fic: Halo of Flies [SPN 5.14 coda]
Title: Halo of Flies [SPN 5.14 coda]
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: light R
Spoilers: 5.14
Word Count: 603
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: “What was the sensible thing to do? There was no Piggy to talk sense.” ~ Lord of the Flies, by William Golding
Author’s Note: Second of three 5.14 coda fics, this time using Famine/hunger as a prompt/theme. This is also…something I normally don’t write. I hope I pulled it off.
The first time Dean kisses Castiel is behind Bobby’s house. He still hears Sam’s screams down in the panic room and sobs into the angel’s mouth. The bottle of whiskey lies forgotten several feet away, spilling onto the dust.
The second time Castiel presses Dean against the side of the Impala, sucking the air out of his lungs and breathing it back in. A hot hand wraps around the back of his neck while another slides down his body and Dean gives an undignified whimper while pressing against the cupped hand, desperate for escape. The spell breaks when Castiel slides his hand over his hip and pulls the latch on the car door.
The third time they’re a mile out from the Singer Salvage Yard, the Impala careening off the beaten path into the underbrush before stalling in a cloud of dirt, and Dean attacks Castiel’s mouth, licking and biting and sucking his way in and around the slippery heavenly sinful flavor. He climbs out of the seat and over the central console, head hitting the roof, but he doesn’t notice it, doesn’t feel it, doesn’t care. The hunger uncoils and roils deep inside him, burning around Famine’s touch and damning words, thrumming under his skin and in his marked blood while he cradles the angel’s face so fucking carefully in his shaking hands.
The fourth time Castiel presses Dean down into the worn leather of the backseat, pressing openmouthed kisses all over his neck and shoulders and chest, tracing the tattoo with his tongue with such devotion he nearly comes undone. Dean is made and unmade, raveling and unraveling as the angel who pulled him out of Hell builds and builds and builds with his mouth and hands. The hollow in his soul welcomes the spilling hot grace as Castiel grips his shoulder tight, the smaller hand with longer fingers wrapping around the raised scar as he pushes in, and Dean welcomes it with huffs of pain and desperation, wrapping his legs around the angel to pull him closer, begging with hungry kisses, Make me feel, make me want, make me hunger.
Make me.
The fifth time the sky is blushing pastel blue and pink, and Dean is nosing into Castiel’s neck, open mouth resting against a sure and steady pulse. He wonders if Castiel had one before Raphael tore him apart and he woke up in an echo of Jimmy’s body, alone to feel the hunger and pain and heartache and loneliness of humanness. Dean raises his head and stares down at the angel, at the slack full mouth and the stubble and the finely drawn eyebrows and the sharp nose and the tousled dark hair, and leans down to press a kiss to his cheek. Castiel’s eyes flutter open, the blue eyes luminescent in the rising sun.
The sixth time the Impala smells of coffee and pancakes and scrambled eggs, and Dean thinks about joking that they’re using food to mask the smell of sex, but then they’re at the Singer Salvage Yard walking up the steps with breakfast for Sam and Bobby, and in the seconds between knocking and Bobby answering Castiel leans over to press a soft sweet kiss that tastes of him and tastes of Dean, and Dean closes his eyes and sighs into it.
The seventh time Sam’s waiting by the car, tired but healthy and hale, and Castiel lets Dean back him in to the wall at the back of the house to brush lips and tongues and tastes and promises before he leaves. The bottle of whiskey lies forgotten as Dean walks back to Sam and the open road.
End notes.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: light R
Spoilers: 5.14
Word Count: 603
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: “What was the sensible thing to do? There was no Piggy to talk sense.” ~ Lord of the Flies, by William Golding
Author’s Note: Second of three 5.14 coda fics, this time using Famine/hunger as a prompt/theme. This is also…something I normally don’t write. I hope I pulled it off.
The first time Dean kisses Castiel is behind Bobby’s house. He still hears Sam’s screams down in the panic room and sobs into the angel’s mouth. The bottle of whiskey lies forgotten several feet away, spilling onto the dust.
The second time Castiel presses Dean against the side of the Impala, sucking the air out of his lungs and breathing it back in. A hot hand wraps around the back of his neck while another slides down his body and Dean gives an undignified whimper while pressing against the cupped hand, desperate for escape. The spell breaks when Castiel slides his hand over his hip and pulls the latch on the car door.
The third time they’re a mile out from the Singer Salvage Yard, the Impala careening off the beaten path into the underbrush before stalling in a cloud of dirt, and Dean attacks Castiel’s mouth, licking and biting and sucking his way in and around the slippery heavenly sinful flavor. He climbs out of the seat and over the central console, head hitting the roof, but he doesn’t notice it, doesn’t feel it, doesn’t care. The hunger uncoils and roils deep inside him, burning around Famine’s touch and damning words, thrumming under his skin and in his marked blood while he cradles the angel’s face so fucking carefully in his shaking hands.
The fourth time Castiel presses Dean down into the worn leather of the backseat, pressing openmouthed kisses all over his neck and shoulders and chest, tracing the tattoo with his tongue with such devotion he nearly comes undone. Dean is made and unmade, raveling and unraveling as the angel who pulled him out of Hell builds and builds and builds with his mouth and hands. The hollow in his soul welcomes the spilling hot grace as Castiel grips his shoulder tight, the smaller hand with longer fingers wrapping around the raised scar as he pushes in, and Dean welcomes it with huffs of pain and desperation, wrapping his legs around the angel to pull him closer, begging with hungry kisses, Make me feel, make me want, make me hunger.
Make me.
The fifth time the sky is blushing pastel blue and pink, and Dean is nosing into Castiel’s neck, open mouth resting against a sure and steady pulse. He wonders if Castiel had one before Raphael tore him apart and he woke up in an echo of Jimmy’s body, alone to feel the hunger and pain and heartache and loneliness of humanness. Dean raises his head and stares down at the angel, at the slack full mouth and the stubble and the finely drawn eyebrows and the sharp nose and the tousled dark hair, and leans down to press a kiss to his cheek. Castiel’s eyes flutter open, the blue eyes luminescent in the rising sun.
The sixth time the Impala smells of coffee and pancakes and scrambled eggs, and Dean thinks about joking that they’re using food to mask the smell of sex, but then they’re at the Singer Salvage Yard walking up the steps with breakfast for Sam and Bobby, and in the seconds between knocking and Bobby answering Castiel leans over to press a soft sweet kiss that tastes of him and tastes of Dean, and Dean closes his eyes and sighs into it.
The seventh time Sam’s waiting by the car, tired but healthy and hale, and Castiel lets Dean back him in to the wall at the back of the house to brush lips and tongues and tastes and promises before he leaves. The bottle of whiskey lies forgotten as Dean walks back to Sam and the open road.
End notes.