Fic: "And Where Logic Fails, Devotion" [R - Dean/Castiel]
TITLE: “And Where Logic Fails, Devotion”
AUTHOR:
nanoochka
RATING: R
PAIRING: Dean/Castiel
SPOILERS: 6.20
WARNINGS: None
WORDCOUNT: 1,095
SUMMARY: Their most profound conversation happens in complete silence.
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all associated content is the property of The CW and Eric Kripke. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written jointly as a coda to 6.20, “The Man Who Would Be King”, and for mmom . After a restless night of FEELINGS following this episode, I wrote this around 6:30 in the morning before work. I still think it’s appropriately nonsensical, but
oddlyfamiliar , with her wonderful beta skills, assures me otherwise.
“And Where Logic Fails, Devotion” by
nanoochka
He doesn’t make it pretty-doesn’t want to, doesn’t try. Lotion sits untouched in his duffle on the floor, spitefully ignored, though the fist Dean wraps around himself is cool and just the slightest bit clammy, enough to get him started. He’s already hard by the time he unbuttons his jeans, anyway, knows he won’t last long regardless of how he chafes or recoils from what he’s doing, how much he’ll hate himself for it after.
The evening air is muggy with the first stirrings of summer, a persistent heat Bobby expected to break, but hasn’t yet. Confused by the premature shift in season, tentative wildlife sounds emerge from somewhere out in the salvage yard, stark against the still and silence of the night as if in complicity with Dean’s urges. He feels cocooned by it, wrapped in the imperfect privacy of Bobby’s front study, the knowledge that he could be discovered at any moment by someone coming downstairs to the kitchen for a drink, though he knows they won’t. Above his head is a sigil whose lines are unbroken except for where he swiped a finger through the paint before it dried; a smudge so miniscule, so insignificant, only an angel would notice.
Cas remained silent on the matter, but even now Dean decides to interpret the slow, ironic twitch of his lip as significant, unspoken acknowledgement of Dean’s interference as Cas lamented Bobby’s mistake. Did Castiel know Dean would try to sabotage the wards somehow, before he even showed up? Dean had been dressed and waiting, after all, rest fitful in sick anticipation of Castiel’s arrival. If the thought of Castiel burning the wrong bones set all this in motion, gave away the lie, well, Bobby’s equally likely to fuck up his angel-proofing, whereas Dean’s weakness for Cas is practically legendary. Both their weaknesses are; a laughingstock in Heaven as well as Hell below.
That’s where Dean’s mind goes on the first rough upstroke, to this secret act of disobedience that fills him with sarcasm and loathing and bitter hypocrisy, because how is this any less a betrayal to Sam or Bobby than what he’s accused Castiel of? No matter the rotten taste in his mouth, Dean can’t keep Cas away, has been summoning him here, invisible, with his unmovable longing and silent prayers. His hand works in a punishing rhythm that almost tips the balance between pleasure and pain. Dean grits his teeth. Even if one-sided-he can only choose to believe Cas is listening-it’s their first honest communication in months, an outpouring of all his rage and lust and hurt; the confusing, ugly sense of betrayal he felt at hearing Cas pulled Sam out of Hell, Dean’s monopoly broken; his own shame for hiding from Cas in plain sight for a whole year, and daring to pretend otherwise.
His breath hitches, Castiel’s name harsh on his lips, that face flickering anguished and defiant in Dean’s mind like a broken television screen. Despite what he says, Castiel isn’t family the way Dean makes him out to be, not family the way Sam understands it. Bobby might get it, having once been married himself, but whereas Dean can’t choose whether or not to devote himself to his brother, his love for Castiel is all self-inflicted, self-perpetuating. He doesn’t know why he called Cas his brother, at once the most careless and calculated thing he could have said. On the one hand, Dean has never loved anyone so much as a brother, and in this sense higher praise could not be given; yet he’s never loved anyone like Cas, either, and to call that affection brotherly is polarizing matters in a way that is unfair to both of them. Yes, Castiel fills him with emotion and joy and at times outrage the way only Sammy has ever been able to do, but Sam, thank God, has never lit that fire in Dean’s belly like Cas, has never made the bottom of Dean’s stomach drop out the way it does at a single look or sidewise smile from the angel. Cas is altogether a different kind of animal, and the more Dean thinks about it, the more he begins to suspect they’ve never really been friends, either. At the time, all he could think about was causing pain as well as acknowledging his own, deciding to pull out his own knife and cut first, rather than waiting for the axe to fall. Now that he’s alone, there’s no one left to hurt but himself.
Or is he? Castiel could right now be in this very room, watching from the foot of the couch as Dean tugs ungently at his hard flesh, spreading pre-come with each swipe of his thumb against the crown, desperate. He thinks he feels the angel’s gaze upon him, shies away from the heat in those blue eyes, the love and apology. With a groan, Dean steels himself as he speeds up the pace, tightens his grip and twists his wrist on the upstroke around the head of his cock. Cas would never be able to see Dean this way and not reach out to touch. And yeah, there’s the brush of fingers against his skin now, sliding encouraging beneath his shirt, flicking against a nipple so sharply that Dean keens soft in his throat. There is the outline of Cas crouching over him in the dark and, chest heaving, Dean slips the palm of his free hand into his jeans to rub at the juncture of his groin and brush against his balls. The sudden flare of pleasure surprises a deep moan from him, release in sight, and somewhere in his delirium Dean thinks he feels the press of a hand against his throat.
It would be so easy for Cas to end it this way, stop all the betrayal and confusion without ever having to show himself. No need for logic or rational arguments if one of them is dead, and Dean’s so tired he doesn’t think he could be bothered to hassle Castiel from beyond the grave, not about Crowley or anyone. They’d be free of each other at last, though a part of Dean knows Cas would find him anywhere, will go on trying to make Dean understand even after his bones are dust.
Back arching, Dean gasps, “C’mon, Cas, just finish it,” bucks into that invisible weight, and does. He holds his breath until the stars clear and he opens his eyes; holds it even as a curtain rustles against the closed window and goes still.
Fin
AUTHOR:
nanoochka
RATING: R
PAIRING: Dean/Castiel
SPOILERS: 6.20
WARNINGS: None
WORDCOUNT: 1,095
SUMMARY: Their most profound conversation happens in complete silence.
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all associated content is the property of The CW and Eric Kripke. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written jointly as a coda to 6.20, “The Man Who Would Be King”, and for mmom . After a restless night of FEELINGS following this episode, I wrote this around 6:30 in the morning before work. I still think it’s appropriately nonsensical, but
oddlyfamiliar , with her wonderful beta skills, assures me otherwise.
“And Where Logic Fails, Devotion” by
nanoochka
He doesn’t make it pretty-doesn’t want to, doesn’t try. Lotion sits untouched in his duffle on the floor, spitefully ignored, though the fist Dean wraps around himself is cool and just the slightest bit clammy, enough to get him started. He’s already hard by the time he unbuttons his jeans, anyway, knows he won’t last long regardless of how he chafes or recoils from what he’s doing, how much he’ll hate himself for it after.
The evening air is muggy with the first stirrings of summer, a persistent heat Bobby expected to break, but hasn’t yet. Confused by the premature shift in season, tentative wildlife sounds emerge from somewhere out in the salvage yard, stark against the still and silence of the night as if in complicity with Dean’s urges. He feels cocooned by it, wrapped in the imperfect privacy of Bobby’s front study, the knowledge that he could be discovered at any moment by someone coming downstairs to the kitchen for a drink, though he knows they won’t. Above his head is a sigil whose lines are unbroken except for where he swiped a finger through the paint before it dried; a smudge so miniscule, so insignificant, only an angel would notice.
Cas remained silent on the matter, but even now Dean decides to interpret the slow, ironic twitch of his lip as significant, unspoken acknowledgement of Dean’s interference as Cas lamented Bobby’s mistake. Did Castiel know Dean would try to sabotage the wards somehow, before he even showed up? Dean had been dressed and waiting, after all, rest fitful in sick anticipation of Castiel’s arrival. If the thought of Castiel burning the wrong bones set all this in motion, gave away the lie, well, Bobby’s equally likely to fuck up his angel-proofing, whereas Dean’s weakness for Cas is practically legendary. Both their weaknesses are; a laughingstock in Heaven as well as Hell below.
That’s where Dean’s mind goes on the first rough upstroke, to this secret act of disobedience that fills him with sarcasm and loathing and bitter hypocrisy, because how is this any less a betrayal to Sam or Bobby than what he’s accused Castiel of? No matter the rotten taste in his mouth, Dean can’t keep Cas away, has been summoning him here, invisible, with his unmovable longing and silent prayers. His hand works in a punishing rhythm that almost tips the balance between pleasure and pain. Dean grits his teeth. Even if one-sided-he can only choose to believe Cas is listening-it’s their first honest communication in months, an outpouring of all his rage and lust and hurt; the confusing, ugly sense of betrayal he felt at hearing Cas pulled Sam out of Hell, Dean’s monopoly broken; his own shame for hiding from Cas in plain sight for a whole year, and daring to pretend otherwise.
His breath hitches, Castiel’s name harsh on his lips, that face flickering anguished and defiant in Dean’s mind like a broken television screen. Despite what he says, Castiel isn’t family the way Dean makes him out to be, not family the way Sam understands it. Bobby might get it, having once been married himself, but whereas Dean can’t choose whether or not to devote himself to his brother, his love for Castiel is all self-inflicted, self-perpetuating. He doesn’t know why he called Cas his brother, at once the most careless and calculated thing he could have said. On the one hand, Dean has never loved anyone so much as a brother, and in this sense higher praise could not be given; yet he’s never loved anyone like Cas, either, and to call that affection brotherly is polarizing matters in a way that is unfair to both of them. Yes, Castiel fills him with emotion and joy and at times outrage the way only Sammy has ever been able to do, but Sam, thank God, has never lit that fire in Dean’s belly like Cas, has never made the bottom of Dean’s stomach drop out the way it does at a single look or sidewise smile from the angel. Cas is altogether a different kind of animal, and the more Dean thinks about it, the more he begins to suspect they’ve never really been friends, either. At the time, all he could think about was causing pain as well as acknowledging his own, deciding to pull out his own knife and cut first, rather than waiting for the axe to fall. Now that he’s alone, there’s no one left to hurt but himself.
Or is he? Castiel could right now be in this very room, watching from the foot of the couch as Dean tugs ungently at his hard flesh, spreading pre-come with each swipe of his thumb against the crown, desperate. He thinks he feels the angel’s gaze upon him, shies away from the heat in those blue eyes, the love and apology. With a groan, Dean steels himself as he speeds up the pace, tightens his grip and twists his wrist on the upstroke around the head of his cock. Cas would never be able to see Dean this way and not reach out to touch. And yeah, there’s the brush of fingers against his skin now, sliding encouraging beneath his shirt, flicking against a nipple so sharply that Dean keens soft in his throat. There is the outline of Cas crouching over him in the dark and, chest heaving, Dean slips the palm of his free hand into his jeans to rub at the juncture of his groin and brush against his balls. The sudden flare of pleasure surprises a deep moan from him, release in sight, and somewhere in his delirium Dean thinks he feels the press of a hand against his throat.
It would be so easy for Cas to end it this way, stop all the betrayal and confusion without ever having to show himself. No need for logic or rational arguments if one of them is dead, and Dean’s so tired he doesn’t think he could be bothered to hassle Castiel from beyond the grave, not about Crowley or anyone. They’d be free of each other at last, though a part of Dean knows Cas would find him anywhere, will go on trying to make Dean understand even after his bones are dust.
Back arching, Dean gasps, “C’mon, Cas, just finish it,” bucks into that invisible weight, and does. He holds his breath until the stars clear and he opens his eyes; holds it even as a curtain rustles against the closed window and goes still.
Fin