the last thing Dean wants to introduce to the long list of problems between him and Castiel, and he doesn’t mean for it to happen. Really, he doesn’t. These days they do little more than fight, careless, automatic confrontations that barely count as lovers’ spats anymore, because Dean hasn’t felt the warmth of Castiel’s flesh for a long, long time. The year Dean defected to the Braeden residence has as much to do with it as Castiel’s business in Heaven, but the last thing Dean expected was for them to be stuck in this pitiful no-man’s land between friendship and indifference, a state which doesn’t fail to include intimacy so much as it forgets it altogether.
But Dean hasn’t forgotten. What they had… he doesn’t really know what to call it, except that for all the outward lack of the lovey-dovey stuff, there was something so painfully romantic, chivalric even, that in his weaker moments Dean thinks it’s the closest to love he’s ever come in his life. He damn well craves Castiel like no time at all has passed, dreams of the violence and passion and overwhelming gentleness of the angel’s touch with such vividness that he wakes up clutching at air, Castiel’s name on his lips as though interrupted mid-conversation. He thinks he sees that hunger echoed in Castiel’s gaze before they launch into yet another shouting match on the state of Sam’s soul or why Castiel is AWOL so much of the time, that same exhausted longing with no outlet and no end.
Occasionally Dean lets himself pretend it’s easier to fight about the big issues than it is to say, “I miss you, but I don’t know how to make this work anymore.” It’s just another aspect of Dean’s life that has become broken. If wishes counted for much he thinks they’d be all but living in each other’s pockets again, but he can’t summon the courage to ask Castiel to stick around for a few minutes extra, to let himself accept the weight of Dean’s want, even if just for a second, before he disappears again. They’ve been so long apart that Dean forgets how to need Castiel without panicking.
He thinks he might have let the impasse go on indefinitely, until the realization hit that an angel with a penchant for bad jokes and an unfortunate taste in V-necks had replaced him. The looks that pass between Balthazar and Castiel are the same as the ones that cemented Dean’s relationship with Cas in the first place, the forceful, all-consuming gaze that took them from strangers to brothers in arms to lovers while the world ended around them. It isn’t that Dean assumes he has a monopoly on that look, except-doesn’t he? He might not have a say in the goings-on in Castiel’s life anymore, but he thinks the handprint on his shoulder entitles him to an explanation, a severance speech, something to let him know for sure that Castiel now belongs to someone else. After seeing how readily Cas let Balthazar turn them into pawns, stuck in that godforsaken alternate reality like little more than a couple of toys, there’s no doubt that’s what happened. And Dean would like to know why.
Turns out he isn’t the only one. Castiel stands as close to the door of Bobby’s study as it’s possible to get, hovering near the threshold as though he expects to run or be called away at a moment’s notice-like he needs a door. By the look in his eyes and the terse way he says, “What is it? I don’t have much time,” by way of greeting, Dean can tell he expects an explanation, some excuse for why he’s been dragged out to Bobby’s house when there are wars to fight and other people to see.
It’s less about an explanation than it is a question, but Dean has stopped to consider that maybe he’s going about it all wrong, looking for answers when he could be giving Castiel a few of his own, deciding, for them both, exactly how it should be. Sam and Bobby are out digging up whatever research they can find on Eve; as far as Dean is concerned, no one is coming or leaving through that door until he says so.
“Good to see you too, Cas,” he grates out, and for a moment he sees a flash of regret in Castiel’s eyes, a quiet waver as though the angel has forgotten that he needn’t always be on the offensive with everyone, particularly Dean. But it’s gone again just as quickly, and Cas gives a long-suffering sigh, his show of irritation failing to sound anything other than exhausted.
“I apologize for disappointing your need for a social call, Dean,” he explains with something approaching patience. His eyes, steady and tired, hold Dean’s gaze briefly before dropping to the ground, something indistinct and unimportant but obviously easier to look at than Dean. “You called me away in the mist of planning a battle, though to you I know it matters little.”
Despite how condescending he sounds, an unpleasant thrill runs through Dean at the mention of battle. He knows, objectively, that Castiel is in the midst of a war, spends his days risking his life no differently from Dean or Sam or Bobby-that he’s lost people the same way, too. One of the things Dean has always liked about Cas is his willingness to get his hands dirty, to put his own life on the line instead of watching, remote like some of the other angels Dean’s met; but he doesn’t talk about it. However much Dean wishes he would, he is obstinately mum on the subject. This is why they no longer speak, Dean thinks, because where Castiel once gave everything, he now gives nothing. It feels wrong, though, to berate him for leaving Dean out of the loop, not when the subtext is potentially about Castiel’s own death, the risk he’s undertaking for his unnamed cause.
Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, concentrates on the same spot on the floor so he feels like they’re speaking a similar language. “It does matter to me, Cas,” he says lamely. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Even if he knows the answer already, he isn’t the type not to ask, nor ignore such a clear note of desperation in a friend’s voice. His own uselessness pains him, makes him feel tied-down and redundant as when Sam went off on his own with Ruby, but Dean wonders if Cas picks up on that at all, or if he feels bored and put-upon by their conversations nowadays.
Castiel, in response, sighs and lets his shoulders slump for the barest of seconds before righting himself, rearranging his posture so that it is once again straight and strong. “No, there’s nothing,” he says. “An attack is imminent. Between Balthazar and myself I’m reasonably confident we will be prepared for when Raphael finally decides to strike.”
A growl of frustration escapes Dean’s throat. “Balthazar, of course.” Just like that, his sense of magnanimity is gone, wiped clean at a single utterance of that name.
Defensiveness sharpens Castiel’s features. “I know you’re still upset that I allowed Balthazar to use you as a diversion, Dean, but he has been instrumental in swaying the outcome of this war in my favour. Without his help, I’d be lost.”
“Funny, but I could have sworn you once used to say the same thing about me,” quips Dean, flippant. “Now I don’t even get the courtesy of a fly-by hello or, frankly, a ‘fuck you’.”
Unsurprisingly, this draws a frown of confusion from Castiel, his eyes narrowing in that particular way he gets when he knows he is witnessing something complicated and human, but isn’t sure if it’s worth trying to understand. Though it likely isn’t his intention, the look jars Dean enough to make him feel cowed, embarrassed. He really should pull it together, figure out once and for all how to get over this mean jealous streak he has over Castiel, as though the angel earned nothing more than the right to chain himself to Dean in repayment for pulling him out of Hell.
With Sam, or so he tells himself, his protectiveness is understandable, even warranted, but as time goes by and the distance grows, Dean feels more and more like everything that occurred between him and Cas didn’t actually happen, that their kisses and sweaty couplings, even the quiet moments in bed afterwards, are mere projections of his fevered longing. It becomes increasingly difficult to remember why he ever felt so entitled, so possessive of the angel, impossible to understand what Cas ever saw in him in the first place.
And yet. This isn’t about grilling Cas about what he sees-saw-in Dean, it’s finding out what he sees in Balthazar that Dean hasn’t got, hearing once and for all that he and Cas are through, no longer, a passing figment of Dean’s imagination. This behaviour is a great deal more adolescent and needy than Dean is accustomed to indulging, but Cas isn’t average, isn’t capable of inspiring in Dean feelings that are anything like normal. He needs to know, thinks even Cas should be able to give him that much, put Dean out of his misery. Maybe they’ll even get back to being something like friends after that, and Dean will feel less an indulgent waste of Castiel’s time when the angel has a moment to spare for him. But he isn’t quite at that stage; there are things he needs to get off his chest, and this seems as good a time as any to air out the complaints he’s been stockpiling since the first time he ever laid eyes on Balthazar’s smirking, smug face.
Given that Castiel is not one for subtleties, not even enough to understand his own, unconscious ones, Dean dispenses with his initial desire to go about this conversation in a civilized way, at least not insofar as he has no desire to talk. Moving fast, though not fast enough that Castiel couldn’t dodge out of the way if he were so inclined, Dean surges forward and slams the angel against the nearest wall with two fists balled in the lapels of Castiel’s coat. The grunt that emerges from Castiel’s mouth satisfies him in a reliable way, sends a shock of pleasure down his spine so needle-sharp and real that all the hairs on Dean’s arms lift.
Their lips come in close, almost meeting, barely further apart than the sudden, tight press of their bodies from knees to elbows. The rightness of the feeling is jarring despite Dean’s hot anticipation, Castiel’s breath against his mouth so perfect and sweet he could croon. Had they not embraced this very position so many times in the past, he might expect confusion or even alarm from Castiel, but as it is, nothing but the faintest surprise colours his features.
“Dean.” Even his name, rumbling deep in Castiel’s chest, threatens to overwhelm Dean’s suddenly delicate threshold between control and helpless, slavish arousal to the creature whose pull he’s fought since Day One. Cas’s hands come up to cover Dean’s fists in warning, not a threat, but a definite signal to back off. “I do not have time for this.”
“Time?” Dean barks a laugh. “When did you get so cold, man? We both know time don’t matter to you, not when you can rearrange it any which way you please.” Going for obviousness, Dean rubs himself against Castiel’s front with all the daring, lascivious grace he can muster, hoping the angel can feel how turned-on he is by their proximity alone. He’s not drunk enough to be acting so desperate. At the beginning, seducing Cas had been like an ongoing game of chicken, Dean pushing ever harder just to see how far he could get before Castiel snapped. He did break, eventually, but only to push back, not away; the aggressiveness of the approach had gone a long way to colour the tone of their future encounters, even at their most affectionate, the most deceptively soft. “You got plenty of time for Balthazar, so why not me?”
Castiel scoffs, a harsh, un-angelic sound. “I don’t see what relevance Balthazar has to this conversation,” he snaps. “Whatever point you’re trying to make, Dean, just spit it out.”
“So you can fuck off sooner?” Dean laughs again. “I’m trying.” Breath puffing against Castiel’s ear, Dean hears his own throat click in a swallow; he licks his lips, lets the angel feel the brush of his mouth against the side of his face, the quick flicker of tongue. “What is it about him, huh?” he murmurs. “You used to come to me, Cas, remember? Weren’t so self-righteous when I was on my knees for you, making you moan-I can still hear how you used to say my name, like you were praying for my mouth. And now…” Dean shrugs sadly and nuzzles a kiss into the soft skin behind Castiel’s ear. “Now it’s like I don’t hold a candle to this smarmy bastard who isn’t good enough to lick your goddamn shoe. So tell me-” his tongue curls against the peachfuzz flesh of Cas’s earlobe, “-what’s he got that I wasn’t giving you?”
From the closeness of their hands together, it’s easy for Dean to release the fabric of Castiel’s trenchcoat and pin his arms over his head, trapping the angel’s wrists against the peeling floral wallpaper of Bobby’s study; easy, at least, because Castiel allows him this much, submitting to this little show of aggression with only a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. Dean watches his face carefully, but Cas stares back, giving nothing away of his opinion one way or another, neither opposition nor encouragement for Dean’s proposed course of action. Pleased, Dean hums his approval and tries not to let his uncertainty show, caging Castiel in with his whole body, a little drunk on this illusion of control. That’s always been part of the thrill, the challenge, knowing in the back of his mind that Castiel could tip the balance with a thought.
“Is it how he kisses you?” he breathes, meeting Castiel’s gaze. “He feel different, Cas? Do you like the taste of his tongue better?” He gazes back unflinchingly, serene and alien as always, which Dean takes as invitation to push a little further, lips ghosting over the angel’s until they part to allow him closer. The gentle flicker of Castiel’s tongue against his own makes Dean want to smile into the kiss. He withdraws slightly.
“He tastes like nothing,” says Castiel.
“That’s disappointing.” The chapped, slightly tacky texture of Castiel’s lips catches against Dean’s own like their skin refuses to let them separate. “Does he kiss you like this?” Dean asks.
Castiel’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Like what?”
Through playing, and because Cas rarely asks questions to which he doesn’t already know the answer, Dean drops his head back down to Castiel’s upturned face, shoving their mouths together until he feels the clack of teeth, cruel in comparison to the slick caress of tongues. His traitorous knees threaten to wobble at the sudden, fierce acquiescence of Castiel’s kiss, the hot bolt of air that passes between them in a swallowed gasp. Dean gives himself over to it, sliding a hand down to grasp the cut of the angel’s chin, pressing their chests and hips and groins together so hard his bones ache, taking Castiel’s mouth with unrepentant force. Dean taught him how to kiss; he can teach him how to remember.
Giving a parting bite to the reddened flesh of Cas’s lips, Dean slides his mouth across the delicious scrape of dark stubble and down to worry at the tender skin of his throat, a spot just beneath his jaw that makes Castiel buck his hips and groan a long, low note of surrender. Dean’s leg is right there, ready to slide between his thighs, pressing upwards until he feels the weight of Cas’s erection hard against the fabric of his jeans, the barrier of the angel’s suit pants insubstantial by comparison. He gives Castiel his arms back in favour of working at the belt and trouser zip with his fingers, skimming against the hard cock beneath and wetness he can already feel against his palm. Angel or no, the violent thump-thump of Castiel’s heart is fast and distinct against Dean’s chest, his whole body submitting to the thrum of arousal as Castiel squirms and clutches his hands in Dean’s hair and the material of his t-shirt.
“Are you like this with him?” Dean asks. He sinks his teeth into Castiel’s neck so hard the angel must surely feel it, though Dean wonders if it hurts or even registers. Cas just shudders. “Do you let him see your body like this, or do you fuck in your true forms? What does his mouth feel like compared to mine? Does he know how to make you come?” He gets his hand inside the thin, black briefs Castiel wears, envelops his fist around the whole glorious, wet heat of cock. Pumping gently, spreading the pre-come down the shaft, Dean lets Castiel guide their mouths back together in time to swallow the angel’s hiss of pleasure. Against his lips, Dean mutters, “Is it better when you don’t have to worry about blowing someone’s brains out when you scream?”
The jerk of Castiel’s fist in his hair drags Dean back, separates their mouths with a tiny huff of disappointment. For a second Castiel halts the stuttering motion of his hips, resists the urge to continue thrusting into the tight circle of Dean’s fingers so that Dean has to grind his dick against his own hand for relief. His face feels warm, flushed, and he notes the sheen of sweat at Castiel’s temples and the pink of his cheeks, the overwhelming darkness of his blue eyes. Both to titillate and escape the hot confines of his clothes, Dean lets go of Castiel altogether to pull his shirt over his head. Cas hauls him back against his body almost as suddenly, but Dean feels an insistent pressure against his shoulders and the unmistakable hint that he should be working his way lower.
Smirking, Dean bites against Castiel’s chin and laves at the reddened indentation with his tongue. “You remember, don’t you? How much you used to love my mouth, the things it could do to you?” He’s never one for this kind of dirty talk, never so determined to make a point in this way, but Dean can’t make himself stop. With each question that escapes his mouth he finds himself asking another and then another, terrified that if he halts for even a second, Castiel might actually answer one of them. So he keeps going. “I’ve never heard you beg for anything, Cas, the way you used to beg for my mouth on your cock. It would get me so hard, I can’t even tell you, almost more than when you’d fuck me yourself.” Dean lowers his head to suck a kiss to Castiel’s collarbone. “Don’t you want to feel that again? Feel me worshipping you like that?”
An abrupt shove against his shoulders, more persistent than before, sends Dean to his knees. The thin carpet of the study provides such inadequate cushioning that Dean grimaces at the impact, thin reeds of pain that shoot up his legs and make him shudder in surprise and arousal at how effortlessly Castiel has learned to demand, the gravelly authority of his voice when he says, “Dean, shut up.”
Obeying, Dean glances up at the angel’s face and grins, recovering fast enough to untuck Castiel’s dress shirt from his trousers and push it out of the way, revealing the long, tender line of his stomach and the dark trail of hair that disappears into his pants. He leans forward to press his mouth against the warm skin, feeling the deceptive give of flesh and the power that thrums just beneath, almost imperceptible save for the grip Castiel maintains on Dean’s hair, the fingers that press hard into the round of his shoulder. As always the taste of Castiel’s skin is unique in its neutrality, the absence of flavour beyond the faint trace of salty sweat.
While he flattens his tongue and licks a long stripe to the side of Cas’s navel, Dean glides his hands past the waistband of those dark trousers his underwear and nudges them down over the generous swell of Castiel’s ass. The fabric snicks down to mid-thigh, freeing Castiel’s erection to bump against Dean’s chin and smear his mouth with pre-come, tangy and sharp. Sweet with desire, the gasp that whistles past Cas’s teeth sounds almost too perfect to Dean’s ears.
“No one will ever love this more than me,” he tells Cas evenly, meeting his gaze. This, Dean thinks, is closer to the truth than anything he’s ever said to Cas before, closer even than a lot of what he’s said to himself his whole life. There is what Dean feels made for, like hunting and being alone and watching out for Sam, and then there is what he chooses for himself. “I don’t care who they are.”
In response, Cas brings his hand to Dean’s chin, tilting his face upwards. He slides his thumb past lips that feel spit-shiny and raw to press against Dean’s tongue. “I’m not asking them to,” he says. “I gave you this mouth, of course it could never love anything so much.”
When Cas tugs him forward, Dean goes, parting his lips to take the head of Castiel’s bobbing cock alongside his thumb. The digit withdraws and Dean opens further, swallowing deeper, and the weight of the cock in his mouth makes him moan with gratitude. It’s crazy and stupid and desperate for him to need anything this much, but Dean savours the heat and taste of Castiel’s dick, like he’s been too long separated from a piece of himself he’d only begun to suspect was missing.
Above him, Castiel lets his body slump towards the warmth and suction of Dean’s mouth, head tipping back to thud against the wall. His hands can’t seem to decide where they want to be most. Twitching from clutching at hair to bracketing his cheeks, they finally settle above the place where Dean’s own hand digs into his hip to hold him steady, the other cupping Dean’s jaw.
Though he’s in no hurry to shove Cas past the finish line any sooner than necessary, Dean succumbs to the uncomfortable pressure in his own jeans and pops the button fly. Freeing his cock into the palm of his hand, Dean catches the wetness at the tip and uses it to ease the friction as he begins to stroke, gasping as the moans and muttered nonsense from Castiel above push him closer, tightening his balls until he’s trembling with anticipation. The swipes and swirls of his own tongue add to his excitement, knowing as he does how they torment Cas with the promise of release. Dean learned how to pleasure a man during his time with Castiel, honing a technique only dabbled in during his youth, and with no real appreciation for how intoxicating it could feel to pull someone apart this way. Castiel does that to him, leaves him at both his weakest and most powerful, and Dean thinks he remembers when the feeling was perfectly mutual, welcomed and even treasured. It’s all he can do to make the most of this opportunity to make Cas feel like that again, taking him deep and with a hunger that’s only now beginning to sate.
By the uneven, sloppy thrusting of Castiel’s hips, Dean can tell he’s getting close. Cas has never been one for hard, rough jacks, responds most to lots of tongue and a gentle tease, and so he concentrates on adjusting the angle of his head and taking Cas deep into his throat while his tongue traces rhythmic patterns along the spine of his cock. He receives a plaintive cry in response, especially when Dean frees one of his hands to clutch at the soft weight of Castiel’s balls and hold his dick steady while he bobs his head.
The sound makes him keen around the angel’s cock, stuttering for one breathless second before it all becomes too much and Dean is shooting around his hand, and squeezing his eyes tight to block out the fireworks behind his lids. For a few moments his world is just heat and starbursts and his own delirious moans, during which he counts it as miraculous that his mouth can still keep up what it’s doing. Another few pulls, tightening the pressure of his mouth, and Castiel is right behind him, back arching away from the wall as he shoves his pelvis into Dean’s face and comes. Dean swallows, of course, happy to ignore the hard jab to the back of his throat and sucking gratefully until Cas twitches back in a fit of sensitivity.
Pleased with himself and still a bit winded from his orgasm, Dean pulls off with an exaggerated smack of his lips. After nuzzling at the slick skin of Castiel’s flagging cock for a few minutes, licking it and his fingers clean, Dean bites back his grunt of disapproval when Cas drags him away and up his body for a kiss that is drained but hungry. It’s enough to wrench a twitch of interest even from Dean’s exhausted cock, and he gives himself over to it eagerly despite knowing he won’t be back in the game anytime soon. The same doesn’t hold true for Cas, his refractory period nothing short of miraculous, but now that he’s spent himself, Dean doesn’t expect him to hang around much longer.
To his surprise, Cas withdraws and lifts Dean’s hand to his lips to mouth at some of the remaining splatters of come on his skin, eyes opening wide and violent blue at the noise Dean makes in his throat. His gaze ticks down to Dean’s mouth, which must be red and bee-stung by now, and clearly whatever he sees is enough to send his head thumping back against the wall with a hollow thud.
“Dean,” he sighs, though his hands tighten against Dean’s forearms in a way that could maybe be interpreted as possessive.
That lone syllable twists his stomach in an awkward, unpleasant way, Dean bent out of shape at his inability to decipher between anger and disinterest in Castiel’s voice. He thinks that might be to blame for the rashness of his response, the harsh, “Really? That’s all you got?” that escapes him. Pulling himself away, he looks around abortively for his t-shirt and wonders if the sudden chill he feels against his skin is real or imagined. He fails in locating it, so tucks himself back into his jeans instead. “Guess someone’s been spoiling you better than I can, dude, because where I come from that deserves a bit more than a freakin’, ‘Dean’.”
Somehow Castiel manages to look unruffled even with his clothes askew and his pants around his thighs, lips thoroughly kissed and stubble-burnt. The look he shoots at Dean is arch, assessing. “Come here,” he says tiredly. He extends a hand.
Stubborn to the end, not so different from Castiel, really, Dean folds his arms and grunts a, “No,” even as he resents the childishness of the gesture. Castiel continues to stare at him with his palm outstretched until Dean relents and slinks over, though he wouldn’t dream of accepting the proffered hand.
Cas looks like he wants to berate Dean for his obstinacy, but thinks better of it. His voice is awkward but gentle when he says, “I cannot be expected to provide an adequate response to your distress if you don’t tell me what’s upset you in the first place.”
“I think ‘distress’ is overstating it a bit,” grunts Dean, hating that Cas can interpret his mood so effortlessly, when Dean can only struggle not to go on the defensive at every look the angel sends him from beneath his lashes.
“Then what is it?” As though he’s suddenly noticed his state of undress, or perhaps for something to do, Castiel begins to pull up his trousers and adjust himself beneath his clothing. He still looks painfully sexy, enough that Dean wants to go to him again, but he hasn’t quite shaken the sense of churlishness that forces him to maintain his distance. “You called me here, Dean, and I came because I anticipated questions about the current state of things with Raphael.” He shifts uncomfortably. “With Balthazar.” Leaning back against the wall in a pose of forced nonchalance, Castiel fixes Dean with a look that is searching and naked in its effort to understand. “Your attentions, Dean, are not… unwelcome. It has been a long time, but-” Cas swallows, and for the first time all evening Dean wants to quirk a smile at the angel’s obvious struggle to articulate what Dean has taken months to figure out himself.
“Cas, you tryin’ to say you missed me?” he retorts.
Without even a blink, Cas answers, “Yes.” Swallowing minutely, Cas gestures in a way that seems to include them both. “Do I really need to explain why this has not been possible? Not like before?”
“Unless you need to explain it to yourself, no.” Dean folds his arms to try and appear less naked than he feels. “I’d be a hell of a lot more inclined to accept whatever it is you tell yourself at night, if I didn’t think it’s a sack of shit,” he grates out. “But when you make it clear you’ve still got time for other people like your pal Balty, Cas, all it leaves me to conclude is that you’ve more than educated yourself in the human art of leading someone the fuck on.”
Cas blinks, eyes narrowing. “Leading you where?”
Unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes, Dean gives in to the urge to slump his shoulders. It shouldn’t surprise him in the slightest that he’ll have to out and explain the whole thing to Castiel. “Forget it,” he sighs. “I’m just… All I’m asking is for you to be straight with me. If we’re done, I fucking get it, okay? But don’t tell me it’s because of this war in Heaven when really it’s ‘cause you found Balthazar again. I’m a big boy, can take it. You wouldn’t be the first person to pass me over because you found something you like better.”
“Something better…?” Compelled at this to take a step closer, Cas hesitates at first to reach out but ultimately doesn’t resist taking Dean’s arm, sliding his grip down until their hands brush. “Dean, you haven’t been… replaced. I might not be able to alter the sense of disappointment you have felt with me lately-I share it, more than you could possibly understand-but believe me when I say I have not attempted to substitute your place in my life.” Castiel entwines their fingers with something resembling shyness. “It’s because of you that I am on this path at all; your value to me is inestimable. You do know that, don’t you? Even if I lack the capacity to be here as much as I’d like, neither Balthazar nor anyone else could as much as shadow your importance in my life.”
Dean wants to respond, though with what he doesn’t even know, but Cas is too fast for him, shifting his grasp on Dean’s hand and using it to jerk their bodies together, and then neither of them has to talk. It’s not so very different from the force Dean used not thirty minutes previous. Their lips collide with a gentleness Dean doesn’t expect, the kiss deep but more affectionate than sexual.
When Cas pulls back he lays a hand with infinite tenderness upon Dean’s cheek. “Balthazar is not my lover, I swear,” he whispers. “If you think perhaps you can wait for a time when my allegiances are less divided… I will return when I can. Whatever happens, I still want you-even if it is selfish for me to do so.”
Sighing heavily, Dean allows himself the warm comfort of Castiel’s palm against his face, lets his eyes drift shut for a moment in acceptance of the words. Cas has it so backwards, he doesn’t even know the half of it; but Dean didn’t exactly ask him down here with his head screwed on quite straight, either. The memory of all the nonsense he spewed a few minutes ago makes his cheeks colour a violent pink. “Shit, man…” he murmurs. “That’s not selfish, and I’m not-“ Dean trails off uselessly. “Where the hell else would I go, huh?”
Gratitude and something like humour alights in Castiel’s eyes, a quick smile that twitches his lips. “The idea isn’t for you to be a captive audience, Dean. I don’t delude myself into thinking I have means by which to convince you of my intentions, and I’m afraid I can offer no assurances since I could die tomorrow-tonight, even. Either of us could. But you have my promise, at least. For what it’s worth.”
Dean responds to the sudden seriousness of the proposal-because that’s what it sounds like, far too much for his comfort level-in the only way he can, with determined humour. “Keep talking, and you’ll be in full-on Mr. Darcy mode, Cas,” he teases. “If the next words out of your mouth are, ‘You must allow me to tell you…’ then we’re through. No two ways about it.”
“I don’t have to understand that reference to know you’re making fun of me,” Castiel sighs, straight-faced. At Dean’s smirk, he steps away, but not before placing one last kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. “I’m sorry, Dean, but I cannot delay much longer. There really is a battle I must prepare for, even if you don’t care much for my lieutenant. Balthazar is a reluctant participant in this war at best; it would be unfair of me to abandon him at the helm, even if I’d rather stay here a while longer. You understand?”
A part of Dean wants to point out that Cas is playing the guilt trip to the full effect, but he does get it, and still feels reluctant to throw the angel’s obvious distress back in his face, not even to get him to stick around. Instead he reaches out to fasten Castiel’s belt and straighten his tie, finding the gesture both meaningless and reassuring.
Once his appearance has been adjusted to Dean’s satisfaction, he lets Cas step away, distancing himself as though to clear enough space for take-off. It’s considerate and cute, in a weird way, and Dean watches him with a smirk before he clears his throat a little and decides exactly what it is what he wants to say. “Hey, Cas…” he begins. The words make the idea of getting blood from a stone look easy. “Just…”
The angel turns just enough to look at Dean from over his shoulder, eyebrows raised at the unexpected solemnness of his tone. “What?”
Voice catching, Dean shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, but doesn’t break eye contact. He thinks he might be forfeiting his right to see Cas again anytime soon, or at least his right to bitch about it, and kind of wants to make it count if this is all he’ll have to go on for a while. “Think about me from time to time while you’re up there doing your thing. Okay?”
A real smile-small, but practically a grin as angels go-lights up the angel’s face. Departure momentarily forgotten, he strides back over to Dean and kisses him again, soundly. Now that, Dean thinks, is definitely something to go on, as far as last looks are concerned. “You needn’t have asked,” Cas tells him briskly. He kisses Dean one final time. There’s more softness in it, though the gentle flap of wings that follows tells Dean that Cas has gone before he even opens his eyes.
Faced with an empty house once more, Dean looks about him with an expression he thinks is probably more resigned than happy, but considers the lingering taste on his lips before he can let himself get too down about things again. He is, after all, standing around in the aftermath of a conversation that could have gone much worse, despite how rocky it started out. It’s perhaps further ahead than Dean’s felt in a while, in fact.
A promise isn’t worth much, he reminds himself, but it’s something, at any rate, certainly more than he imagined when he rolled out of bed this morning and failed to see what good would come of it. Promises, the kind he can trust, anyway, aren’t anything with which Dean’s had a great deal of experience in his life, but maybe he can get used to the feeling; he trusts Castiel, trusts him to follow through on what he says. It’s why they’re still around. He thinks that if it’s enough to get Castiel to come back, then he won’t take issue.
Dean’s a simple guy; it’s enough to get him to stay.
Fin
AUTHOR:
nanoochka
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Dean/Castiel, sort-of implied Castiel/Balthazar
SPOILERS: Through 6.15
WARNINGS: Aside from dirty sex, what more do you want?
WORDCOUNT: 6,590
SUMMARY: It’s bad enough that all Dean and Cas do these days is fight; they have to add jealousy to the mix, too?
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all associated content is the property of Eric Kripke and The CW. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written-finally-in response to e0wyn ’s prompt for the help_nz charity auction. She wanted to see Dean get jealous and possessive over Cas after seeing him with Balthazar, but then also suggested that I could write porn. So I’m doing both. Angst courtesy of too much Auden before bed. Meanwhile, endless love to
fossarian for getting me through this with my sanity in tact, and to
cautionzombies for the last-minute sloppiness check.
“Homesick Flesh” by
nanoochka
Castiel must have expected Dean to call a second time after the business with Raphael was-mostly-laid to rest; he probably wouldn’t have shown up otherwise. Dean wants to be annoyed by this knowledge, because it’s a sad state of affairs when not even a blowjob is enough to tempt an angel back down to earth half the time, but that seems to be the way of it lately. Dean knows it has nothing to do with the quality of the head or Cas’s desire for it-his confidence in both those things is pretty high-and tries to reassure himself that few others can predict Castiel’s behaviour half so accurately, even if he doesn’t know much of what’s going on in Cas’s head these days.
There’s a lot happening in Heaven, Dean knows; scary, awful things he can read in the tired set of Castiel’s eyes and the constant strain in his jaw. Castiel has become little more than a spring wound too tight, metal coiled and brittle and waiting to snap. Having worn the look most of his life, Dean recognizes it on sight, knows that it is the face of someone who has started to hate his own existence. Dean is more saddened by this than anything because, angry and stubborn as he is, Castiel is the one thing Dean doesn’t think he could ever hate. No matter how much of humanity rubs off on him, Cas is still so pure and genuinely uncorrupt that this downward spiral breaks Dean’s already-shattered heart. More frustrating still is the knowledge that he can’t do anything to help; he can’t promise more than quiet support or reassurance that Castiel still has friends on Earth, for what little it matters-that he still has Dean, for better or worse.
The thought strikes him, though, that Balthazar does understand; he can help, can offer more than just remote support and empty platitudes for which Castiel has about as much use as an asshole on his elbow. Balthazar has made Dean obsolete.
Jealousy is the last thing Dean wants to introduce to the long list of problems between him and Castiel, and he doesn’t mean for it to happen. Really, he doesn’t. These days they do little more than fight, careless, automatic confrontations that barely count as lovers’ spats anymore, because Dean hasn’t felt the warmth of Castiel’s flesh for a long, long time. The year Dean defected to the Braeden residence has as much to do with it as Castiel’s business in Heaven, but the last thing Dean expected was for them to be stuck in this pitiful no-man’s land between friendship and indifference, a state which doesn’t fail to include intimacy so much as it forgets it altogether.
But Dean hasn’t forgotten. What they had… he doesn’t really know what to call it, except that for all the outward lack of the lovey-dovey stuff, there was something so painfully romantic, chivalric even, that in his weaker moments Dean thinks it’s the closest to love he’s ever come in his life. He damn well craves Castiel like no time at all has passed, dreams of the violence and passion and overwhelming gentleness of the angel’s touch with such vividness that he wakes up clutching at air, Castiel’s name on his lips as though interrupted mid-conversation. He thinks he sees that hunger echoed in Castiel’s gaze before they launch into yet another shouting match on the state of Sam’s soul or why Castiel is AWOL so much of the time, that same exhausted longing with no outlet and no end.
Occasionally Dean lets himself pretend it’s easier to fight about the big issues than it is to say, “I miss you, but I don’t know how to make this work anymore.” It’s just another aspect of Dean’s life that has become broken. If wishes counted for much he thinks they’d be all but living in each other’s pockets again, but he can’t summon the courage to ask Castiel to stick around for a few minutes extra, to let himself accept the weight of Dean’s want, even if just for a second, before he disappears again. They’ve been so long apart that Dean forgets how to need Castiel without panicking.
He thinks he might have let the impasse go on indefinitely, until the realization hit that an angel with a penchant for bad jokes and an unfortunate taste in V-necks had replaced him. The looks that pass between Balthazar and Castiel are the same as the ones that cemented Dean’s relationship with Cas in the first place, the forceful, all-consuming gaze that took them from strangers to brothers in arms to lovers while the world ended around them. It isn’t that Dean assumes he has a monopoly on that look, except-doesn’t he? He might not have a say in the goings-on in Castiel’s life anymore, but he thinks the handprint on his shoulder entitles him to an explanation, a severance speech, something to let him know for sure that Castiel now belongs to someone else. After seeing how readily Cas let Balthazar turn them into pawns, stuck in that godforsaken alternate reality like little more than a couple of toys, there’s no doubt that’s what happened. And Dean would like to know why.
Turns out he isn’t the only one. Castiel stands as close to the door of Bobby’s study as it’s possible to get, hovering near the threshold as though he expects to run or be called away at a moment’s notice-like he needs a door. By the look in his eyes and the terse way he says, “What is it? I don’t have much time,” by way of greeting, Dean can tell he expects an explanation, some excuse for why he’s been dragged out to Bobby’s house when there are wars to fight and other people to see.
It’s less about an explanation than it is a question, but Dean has stopped to consider that maybe he’s going about it all wrong, looking for answers when he could be giving Castiel a few of his own, deciding, for them both, exactly how it should be. Sam and Bobby are out digging up whatever research they can find on Eve; as far as Dean is concerned, no one is coming or leaving through that door until he says so.
“Good to see you too, Cas,” he grates out, and for a moment he sees a flash of regret in Castiel’s eyes, a quiet waver as though the angel has forgotten that he needn’t always be on the offensive with everyone, particularly Dean. But it’s gone again just as quickly, and Cas gives a long-suffering sigh, his show of irritation failing to sound anything other than exhausted.
“I apologize for disappointing your need for a social call, Dean,” he explains with something approaching patience. His eyes, steady and tired, hold Dean’s gaze briefly before dropping to the ground, something indistinct and unimportant but obviously easier to look at than Dean. “You called me away in the mist of planning a battle, though to you I know it matters little.”
Despite how condescending he sounds, an unpleasant thrill runs through Dean at the mention of battle. He knows, objectively, that Castiel is in the midst of a war, spends his days risking his life no differently from Dean or Sam or Bobby-that he’s lost people the same way, too. One of the things Dean has always liked about Cas is his willingness to get his hands dirty, to put his own life on the line instead of watching, remote like some of the other angels Dean’s met; but he doesn’t talk about it. However much Dean wishes he would, he is obstinately mum on the subject. This is why they no longer speak, Dean thinks, because where Castiel once gave everything, he now gives nothing. It feels wrong, though, to berate him for leaving Dean out of the loop, not when the subtext is potentially about Castiel’s own death, the risk he’s undertaking for his unnamed cause.
Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, concentrates on the same spot on the floor so he feels like they’re speaking a similar language. “It does matter to me, Cas,” he says lamely. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Even if he knows the answer already, he isn’t the type not to ask, nor ignore such a clear note of desperation in a friend’s voice. His own uselessness pains him, makes him feel tied-down and redundant as when Sam went off on his own with Ruby, but Dean wonders if Cas picks up on that at all, or if he feels bored and put-upon by their conversations nowadays.
Castiel, in response, sighs and lets his shoulders slump for the barest of seconds before righting himself, rearranging his posture so that it is once again straight and strong. “No, there’s nothing,” he says. “An attack is imminent. Between Balthazar and myself I’m reasonably confident we will be prepared for when Raphael finally decides to strike.”
A growl of frustration escapes Dean’s throat. “Balthazar, of course.” Just like that, his sense of magnanimity is gone, wiped clean at a single utterance of that name.
Defensiveness sharpens Castiel’s features. “I know you’re still upset that I allowed Balthazar to use you as a diversion, Dean, but he has been instrumental in swaying the outcome of this war in my favour. Without his help, I’d be lost.”
“Funny, but I could have sworn you once used to say the same thing about me,” quips Dean, flippant. “Now I don’t even get the courtesy of a fly-by hello or, frankly, a ‘fuck you’.”
Unsurprisingly, this draws a frown of confusion from Castiel, his eyes narrowing in that particular way he gets when he knows he is witnessing something complicated and human, but isn’t sure if it’s worth trying to understand. Though it likely isn’t his intention, the look jars Dean enough to make him feel cowed, embarrassed. He really should pull it together, figure out once and for all how to get over this mean jealous streak he has over Castiel, as though the angel earned nothing more than the right to chain himself to Dean in repayment for pulling him out of Hell.
With Sam, or so he tells himself, his protectiveness is understandable, even warranted, but as time goes by and the distance grows, Dean feels more and more like everything that occurred between him and Cas didn’t actually happen, that their kisses and sweaty couplings, even the quiet moments in bed afterwards, are mere projections of his fevered longing. It becomes increasingly difficult to remember why he ever felt so entitled, so possessive of the angel, impossible to understand what Cas ever saw in him in the first place.
And yet. This isn’t about grilling Cas about what he sees-saw-in Dean, it’s finding out what he sees in Balthazar that Dean hasn’t got, hearing once and for all that he and Cas are through, no longer, a passing figment of Dean’s imagination. This behaviour is a great deal more adolescent and needy than Dean is accustomed to indulging, but Cas isn’t average, isn’t capable of inspiring in Dean feelings that are anything like normal. He needs to know, thinks even Cas should be able to give him that much, put Dean out of his misery. Maybe they’ll even get back to being something like friends after that, and Dean will feel less an indulgent waste of Castiel’s time when the angel has a moment to spare for him. But he isn’t quite at that stage; there are things he needs to get off his chest, and this seems as good a time as any to air out the complaints he’s been stockpiling since the first time he ever laid eyes on Balthazar’s smirking, smug face.
Given that Castiel is not one for subtleties, not even enough to understand his own, unconscious ones, Dean dispenses with his initial desire to go about this conversation in a civilized way, at least not insofar as he has no desire to talk. Moving fast, though not fast enough that Castiel couldn’t dodge out of the way if he were so inclined, Dean surges forward and slams the angel against the nearest wall with two fists balled in the lapels of Castiel’s coat. The grunt that emerges from Castiel’s mouth satisfies him in a reliable way, sends a shock of pleasure down his spine so needle-sharp and real that all the hairs on Dean’s arms lift.
Their lips come in close, almost meeting, barely further apart than the sudden, tight press of their bodies from knees to elbows. The rightness of the feeling is jarring despite Dean’s hot anticipation, Castiel’s breath against his mouth so perfect and sweet he could croon. Had they not embraced this very position so many times in the past, he might expect confusion or even alarm from Castiel, but as it is, nothing but the faintest surprise colours his features.
“Dean.” Even his name, rumbling deep in Castiel’s chest, threatens to overwhelm Dean’s suddenly delicate threshold between control and helpless, slavish arousal to the creature whose pull he’s fought since Day One. Cas’s hands come up to cover Dean’s fists in warning, not a threat, but a definite signal to back off. “I do not have time for this.”
“Time?” Dean barks a laugh. “When did you get so cold, man? We both know time don’t matter to you, not when you can rearrange it any which way you please.” Going for obviousness, Dean rubs himself against Castiel’s front with all the daring, lascivious grace he can muster, hoping the angel can feel how turned-on he is by their proximity alone. He’s not drunk enough to be acting so desperate. At the beginning, seducing Cas had been like an ongoing game of chicken, Dean pushing ever harder just to see how far he could get before Castiel snapped. He did break, eventually, but only to push back, not away; the aggressiveness of the approach had gone a long way to colour the tone of their future encounters, even at their most affectionate, the most deceptively soft. “You got plenty of time for Balthazar, so why not me?”
Castiel scoffs, a harsh, un-angelic sound. “I don’t see what relevance Balthazar has to this conversation,” he snaps. “Whatever point you’re trying to make, Dean, just spit it out.”
“So you can fuck off sooner?” Dean laughs again. “I’m trying.” Breath puffing against Castiel’s ear, Dean hears his own throat click in a swallow; he licks his lips, lets the angel feel the brush of his mouth against the side of his face, the quick flicker of tongue. “What is it about him, huh?” he murmurs. “You used to come to me, Cas, remember? Weren’t so self-righteous when I was on my knees for you, making you moan-I can still hear how you used to say my name, like you were praying for my mouth. And now…” Dean shrugs sadly and nuzzles a kiss into the soft skin behind Castiel’s ear. “Now it’s like I don’t hold a candle to this smarmy bastard who isn’t good enough to lick your goddamn shoe. So tell me-” his tongue curls against the peachfuzz flesh of Cas’s earlobe, “-what’s he got that I wasn’t giving you?”
From the closeness of their hands together, it’s easy for Dean to release the fabric of Castiel’s trenchcoat and pin his arms over his head, trapping the angel’s wrists against the peeling floral wallpaper of Bobby’s study; easy, at least, because Castiel allows him this much, submitting to this little show of aggression with only a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. Dean watches his face carefully, but Cas stares back, giving nothing away of his opinion one way or another, neither opposition nor encouragement for Dean’s proposed course of action. Pleased, Dean hums his approval and tries not to let his uncertainty show, caging Castiel in with his whole body, a little drunk on this illusion of control. That’s always been part of the thrill, the challenge, knowing in the back of his mind that Castiel could tip the balance with a thought.
“Is it how he kisses you?” he breathes, meeting Castiel’s gaze. “He feel different, Cas? Do you like the taste of his tongue better?” He gazes back unflinchingly, serene and alien as always, which Dean takes as invitation to push a little further, lips ghosting over the angel’s until they part to allow him closer. The gentle flicker of Castiel’s tongue against his own makes Dean want to smile into the kiss. He withdraws slightly.
“He tastes like nothing,” says Castiel.
“That’s disappointing.” The chapped, slightly tacky texture of Castiel’s lips catches against Dean’s own like their skin refuses to let them separate. “Does he kiss you like this?” Dean asks.
Castiel’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Like what?”
Through playing, and because Cas rarely asks questions to which he doesn’t already know the answer, Dean drops his head back down to Castiel’s upturned face, shoving their mouths together until he feels the clack of teeth, cruel in comparison to the slick caress of tongues. His traitorous knees threaten to wobble at the sudden, fierce acquiescence of Castiel’s kiss, the hot bolt of air that passes between them in a swallowed gasp. Dean gives himself over to it, sliding a hand down to grasp the cut of the angel’s chin, pressing their chests and hips and groins together so hard his bones ache, taking Castiel’s mouth with unrepentant force. Dean taught him how to kiss; he can teach him how to remember.
Giving a parting bite to the reddened flesh of Cas’s lips, Dean slides his mouth across the delicious scrape of dark stubble and down to worry at the tender skin of his throat, a spot just beneath his jaw that makes Castiel buck his hips and groan a long, low note of surrender. Dean’s leg is right there, ready to slide between his thighs, pressing upwards until he feels the weight of Cas’s erection hard against the fabric of his jeans, the barrier of the angel’s suit pants insubstantial by comparison. He gives Castiel his arms back in favour of working at the belt and trouser zip with his fingers, skimming against the hard cock beneath and wetness he can already feel against his palm. Angel or no, the violent thump-thump of Castiel’s heart is fast and distinct against Dean’s chest, his whole body submitting to the thrum of arousal as Castiel squirms and clutches his hands in Dean’s hair and the material of his t-shirt.
“Are you like this with him?” Dean asks. He sinks his teeth into Castiel’s neck so hard the angel must surely feel it, though Dean wonders if it hurts or even registers. Cas just shudders. “Do you let him see your body like this, or do you fuck in your true forms? What does his mouth feel like compared to mine? Does he know how to make you come?” He gets his hand inside the thin, black briefs Castiel wears, envelops his fist around the whole glorious, wet heat of cock. Pumping gently, spreading the pre-come down the shaft, Dean lets Castiel guide their mouths back together in time to swallow the angel’s hiss of pleasure. Against his lips, Dean mutters, “Is it better when you don’t have to worry about blowing someone’s brains out when you scream?”
The jerk of Castiel’s fist in his hair drags Dean back, separates their mouths with a tiny huff of disappointment. For a second Castiel halts the stuttering motion of his hips, resists the urge to continue thrusting into the tight circle of Dean’s fingers so that Dean has to grind his dick against his own hand for relief. His face feels warm, flushed, and he notes the sheen of sweat at Castiel’s temples and the pink of his cheeks, the overwhelming darkness of his blue eyes. Both to titillate and escape the hot confines of his clothes, Dean lets go of Castiel altogether to pull his shirt over his head. Cas hauls him back against his body almost as suddenly, but Dean feels an insistent pressure against his shoulders and the unmistakable hint that he should be working his way lower.
Smirking, Dean bites against Castiel’s chin and laves at the reddened indentation with his tongue. “You remember, don’t you? How much you used to love my mouth, the things it could do to you?” He’s never one for this kind of dirty talk, never so determined to make a point in this way, but Dean can’t make himself stop. With each question that escapes his mouth he finds himself asking another and then another, terrified that if he halts for even a second, Castiel might actually answer one of them. So he keeps going. “I’ve never heard you beg for anything, Cas, the way you used to beg for my mouth on your cock. It would get me so hard, I can’t even tell you, almost more than when you’d fuck me yourself.” Dean lowers his head to suck a kiss to Castiel’s collarbone. “Don’t you want to feel that again? Feel me worshipping you like that?”
An abrupt shove against his shoulders, more persistent than before, sends Dean to his knees. The thin carpet of the study provides such inadequate cushioning that Dean grimaces at the impact, thin reeds of pain that shoot up his legs and make him shudder in surprise and arousal at how effortlessly Castiel has learned to demand, the gravelly authority of his voice when he says, “Dean, shut up.”
Obeying, Dean glances up at the angel’s face and grins, recovering fast enough to untuck Castiel’s dress shirt from his trousers and push it out of the way, revealing the long, tender line of his stomach and the dark trail of hair that disappears into his pants. He leans forward to press his mouth against the warm skin, feeling the deceptive give of flesh and the power that thrums just beneath, almost imperceptible save for the grip Castiel maintains on Dean’s hair, the fingers that press hard into the round of his shoulder. As always the taste of Castiel’s skin is unique in its neutrality, the absence of flavour beyond the faint trace of salty sweat.
While he flattens his tongue and licks a long stripe to the side of Cas’s navel, Dean glides his hands past the waistband of those dark trousers his underwear and nudges them down over the generous swell of Castiel’s ass. The fabric snicks down to mid-thigh, freeing Castiel’s erection to bump against Dean’s chin and smear his mouth with pre-come, tangy and sharp. Sweet with desire, the gasp that whistles past Cas’s teeth sounds almost too perfect to Dean’s ears.
“No one will ever love this more than me,” he tells Cas evenly, meeting his gaze. This, Dean thinks, is closer to the truth than anything he’s ever said to Cas before, closer even than a lot of what he’s said to himself his whole life. There is what Dean feels made for, like hunting and being alone and watching out for Sam, and then there is what he chooses for himself. “I don’t care who they are.”
In response, Cas brings his hand to Dean’s chin, tilting his face upwards. He slides his thumb past lips that feel spit-shiny and raw to press against Dean’s tongue. “I’m not asking them to,” he says. “I gave you this mouth, of course it could never love anything so much.”
When Cas tugs him forward, Dean goes, parting his lips to take the head of Castiel’s bobbing cock alongside his thumb. The digit withdraws and Dean opens further, swallowing deeper, and the weight of the cock in his mouth makes him moan with gratitude. It’s crazy and stupid and desperate for him to need anything this much, but Dean savours the heat and taste of Castiel’s dick, like he’s been too long separated from a piece of himself he’d only begun to suspect was missing.
Above him, Castiel lets his body slump towards the warmth and suction of Dean’s mouth, head tipping back to thud against the wall. His hands can’t seem to decide where they want to be most. Twitching from clutching at hair to bracketing his cheeks, they finally settle above the place where Dean’s own hand digs into his hip to hold him steady, the other cupping Dean’s jaw.
Though he’s in no hurry to shove Cas past the finish line any sooner than necessary, Dean succumbs to the uncomfortable pressure in his own jeans and pops the button fly. Freeing his cock into the palm of his hand, Dean catches the wetness at the tip and uses it to ease the friction as he begins to stroke, gasping as the moans and muttered nonsense from Castiel above push him closer, tightening his balls until he’s trembling with anticipation. The swipes and swirls of his own tongue add to his excitement, knowing as he does how they torment Cas with the promise of release. Dean learned how to pleasure a man during his time with Castiel, honing a technique only dabbled in during his youth, and with no real appreciation for how intoxicating it could feel to pull someone apart this way. Castiel does that to him, leaves him at both his weakest and most powerful, and Dean thinks he remembers when the feeling was perfectly mutual, welcomed and even treasured. It’s all he can do to make the most of this opportunity to make Cas feel like that again, taking him deep and with a hunger that’s only now beginning to sate.
By the uneven, sloppy thrusting of Castiel’s hips, Dean can tell he’s getting close. Cas has never been one for hard, rough jacks, responds most to lots of tongue and a gentle tease, and so he concentrates on adjusting the angle of his head and taking Cas deep into his throat while his tongue traces rhythmic patterns along the spine of his cock. He receives a plaintive cry in response, especially when Dean frees one of his hands to clutch at the soft weight of Castiel’s balls and hold his dick steady while he bobs his head.
The sound makes him keen around the angel’s cock, stuttering for one breathless second before it all becomes too much and Dean is shooting around his hand, and squeezing his eyes tight to block out the fireworks behind his lids. For a few moments his world is just heat and starbursts and his own delirious moans, during which he counts it as miraculous that his mouth can still keep up what it’s doing. Another few pulls, tightening the pressure of his mouth, and Castiel is right behind him, back arching away from the wall as he shoves his pelvis into Dean’s face and comes. Dean swallows, of course, happy to ignore the hard jab to the back of his throat and sucking gratefully until Cas twitches back in a fit of sensitivity.
Pleased with himself and still a bit winded from his orgasm, Dean pulls off with an exaggerated smack of his lips. After nuzzling at the slick skin of Castiel’s flagging cock for a few minutes, licking it and his fingers clean, Dean bites back his grunt of disapproval when Cas drags him away and up his body for a kiss that is drained but hungry. It’s enough to wrench a twitch of interest even from Dean’s exhausted cock, and he gives himself over to it eagerly despite knowing he won’t be back in the game anytime soon. The same doesn’t hold true for Cas, his refractory period nothing short of miraculous, but now that he’s spent himself, Dean doesn’t expect him to hang around much longer.
To his surprise, Cas withdraws and lifts Dean’s hand to his lips to mouth at some of the remaining splatters of come on his skin, eyes opening wide and violent blue at the noise Dean makes in his throat. His gaze ticks down to Dean’s mouth, which must be red and bee-stung by now, and clearly whatever he sees is enough to send his head thumping back against the wall with a hollow thud.
“Dean,” he sighs, though his hands tighten against Dean’s forearms in a way that could maybe be interpreted as possessive.
That lone syllable twists his stomach in an awkward, unpleasant way, Dean bent out of shape at his inability to decipher between anger and disinterest in Castiel’s voice. He thinks that might be to blame for the rashness of his response, the harsh, “Really? That’s all you got?” that escapes him. Pulling himself away, he looks around abortively for his t-shirt and wonders if the sudden chill he feels against his skin is real or imagined. He fails in locating it, so tucks himself back into his jeans instead. “Guess someone’s been spoiling you better than I can, dude, because where I come from that deserves a bit more than a freakin’, ‘Dean’.”
Somehow Castiel manages to look unruffled even with his clothes askew and his pants around his thighs, lips thoroughly kissed and stubble-burnt. The look he shoots at Dean is arch, assessing. “Come here,” he says tiredly. He extends a hand.
Stubborn to the end, not so different from Castiel, really, Dean folds his arms and grunts a, “No,” even as he resents the childishness of the gesture. Castiel continues to stare at him with his palm outstretched until Dean relents and slinks over, though he wouldn’t dream of accepting the proffered hand.
Cas looks like he wants to berate Dean for his obstinacy, but thinks better of it. His voice is awkward but gentle when he says, “I cannot be expected to provide an adequate response to your distress if you don’t tell me what’s upset you in the first place.”
“I think ‘distress’ is overstating it a bit,” grunts Dean, hating that Cas can interpret his mood so effortlessly, when Dean can only struggle not to go on the defensive at every look the angel sends him from beneath his lashes.
“Then what is it?” As though he’s suddenly noticed his state of undress, or perhaps for something to do, Castiel begins to pull up his trousers and adjust himself beneath his clothing. He still looks painfully sexy, enough that Dean wants to go to him again, but he hasn’t quite shaken the sense of churlishness that forces him to maintain his distance. “You called me here, Dean, and I came because I anticipated questions about the current state of things with Raphael.” He shifts uncomfortably. “With Balthazar.” Leaning back against the wall in a pose of forced nonchalance, Castiel fixes Dean with a look that is searching and naked in its effort to understand. “Your attentions, Dean, are not… unwelcome. It has been a long time, but-” Cas swallows, and for the first time all evening Dean wants to quirk a smile at the angel’s obvious struggle to articulate what Dean has taken months to figure out himself.
“Cas, you tryin’ to say you missed me?” he retorts.
Without even a blink, Cas answers, “Yes.” Swallowing minutely, Cas gestures in a way that seems to include them both. “Do I really need to explain why this has not been possible? Not like before?”
“Unless you need to explain it to yourself, no.” Dean folds his arms to try and appear less naked than he feels. “I’d be a hell of a lot more inclined to accept whatever it is you tell yourself at night, if I didn’t think it’s a sack of shit,” he grates out. “But when you make it clear you’ve still got time for other people like your pal Balty, Cas, all it leaves me to conclude is that you’ve more than educated yourself in the human art of leading someone the fuck on.”
Cas blinks, eyes narrowing. “Leading you where?”
Unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes, Dean gives in to the urge to slump his shoulders. It shouldn’t surprise him in the slightest that he’ll have to out and explain the whole thing to Castiel. “Forget it,” he sighs. “I’m just… All I’m asking is for you to be straight with me. If we’re done, I fucking get it, okay? But don’t tell me it’s because of this war in Heaven when really it’s ‘cause you found Balthazar again. I’m a big boy, can take it. You wouldn’t be the first person to pass me over because you found something you like better.”
“Something better…?” Compelled at this to take a step closer, Cas hesitates at first to reach out but ultimately doesn’t resist taking Dean’s arm, sliding his grip down until their hands brush. “Dean, you haven’t been… replaced. I might not be able to alter the sense of disappointment you have felt with me lately-I share it, more than you could possibly understand-but believe me when I say I have not attempted to substitute your place in my life.” Castiel entwines their fingers with something resembling shyness. “It’s because of you that I am on this path at all; your value to me is inestimable. You do know that, don’t you? Even if I lack the capacity to be here as much as I’d like, neither Balthazar nor anyone else could as much as shadow your importance in my life.”
Dean wants to respond, though with what he doesn’t even know, but Cas is too fast for him, shifting his grasp on Dean’s hand and using it to jerk their bodies together, and then neither of them has to talk. It’s not so very different from the force Dean used not thirty minutes previous. Their lips collide with a gentleness Dean doesn’t expect, the kiss deep but more affectionate than sexual.
When Cas pulls back he lays a hand with infinite tenderness upon Dean’s cheek. “Balthazar is not my lover, I swear,” he whispers. “If you think perhaps you can wait for a time when my allegiances are less divided… I will return when I can. Whatever happens, I still want you-even if it is selfish for me to do so.”
Sighing heavily, Dean allows himself the warm comfort of Castiel’s palm against his face, lets his eyes drift shut for a moment in acceptance of the words. Cas has it so backwards, he doesn’t even know the half of it; but Dean didn’t exactly ask him down here with his head screwed on quite straight, either. The memory of all the nonsense he spewed a few minutes ago makes his cheeks colour a violent pink. “Shit, man…” he murmurs. “That’s not selfish, and I’m not-“ Dean trails off uselessly. “Where the hell else would I go, huh?”
Gratitude and something like humour alights in Castiel’s eyes, a quick smile that twitches his lips. “The idea isn’t for you to be a captive audience, Dean. I don’t delude myself into thinking I have means by which to convince you of my intentions, and I’m afraid I can offer no assurances since I could die tomorrow-tonight, even. Either of us could. But you have my promise, at least. For what it’s worth.”
Dean responds to the sudden seriousness of the proposal-because that’s what it sounds like, far too much for his comfort level-in the only way he can, with determined humour. “Keep talking, and you’ll be in full-on Mr. Darcy mode, Cas,” he teases. “If the next words out of your mouth are, ‘You must allow me to tell you…’ then we’re through. No two ways about it.”
“I don’t have to understand that reference to know you’re making fun of me,” Castiel sighs, straight-faced. At Dean’s smirk, he steps away, but not before placing one last kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. “I’m sorry, Dean, but I cannot delay much longer. There really is a battle I must prepare for, even if you don’t care much for my lieutenant. Balthazar is a reluctant participant in this war at best; it would be unfair of me to abandon him at the helm, even if I’d rather stay here a while longer. You understand?”
A part of Dean wants to point out that Cas is playing the guilt trip to the full effect, but he does get it, and still feels reluctant to throw the angel’s obvious distress back in his face, not even to get him to stick around. Instead he reaches out to fasten Castiel’s belt and straighten his tie, finding the gesture both meaningless and reassuring.
Once his appearance has been adjusted to Dean’s satisfaction, he lets Cas step away, distancing himself as though to clear enough space for take-off. It’s considerate and cute, in a weird way, and Dean watches him with a smirk before he clears his throat a little and decides exactly what it is what he wants to say. “Hey, Cas…” he begins. The words make the idea of getting blood from a stone look easy. “Just…”
The angel turns just enough to look at Dean from over his shoulder, eyebrows raised at the unexpected solemnness of his tone. “What?”
Voice catching, Dean shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, but doesn’t break eye contact. He thinks he might be forfeiting his right to see Cas again anytime soon, or at least his right to bitch about it, and kind of wants to make it count if this is all he’ll have to go on for a while. “Think about me from time to time while you’re up there doing your thing. Okay?”
A real smile-small, but practically a grin as angels go-lights up the angel’s face. Departure momentarily forgotten, he strides back over to Dean and kisses him again, soundly. Now that, Dean thinks, is definitely something to go on, as far as last looks are concerned. “You needn’t have asked,” Cas tells him briskly. He kisses Dean one final time. There’s more softness in it, though the gentle flap of wings that follows tells Dean that Cas has gone before he even opens his eyes.
Faced with an empty house once more, Dean looks about him with an expression he thinks is probably more resigned than happy, but considers the lingering taste on his lips before he can let himself get too down about things again. He is, after all, standing around in the aftermath of a conversation that could have gone much worse, despite how rocky it started out. It’s perhaps further ahead than Dean’s felt in a while, in fact.
A promise isn’t worth much, he reminds himself, but it’s something, at any rate, certainly more than he imagined when he rolled out of bed this morning and failed to see what good would come of it. Promises, the kind he can trust, anyway, aren’t anything with which Dean’s had a great deal of experience in his life, but maybe he can get used to the feeling; he trusts Castiel, trusts him to follow through on what he says. It’s why they’re still around. He thinks that if it’s enough to get Castiel to come back, then he won’t take issue.
Dean’s a simple guy; it’s enough to get him to stay.
Fin