Fic: "Something Wrong in the Stars" [R - Dean/Castiel]
TITLE: “Something Wrong in the Stars”
AUTHOR: nanoochka
RATING: A mild R for sexuality
PAIRING: Dean/Cas
SPOILERS: 6.19
WARNINGS: None
WORDCOUNT: 1,092
SUMMARY: Some questions best remain unanswered.
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all associated content is property of The CW and Eric Kripke. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This came to me in a dream last night and took 20 minutes to write. I’m not even joking. This is either a coda to 6.19 or a prequel to 6.20, depending on how you look at it. Dedicated to the lovely, inestimable nyoka for the wonderful and heart-warming encouragement for both my spn_j2_bigbang draft and my writing in general, even though she could write poetry in her sleep. <3
“Something Wrong in the Stars” by nanoochka
Dean takes the long way home, finds every possible detour between the bar and the motel where Sam waits for their dinner and, probably, more of the foul mood he’s suffered from Dean since Grants Pass. It’s easy to get lost in the backwoods of Washington, meandering through the mountains and fields that stretch for unfathomable distances in the dark. The food will be cold when he returns, Dean knows, and likely to incur Sam’s exasperation, but he drives and drives until the arm of the gas gauge tells him to turn back, the threat of an empty tank on the return trip. He does, belatedly, but not without first stopping the car on a quiet stretch of road that overlooks a lake, its inky waters glittering obsidian and silver in the moonlight.
This will only take a second, he thinks-one question, one answer. That’s all. He just needs to know.
Climbing out of the car to rest against the Impala’s hood, Dean clenches his fingers against the residual cold of the springtime night, tilts his head towards the sky with eyes closed. He doesn’t even have to say it anymore; a thought is all it takes, if that, and then the sharp flutter of wings pushes the brisk air against his face like a lover’s aborted slap.
“Dean.” The greeting comes in the same quiet voice as always, though Dean doesn’t open his eyes until he feels the soft pressure of a hand against his, clenching once before disappearing. Castiel comes to stand beside him as naturally as a couple of soldiers lined up for battle, resting against the Impala in a perfect mirror of Dean’s own posture. His throat clicks, swallows dry and telling, and Dean lowers his gaze to find Cas watching him, silent and concerned.
“I know you’re busy,” he says. “This won’t take long. I just have one thing to ask and thought I should do it in person. Without Sam or Bobby around.”
The tilt of Castiel’s head is encouragement for Dean to continue, his eyes warm and open in a way that Dean doesn’t often see these days. It is a look, he knows, that is just for him, and him alone. But it’s the return of that palm over his that stops the question from emerging, confuses not only Dean’s resolve to say, simply and without fuss, Did you know Crowley was still alive?, but also his certainty that Cas wishes to hear him speak at all. That should tell him something in and of itself, he thinks; and yet he doesn’t know whether to take it as an admission of guilt, or silent chastisement that he entertained the thought to begin with.
Dean says, “Cas-” and falters again, turns his head away to focus his attention on the far-off mountains instead, but fingers against his chin guide him back to where he belongs. Cas is suddenly standing right in front of him; too close, naturally, still gripping Dean’s hand. He leans in to press their mouths together in a chaste kiss that briefly teeters towards something more, and for a moment Dean is so distracted he almost forgets his original purpose for coming here.
At any rate, he is surprised enough to put it aside, though he has every intention of returning back to it in a second. “What was that for?” he asks, once Castiel has pulled away. At such close range his features are indistinct and shadowy, his breath sweet.
“Nothing,” answers Cas. “We rarely have time alone anymore, and I thought to enjoy the opportunity.”
Nuzzling closer, hesitant, he plays Dean’s uncertainty with fingers against the waistband of his jeans, makes a quiet noise of approval when Dean’s resolve cracks and he finds that mouth again. Dean snakes out a hand to pull Castiel closer by the end of his tie. They kiss slow and unhurried, tongues flickering, so different from the frantic embraces with which they content themselves when free of Bobby or Sam for ten minutes.
The question reasserts itself when Castiel grazes the edge of Dean’s jaw with his teeth, scraping over stubble and pulling a gasp free of Dean’s mouth that darkens to a groan. His head tilts back in wordless invitation. Cas is the only one who can make him like this, helpless and mute, focused and totally aimless all at once. As the kisses continue along his throat, Dean slides his fingers beneath Castiel’s trenchcoat and feels an utter coward for such easy acquiescence.
“This isn’t why I called you here, man,” he moans, but Castiel cuts him off with another insistent kiss, breath growing loud and impatient. Dean lets it go.
Hands drift beneath the soft cotton of his T-shirt, count his ribs one by one, and with the gentlest of tugs at Dean’s nipples, Castiel sinks easily to his knees in the dirt, dark hair silver-tipped like the waters nearby when Dean’s eyes drift halfway closed, an earthbound siren. A sigh curls past his lips as Cas pulls open his jeans and gets the whole tangle of clothing down to mid-thigh, leaning in to take Dean’s stiffening cock between his lips without so much as a by-your-leave. Dean bucks, undone, and flings his head back to meet the hood with a bang while Castiel’s tongue works him fast and dangerous. When he comes, eyes open at the sky, all he can see are stars.
Later, he accepts a parting kiss from Castiel while he is still adjusting the rest of their clothing, boots lost somewhere in the front of the car from when they moved inside, escaped the cold so that Cas could lay Dean out nice and open against the vinyl seat. He isn’t offended that Cas can’t stay, recognized the look of him being called away as soon as the frown touched his mouth and his blue eyes went cloudy and distant.
Castiel says, “Goodbye, Dean,” in a low whisper, kisses him one last time, and Dean releases him without another word. But he can’t help the quiet curse that escapes him as soon as he’s alone again, brought back to earth by the chill of bodily fluids drying on his skin, a kiss-swollen mouth and the smell of cooling food in the passenger seat.
He has one question that still hasn’t been asked, knows in the pit of his stomach that this is how Castiel wanted it. Knows, from the dread heavy against his chest, that he has his answer, unspoken, but an answer all the same.
Fin