FIC: Remaining Grace, Chapter 8: Cut Me Down [8/20]
Title: Remaining Grace, Chapter 8: Cut Me Down
Author: todisturbtheuni
Rating: NC-17, eventually.
Genre and/or Pairing: Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Romance; Castiel/Dean Winchester
Spoilers: Through the end of season 5, but some minor for season 6.
Warnings: Explicit sex; graphic torture scenes, which I'll warn for at applicable chapters; minor/side character death (neither Dean nor Castiel).
Word Count: 110K (total)
Summary: Sam's missing his soul, Castiel has a pissy archangelic nemesis, and Dean wonders if he'll be spending the rest of his life making sure the Apocalypse doesn't go ahead as scheduled. Still, though. He's happy to see Cas. Indiana wasn't really working out. Unabashed six-fix, in a universe where Castiel made a different choice, and things snowball from that point forward.
Masterpost!
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Dean crumbled beneath Cas’s fingertips, just dug hands into the angel’s hips and hauled him closer, clung, touched, and Cas kissed him like he’d been starving for it, for this, for Dean. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t remember what he was doing or why he was doing it, only that he’d figured it out, facing down death one last time: he knew what he wanted from Cas. It was too big, too tangled, but he could see it now. He felt it in the fingers carding through his hair, tasted it on the chapped lips pressing into his, and he was blind with it, paralyzed the way he’d once been in the face of the angel’s wrath; it was bright, vivid, and Cas’s eyes were so fucking blue when they finally stopped and stared at each other, and he knew, with a sickening swoop in his gut, that it didn’t change a damn thing.
“I know,” he said finally, because he shouldn’t really expect Cas to talk after that. “I’ve known, for a long time, that my life doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to everyone I protect just by doin’ what I do. It belongs to the world, because it doesn’t keep spinnin’ unless I get out and push. Ever since...ever since Mom made that damn deal. Maybe earlier than that, I guess, since the whole thing was down to us from the beginning. Me and Sam, we were both forfeit, all for a holy pissing match. My life...it’s never been mine. I talk big game, free will, screwing destiny in the face, but I can’t walk away from this stupid war-not the Holy Civil War, or whatever, but this. Hunting monsters. Saving people.”
“Neither can I,” Cas said, a little sadly. “One way or another, we’ll die. Shouldn’t it be for a reason? That’s what you told me, Dean,” and he looked so fucking earnest that it made Dean sick, because this was what he’d done, led Castiel by the hand to his hard-won death by free will, “that if there was ever anything worth dying for, this was it, and I believed it long before you,” his voice suddenly sharpening, “I already believed, I already...I already doubted. Humans,” and the corners of his lips ticked up, just a bit, “you are confusing, terrible, suffering creatures, but there was always something so beautiful about you, and I can’t let it be laid to waste. You just gave me purpose, Dean. Don’t belittle my sacrifice with your guilt complex.”
“Hey,” he protested weakly, straightening Cas’s trench coat. “Shut up.”
And that was it; he looked down into the face of the angel-his angel-and he was saying goodbye to another person he loved, because that, well. That was what he was good at. They went in droves, seemed like, Mary and John, Jo and Ellen, Sam, and he let them, let them make the sacrifices he’d make himself if he wasn’t the one who was supposed to be left behind and alone. He didn’t have much left, and it was worse every time; nothing could really compare to watching Sam fall into that box forever, but Cas. Cas was something else. Cas was his salvation. It was hard to see him as anything other than that, when he’d hauled Dean from the Pit, rebelled for him, died for him, saved his ass a dozen times even when Dean didn’t deserve it, when Dean was ungrateful, when Dean was unworthy. And there had been something so wrenching about watching Cas explode into parts last time, about leaving him behind on a suicide mission to stall the first time; it would be worse now, now that everything was different. Now that Cas was more than his salvation, more, even, than his best friend.
“What will happen,” Dean said, trying to be detached, “to you?”
Cas’s shoulders lifted in a half-awkward shrug, and they were still standing close, still touching, and Dean breathed it in, every little detail, even if it would be an open wound, angry and infected, after. “Angels have no afterlife,” he said. “No Heaven, no Hell. Just...oblivion. We live a long while; forever seems superfluous, after that.”
There seemed to be nothing left to say; Dean knelt down to the dirt, picked up the Crown, held it out to Cas, who took it gingerly, carefully. He looked suddenly small, despite the wings that arched out behind him, shielding them from the sun.
“Balthazar and the other angels will engage Raphael’s legions,” he said, considering the Crown, “with Gabriel, once he draws Raphael out and directs him to me.”
Dean nodded. “Simple enough.”
“Yes,” Castiel agreed, looking up. “I only hope that the aftermath will be as straightforward.”
Dean’s hand lifted; he touched Cas’s cheek, one more time, felt the warmth and the distant curl of pleasure unfolding from the angel as the blue eyes closed, as Cas leaned into his touch. He wanted to say something, anything, but he couldn’t find the right words, not for this. Sorry I waited so long, or sorry it had to end like this? And he thought of a world without Castiel, Angel of the Lord, and it seemed bleak, a dark and hopeless place, because Cas had been his guardian for a long time, but he wasn’t just that. He watched over Earth, all of it, when no other angel would, and there weren’t angels like that, there weren’t angels that good.
“Good God, is this what’s been going on all this time?”
They turned simultaneously toward the voice; Dean automatically backed up, fell in beside Cas, groped behind him for the crowbar he’d seen leaning against a car. A short man, well-dressed, stepped out from behind a pile of scrap metal, and Dean swore violently at the sight.
“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Crowley went on, wearing a self-satisfied smirk. “Full of surprises.”
Dean felt Cas’s intention before he carried it out; he took an automatic step back as Cas stretched out a hand and burned a Devil’s Trap into the ground around Crowley. The demon didn’t look at all surprised. Dean glanced sideways at the angel, impressed.
“This is a bad time,” Dean pointed out, and then, to Cas, “You can do that?”
“I noticed,” Crowley said, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Real drama unfolding, here. The Righteous Man and the Fallen Angel-that’s the kind of romance the soccer moms swoon over. Your chances at a Daytime Emmy are stupendous.”
“What do you want?” Cas said, impatience in his voice.
Crowley’s eyes briefly gleamed red. “I’ll remind you that I’ve still got rights to a certain soul,” he advised, the trace of a smirk gone. “And warn you once to show a little respect.”
How had Dean ever let that slip his mind? That Bobby’s soul was still hanging in the balance, that in the confusion of all that had happened in the last few weeks, they hadn’t even discussed it.
“And you said you’d return those rights when all was said and done,” Cas returned sharply. “That was the deal.”
“And I will,” Crowley said smoothly, sliding hands into his pockets. “I’m a man of my word, angel. But all is not said and done, is it? You’re all preparing to mount a new attack. That non-Apocalypse thing didn’t hold quite right. One archangel still running around outside the box...bad news.”
“What’s it to you?” Dean said, taking a step forward with the raised crowbar.
Crowley rolled his eyes. “You plunge to new lows of intellectual capability every time I see you, Winchester. Because I have no bloody love of a happening Apocalypse. It’s bad news for the King of Hell, no matter who wins.”
“I wasn’t aware there was such a position,” Cas said, eyeing the demon with skepticism.
“Well,” Crowley allowed, “there wasn’t, since the boss didn’t do much good from his cage for all those millennia, but the position was there for the taking. And Hell needs it. Place is utter chaos.”
“Thought that was kind of the point,” Dean muttered.
“Look, the Crown of Thorns is tricky business,” Crowley said, addressing Cas. “The thing could kill you-last time anyone wore it, that’s exactly what happened. It’s not worth the risk. I’ve got a better way.”
“Hold up,” Dean rumbled, gesturing toward Crowley with the crowbar; Cas ducked neatly out of the way. “This thing has never been used before, asshole. We don’t know what it does.”
“You have an angelic boyfriend and you still haven’t learned the most basic of scripture,” Crowley reprimanded. “You moron. Where do you think that thing got its power? It wasn’t a weapon when Christ wore it, but it sure as Hell is now. If it killed its maker through the sheer force of its forging-and its maker was God-how do you think poor Cas here is going to fare with it? Do you think he could even operate it long enough to do the damage before his face melts off?”
“I think my wings will burn before my face melts,” Cas interjected calmly. Dean felt the sudden, violent urge to rip his own hair out.
“God isn’t dead,” he said instead, frowning at Crowley. “I mean, yeah, he’s a deadbeat dad, total absentee father, but he’s not dead.”
“It killed his vessel,” Crowley clarified, waving a dismissive hand. “And he’s been AWOL ever since, so you put two and two together. Look, I have a deal for you. Do you want to hear it or not?”
“A deal,” Cas repeated, the hint of a scowl on his features. “I don’t have a soul.”
“You do, actually,” Crowley muttered, eyeing Dean, “but that isn’t the point. It’s not a soul I’m after. Or, rather, not just one measly little soul, despite how shiny Dean would be on my trophy shelf.” He smirked. “Purgatory, my friend. You want to take down Raphael? You need a load of souls to do it. And they’re all just sitting round for the taking down in Monster Heaven.”
“Purgatory,” Dean said flatly. Cas had mentioned it in passing, but Dean had long since thought of it as outside of his jurisdiction, because something had to be.
“No one knows where Purgatory is,” Cas replied, suspicious.
“Well, no,” Crowley admitted. “But we could find it. You.” He gestured to Dean. “You and that big soulless oaf of a brother of yours can get the monsters. The monsters can get us Purgatory.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dean snarled, hurling the crowbar; it narrowly missed Crowley and embedded in the junker behind him instead. “Does everyone fucking know that Sam doesn’t have a soul?”
“Easy enough to figure out,” Crowley replied, raising one eyebrow. “I can hear that damn cage rattling every time I visit the lower levels. Lucifer is still having fun with his plaything or we’d be hearing Michael shrieking day and night. Bet him and the devil have signed a cease-fire just to hate-fuck the living shit out of poor little Sammy.”
Dean’s stomach dropped; for a moment, his rage was so strong that his vision blurred. “You son of a bitch,” he said fiercely.
“And before you ask, no, I can’t get him out,” Crowley added, raising his hands. “If Cas here couldn’t do it, I’ve got no chance. I’ll tell you who could do it, though. Castiel hopped up on half the souls in Purgatory.” He raised an eyebrow. “Eh? What do you say, my fine feathered friend? It’s practically a three-for-one deal. Raphael’s head however you’d like it; Sam’s soul; and living for a very, very long time. Can’t go wrong there.”
Cas stretched out a hand and, in an instant, the Devil’s Trap was gone. Crowley looked pleased.
“We’ll consider it,” Cas said, his tone threatening. “Leave, before I allow Dean the pleasure of exorcising you.”
Crowley smirked. “Ta then, boys,” he said, and promptly vanished on the spot.
For a long moment, Dean stared at the spot where Crowley had disappeared, at war with himself. He knew-knew in his gut, knew in his bones, knew in the skin that still remembered being shredded by hellhounds-that a deal with another demon would never be a good idea, but he wanted the space to hope, just for an instant, that Cas could survive this war, and this was their best shot.
“We should talk to the others,” he said finally, and ignoring Cas’s unease, turned back toward Bobby’s house, the angel following in his wake.
“Come on, Dean,” Sam groaned, leaning back against the Impala. “We know better than this. Another deal with another demon? Doesn’t that strike you as a bad idea, considering our family history?”
“There are no souls on the table,” Dean growled back, folding his arms over his chest. Castiel watched, pained, while the brothers faced off. “Except for Bobby’s, anyway, and it’s in hisfavor if we-”
“Don’t drag me into this, boy,” Bobby snapped from the stairs. “Getting my soul back is not a good enough reason to make this massive of a pact with Crowley.”
“Yes, it is,” Dean said flatly. “I’ve been to Hell, Bobby. You don’t want to vacation there for an eternity.”
“There are plenty of other ways to get out of his contract,” Bobby retaliated. “Just have to exert the right pressure in the right place. I was lookin’ into it before the Apocalypse decided to go a second round.”
“What do you think, Cas?” Sam asked, his green eyes moving to the angel.
Castiel shifted uneasily as Dean turned to stare at him, too, his mouth pressed in a hard, angry line. “I have reservations about either method,” he replied. “There is no telling what the Crown of Thorns or millions of souls will do to me-either could feasibly rip me apart before I even exert their power on Raphael.”
“Cas, come on,” Dean pleaded. Castiel looked up to meet his wild, desperate gaze, felt the force of the pleading in his soul, and wondered how he would ever be able to refuse. “The souls route is safer. Slower, yeah, but safer. And Crowley needs this as much as we do.”
“Crowley has no idea what is entombed in Purgatory,” Gabriel interrupted. “He couldn’t fathom how dangerous it would be to open that door.” The archangel shot a glance at Castiel. “You know better, Castiel. You know what’s in Purgatory just dying to come crawling out. Take this deal and we’re not only going to be dealing with Raphael breathing down our necks, we’ll have Leviathan wrecking havoc. We can’t handle them-you can’t handle them. They’re more powerful than we are.”
Castiel knew he was right. Leviathan were some of the oldest beasts-the hungriest, the most destructive. There was a reason why his Father had locked them in Purgatory; they were too powerful a force to safely cohabit with anything else.
“Leviathan,” Dean repeated, but the memory was already dawning on his features, side-by-side with defeat.
“Think of the biggest, ugliest monster you’ve ever ganked, and multiply it by a thousand,” Gabriel snorted. “God locked them in Purgatory when he realized they’d never play nice with others. And they will get out if you take this deal. It’s no contest. No way are we opening that door.”
Everyone was suddenly looking at Castiel: Sam critically, Bobby sympathetically, Gabriel with the petulant air of a child, and Dean with desperation, with fear, with pain, with rage. He felt it through their blown-open bond, the please and the don’t leave me, don’t die, don’t leave me, and even if it was coupled with a deflating acceptance, even if Dean understood that this wasn’t an option, it was too much weight.
“I need to think,” Castiel murmured. He took flight without another word, trying to press down the relentless scream of Dean’s pain until he couldn’t feel it.
“The way I see it, Cassie, you have three choices.”
Balthazar had missed the confrontation with Crowley, busy as he’d been in informing the other angels of the weapon they’d found, of the news-we’re saved, Castiel thought, but it seemed a hollow thing, a vague reminiscence of the words he’d cried out on his escape from Hell. Dean Winchester is saved. Joy, hope-he’d thrilled with those things to announce the victory, but this didn’t feel like a victory. Balthazar had found him hours later, high in the peaks of Mount Everest, sitting adrift in a snow bank, wondering how far he had to go to keep himself from feeling Dean’s panic.
“One: you can say bugger-all and do nothing, and we’ll all die anyway, Winchester included.” Balthazar took a long drag off of his cigarette and offered it to Castiel, who declined. “Two: you can go the Crown of Thorns route, and you might die, yeah, or you might not. Either way, the world is probably saved. Three: you can make a deal with the King of Hell and potentially risk unleashing Leviathan on the whole wide world, but if you managed not to suck them up with all the other souls down there, then you’d probably live.” Balthazar shrugged, leaning back into the snow. “Basically, mate, you have three absolutely shit options, and I don’t envy you.”
“The Crown of Thorns is the only option,” Castiel said wearily.
Balthazar nodded. “Dean doesn’t like those odds, though, does he?”
Castiel frowned, staring out across the black expanse of snowy wilderness. It was night on Everest, and bitterly cold; despite his Grace, he could feel it. Uncomfortable, raw, the knowledge that if he was human, he would be dead from it, and for a moment, he wished he was.
“Dean is not confident in my chances,” Castiel admitted. “He knows, though. He understands the danger of Leviathan.”
Balthazar gave him a knowing look. “He doesn’t want you to die.”
“I’m all he has left,” Castiel said, the words ripped from his throat without thought. “He has endured so much loss. The idea terrifies him.”
“You two are pathetic,” Balthazar said matter-of-factly, taking another long drag from his cigarette. “Honestly. It’s sickening. Talk about dangerous co-dependence. I think this surpasses that.”
“He has suffered unjustly,” Castiel pointed out, struggling to keep his voice even. “And enormously, for a human being. The few people he’s ever taken the time to care about have all been ripped from him.”
“I know,” Balthazar said, his tone a little gentler now. “And he’ll suffer more if you die, but it seems like that’s what he was made to do. Suffer. Wholeheartedly. So that all the other human saps could go on obliviously, having lives that were hard-won for them without their knowing.”
“Yes,” Castiel murmured. Even to him, the answer sounded sad. “I wish things were different.”
Balthazar rested a hand on his shoulder, a silent show of support. Castiel was grateful. “So do I, Cassie.”
The nickname sounded less whimsical, and more affectionate, now.
He returned to Bobby’s as night fell on Sioux Falls, told the others his decision-the decision they’d already known-in the dying light of day. Sam nodded curtly, an alien relief in his eyes; Gabriel made a quip that was, for him, terribly half-hearted; Bobby exhaled, a long breath of reprieve, as though this broke the Winchester curse of making deals with demons for good. No chance of that, Castiel could have told him. Dean was already humming to chase down the King of the Crossroads himself-would gladly sell his soul anew to guarantee Castiel’s survival-but Castiel reminded them all that summoning Crowley again would jeopardize their chances of a smooth final battle, and Dean’s resolve collapsed. The hunter left the room, slamming the back door on his way out. Bobby’s eyes went to Castiel with understanding, with compassion, and he nodded back, the most he could manage, before descending to the panic room to wait out the night.
He sat on the old mattress and listened to the movements above him. Sam’s footsteps eventually rose and left the house; Bobby’s, slower and older, tired, plodded to the stairs and up them, but Castiel heard him pacing in his bedroom, restless. Mostly, though, he listened to Dean in the distance, breaking the windows of more old cars, and wished that going to him would comfort him, but he knew it would make no difference. It was better if he kept his distance. Dean knew where he was; he would come if he wanted to.
He thought of the angels he had said his goodbyes to today, the ones that looked at him with admiration and stared at the Crown with awe as he moved among them. He didn’t pray, not anymore, but he still hoped for them all to see the battle through, to rebuild when the war was over, and if his sacrifice accomplished nothing else, he hoped it would strengthen them. He hoped that it would open their eyes, allow them to see the Earth, humanity, with love rather than revulsion.
An hour passed, then two, and finally Dean’s heavy boots thudded back into the house, up the stairs. Castiel heard the creak of a shower starting, and the heavy pulse of Dean’s pain softened as he warmed beneath the water. It was short, just long enough to rinse and soap away the debris of a day spent breaking cars, and then Dean’s footsteps moved again, softer now, to rifle through his bag for clean clothes.
Castiel hoped, painfully, that Dean would seek him out. If it was truly his last night on Earth, he wanted no other company, but he wouldn’t inflict himself on the suffering hunter, and it was difficult, as always, to make sense of what Dean wanted most. Soon, though, his patience was rewarded; feet pressed quietly into the floorboards, bare, and Castiel listened to the soft thumps as Dean made his way down the first and second set of stairs. And then Dean was approaching the panic room and pulling the door shut behind him, his hair still damp and clothes clinging to the body that Castiel had once remade, piece by piece.
Dean didn’t speak; he just strode slowly forward, his eyes fixed on Castiel’s, until he stood between the angel’s knees, their legs just barely brushing. His fingers threaded into Castiel’s hair, and he closed his eyes at the touch, the sensation still so new, so strange, and if that was all he had left, he would cling to it until he burned out, the unspoken acceptance and affection that trailed from Dean’s fingertips and pressed into his skin.
Dean sank to his knees, his fingers untangling from Castiel’s hair to trail down his cheek, down his chest, until his hands rested on Castiel’s thighs and the angel opened his eyes to find the hunter gazing up at him. “Last night on Earth,” Dean said, his lips turning up in a lopsided smile. “What’re your plans?”
He seemed to know that Castiel couldn’t speak, that his heart seemed to have moved, pounding, into his throat, that all his efforts were focused on gulping air he didn’t need; a gentle hand came up, cupped the back of Castiel’s neck, and pulled him down until their lips met, a soft touch that made him dizzy, made him shake. His fingers dug hard into the mattress, but Dean gently pried them up, one by one. “Relax, Cas,” he murmured against Castiel’s neck, light and reassuring. “Just you and me. I’ve got you.”
He leaned forward, brushed a kiss beneath Castiel’s jaw, and the angel shuddered, a spark of pleasure catching in his chest, uncoiling low in his stomach. Dean’s hands slid down his arms, pushing off his trench coat in one fluid, slow motion, his nose pressing into the hollow at the base of Castiel’s throat, and the angel felt him inhale, deeply, breathing in against skin. Tentatively, Castiel lifted a hand to stroke into Dean’s hair, and Dean exhaled softly into his shirt, spreading warmth.
“Good,” he encouraged, his voice rough, and he lifted his head, brushing his mouth up the column of Castiel’s neck, and the angel knew this, had seen it a thousand, a million times, but it hadn’t seemed like fire then, had been so distant and puzzling until Dean’s mouth-Dean’s hands, pressing under his jacket and dragging it down his arms. “Do what feels good.”
So Castiel dragged his fingertips down through Dean’s hair, and the hunter shivered beneath his touch; he pressed his mouth to Dean’s temple and Dean leaned into the kiss, his fingers pausing on Castiel’s tie. Then Dean was ducking down, pulling off his shoes and socks with quick hands, running a finger beneath the arch of his foot with a swift smirk, and Castiel squirmed at the sensation, a laugh forced out of his throat. “You’re ticklish,” Dean announced, as though that meant something-as though it was important-and leaned up to press his smile into Castiel’s laugh, his hands peeling apart the loose knot of the angel’s tie.
Castiel felt as though he was drowning, and at the same time, as though he was already burning; he wanted, wanted so much that he was blind with it, desperate with it, and it had never seemed like this, from a distance. It hadn’t seemed like this when Chastity leaned in to kiss him, either, just the paralysis of fear and a vague sort of disgust at human conduct. He had wondered if that was all there was to sex, a mindless, emotionless connection for brief, shallow pleasure, but this was something else, something that burned in his Grace and echoed into Dean’s soul, and he wanted, he wanted-
His shirt had been removed, and Dean’s lips dragged down, over old scars, a damp, soft touch, and his head fell back without his consent. Dean’s hand clenched into the scar on his forearm and a hoarse, guttural moan tore from his throat; it was pleasure bordering on pain and even the idea that he was vulnerable, in any way, to a human-to this human-was intoxicating. Dean pressed up, pushed him down to the mattress, pulled his own shirt off over his head, and Castiel stared up into Dean’s eyes, the green edged out by pupils blown black, as the hunter followed him down to the bed and fell forward on his elbows, his body draping over and pressing into Castiel’s.
His arms pressed into Castiel’s wings as they kissed, again, again, again-Dean’s tongue chasing into his mouth, Dean’s teeth catching lightly at his lip, Dean’s weight taut over him, against him, and his hands were acting of their own accord, mindlessly running up and trailing down Dean’s back, feeling the sharp jut of a shoulder blade, the smooth dip of his spine. Dean’s fingers caught around his wrist, slotted Castiel’s hand into place against his shoulder, and the angel felt the sudden catch of pleasure as though it were his own, a sharp breath in against his mouth and the sudden press of Dean’s hips down into his-
And Dean was surprised, Dean was pleased, Dean was remembering Famine’s jab, remembering being a burned-out shell incapable of wanting a damn thing, but Castiel could feel how much he wanted, how much he longed, with so much force that it threatened to tear him open if he didn’t keep touching, didn’t keep feeling-“He was wrong,” Castiel said, his voice dark and fierce against the hollow of Dean’s throat, and Dean moaned, his fingers tightening deep into Castiel’s wing, “Famine was wrong-”
Dean crushed his mouth back to Castiel’s, his hand loosening and gliding lower, working open a belt buckle, pulling the zipper free, his fingers absently brushing Castiel’s stomach, his hip, and his skin jumped under the touch. It felt as though Dean had to rip himself away to lean up and work his pants down; Castiel pressed his heels into the mattress and lifted, trying to help, and then Dean was stripping out of his own jeans and sliding back up Castiel’s body. Dean’s hips ground down into his and he saw stars, sparking behind eyes he didn’t realize he’d closed, and Dean’s breath was soft and fast against his lips, panting.
He pushed up, instinctively seeking out Dean’s warmth, rocking up against the hunter, and Dean groaned, one hand biting hard into his hip; he rolled them toward the wall, until Castiel was draped over Dean, and he faltered, looking down at the hunter with uncertainty. “Do what feels good,” Dean repeated, and his voice was shattered, yearning, his eyes glazed, his lips bruised with their last kiss. Castiel let his hand brace against the scar on Dean’s shoulder and the man writhed up, slipping against him. He pressed down; Dean raised a hand to his mouth, his eyes never leaving Castiel’s, and licked his palm before bringing it down between them and wrapping it around them both. The friction was suddenly that much better, smoother, so good that Castiel thrust without thinking and Dean groaned, hoarse.
They moved together, the motion languid and quick by turns, soft breaths and sudden, dragging kisses, but it wasn’t enough, he wanted more, wanted something deeper, closer-he felt the aching warmth of Dean reaching out as though trying to crawl inside him and he wanted to let it, wanted with every wavelength of his being to have Dean pressing into him-
“Lean up,” Dean murmured against his mouth, and reluctantly, Castiel obeyed, sitting back on his knees, legs pressing around Dean’s hips. Dean reached down, searching beneath the bed, and came up with a small bottle. He popped it open, poured a shiny liquid onto his fingers, and reached out to wrap his hand around them both again, stroking them together. Helpless, Castiel thrust against him, against his fingers, until Dean’s hand withdrew to pour out more of the liquid. “Stay busy,” he murmured, pressing his hips up with a smile at the corner of his mouth, washed out by the heated possession in his eyes, so Castiel went on thrusting while Dean’s fingers slid between his legs and slicked into him, one slow fraction at a time.
It was torture; Castiel felt the slight sting of pain, but the pleasure slowly overwhelmed it, every time he slid back and Dean’s finger pressed deeper. Soon, he felt a second finger slip in beside the first, Dean’s other hand biting into his hip, steadying him, and then the fingers curled together and he cried out, not words, just noise, at the sudden rush. Dean went on like that, curving his fingers up and in, brushing the spot that elicited such a reaction every time, until Castiel was writhing down and back, trying to have more, deeper-and then Dean’s hand was gone from his hip, his fingers leaving Castiel bereft, but before he could protest the sudden absence Dean’s cock was nudging up and into him.
“Slow,” Dean ordered, panting, and as Castiel sank down, he watched the features beneath him go rigid with ecstasy. Dean’s knees folded up, his thighs pressing into Castiel’s back, as Castiel writhed down, pushing Dean deeper, deeper-and then he was there, breathing heavily, hesitating again, but Dean hauled himself up, his arms wrapping around Castiel’s back, murmured against his chest, “just move, Cas, just-yeah,” he rasped, as Castiel rose on his knees and slid back, “like that. Fuck,” he swore, his lips moving across the Enochian carved into Castiel’s skin.
It was all a haze, now, Dean’s arms like a vice around him, Dean’s hands pressing into his shoulder blades and Dean’s fingertips brushing his wings, eliciting sparks with every touch; Castiel pressed up, slid down, lost in their tight, small movements, trapped, quivering, beneath the weight of their combined ecstasy, opened and vulnerable beneath the raw emotion that Dean poured into this act, into him. Dean’s breath was harsh and hot against his skin, and Castiel’s fingers were still gripped tight into the scar on his shoulder, his free hand running relentlessly into Dean’s hair, trailing through his sweat.
“Cas,” Dean groaned, and he was rushing toward the precipice of something, teetering dangerously on the verge of falling, “Castiel,” and the sound of his name falling from Dean’s lips in a guttural, broken moan snapped something inside him; he writhed down just as Dean frantically pressed up, and they were stiffening, crying out, Dean’s name an endless babble on his lips.
He came back to Dean loose-limbed and at ease beneath him, his hands reassuring on Castiel’s back, twitching with tiny movements in his fingertips. Castiel turned his jaw to a more comfortable angle, so that his cheek pressed into Dean’s chest, and one hand lifted to stroke gently over his hair.
“You okay?” Dean asked, his voice a quiet rumble beneath Castiel’s ear, and the angel smiled automatically.
“Yes,” he confirmed, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, “if this was my last night on Earth, it was...” But the right word wouldn’t surface, and how could that be? He was fluent in every language in existence, but there was nothing to describe this.
Dean seemed to understand. “It’s not,” he said, firm, with a conviction that radiated out to envelope Castiel in its warmth. “You’re gonna live. You always do.”
Castiel rolled down to the bed and curled up to Dean’s side. The hunter groped for the blanket and pulled it over them, keeping his arm around Castiel’s shoulders.
“Dean,” Castiel said, because it was so unlikely, because his chances were so poor, but Dean cut him off.
“I’m serious,” he said, tipping his chin down to look Castiel in the face. “We’ve got no idea what that thing does.” Castiel squirmed closer, hooking his leg around Dean’s, and saw a smile tick up the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t kill us to be optimistic,” he finished, his head turning sideways on the pillow so that his lips brushed Castiel’s forehead.
Amused despite the gravity of tomorrow, Castiel asked, “Are you always this positive after sex?”
“You bet,” Dean grumbled into his hair. “Now go to sleep, and stop worrying.”
“I’m not worried,” Castiel said softly, and for the moment, he wasn’t; the night seemed to stretch out endlessly, a night where he would bury himself in Dean’s warmth and listen to the hunter’s gentle snores and soothe away his nightmares; it seemed unfathomable that it, that this, would ever end.
“Good,” Dean murmured back.
Go on... Chapter 9: Broken Crown.