All My Heavenly Might
Title: All My Heavenly Might
Author: Veggie17
Disclaimer: no money or fun for me, boo.
Genre: Angst. PWP.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, Bobby, Sam
Spoilers: Written after 4.21: 'When The Levee Breaks'.
Warnings: Smut. Angst. Blasphemy.
Word Count: 4,451
Summary: Castiel has orders.
All My Heavenly Might
Dean lies numb on the floor, the sharp pieces of shattered glass digging painfully into his back, the last of his stinging tears drying on his cheek. He’s glad the fabric of his jacket is thick enough to prevent the glass from piercing his skin. He really doesn’t have it in him to move at this moment, and grunting aloud is really all he can do.
You’re too weak, Sam’s mockery echoes in his ears, the sense of betrayal now flowing so naturally inside him it might as well be part of his circulation system. Dean Winchester is used to disappointments; is used to people walking out on him. But you’d think that when you go to Hell for someone, that said someone would show some gratitude. Instead of becoming one of the monsters you’d encountered in Hell. So you’d assume. Yes, gratitude would’ve been nice. Shit, fucking Thanks would suffice. But since when does Dean Winchester get what he wants. He learned to suck it up since he was eight, when John shoved a shotgun in his hands, and he was told to Shut the fuck up, and Toughen up. Be a man. Protect your brother.
It seems he failed on all accounts.
Dean stares at the bland ceiling above him, eyes fixated on complete nothingness. He doesn’t want to think anymore. Doesn’t want to worry. Doesn’t want to be burdened with responsibility. He’s utterly tired and drained.
“Dean.” The familiar raspy voice doesn’t come as a surprise to him. It only irritates him. For the most part, he likes Castiel. Or at least he did until the angel became cold and distant since returning from Heaven. “You’re bleeding. Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m peachy,” Dean grunts out, and he’s surprised at how ragged his own voice comes out. And speaking of gratitude, Dean knows he should show some for the angel; he did pull him out of perdition, after all. But Dean really isn’t too concerned with it at the moment, and the angel’s recent dick wad behaviour makes it all the more easy.
He senses Castiel kneel beside him, placing a warm palm on his bruised cheek-bone, and Dean feels the pain melting away. Then, he realizes what Castiel is doing and jerks violently to push the angel away. “I don’t need your help.”
Castiel sighs, long and deep, and Dean swears he catches a wave of weariness and exhaustion cross the angel’s features - alarmingly human. “You have work to do. Let me heal your injuries.”
“‘Work’?” Dean sneers. “The only work I plan on is drinking as much booze as I can,”
“Dean, God’s plan -”
“Fuck you, and fuck your God.” Dean scoffs. Fuck them. Fuck Sam. Fuck the apocalypse. Fuck the universe. What’s the point? The universe isn’t even worth saving. Dean should know - he’s been to Hell, and nowadays Earth is twice as bad. He rather let it rot than kill his own baby brother. Maybe it isn’t right, maybe it isn’t heroic. Who the fuck cares. Odysseus and Achilles can stick the title where the sun don’t shine and keep it all to themselves. “I’m done.”
“Dean.” Castiel says firmly, placing a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I understand you’re in pain - ”
“You don’t understand anything, you son of a bitch.” Dean hisses, voice husky and harsh. “I’m done.”
“Dean, you’re the only one that can stop it.”
Dean actually laughs out lout at that, because really, there’s only a certain degree of naivety he can take. You’re too weak. “I’m not the one that can stop it. I won’t be the one to stop it. You can do whatever you like. Find someone else, throw Lucifer a Welcome Home party, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I am done.”
The angel sighs again, and Dean knows that if he’ll look, he’ll find that fierce, astonishingly powerful glare casted on him. So he doesn’t look. He closes his eyes and lets the silence overcome him. He only opens them again once he knows Castiel is gone.
***
It’s another hour or so, Dean assumes, before Bobby shows up. This time, Dean accepts the offered hand and lets Bobby help him up. Thankfully, Dean doesn’t have to do much explaining; Bobby figures most of it out, and knows better than to bring it up. Dean demands to be dropped off at the nearest pub, and after a short argument, Bobby realizes there’s no point in objecting.
Dean spends the next few days drinking himself to sleep - doing everything in his power to suppress thoughts and feelings from entering his consciousness. Booze was invented for a reason, and it’s precisely for situations such as Dean found himself in. Well, technically, he’s pretty sure booze wasn’t invented for hunters whose brother demonized and need to take the edge off. But you get the gist.
Anyways. Alcohol’s good. Like, really good. Really really good for the soul, and Dean doesn’t care much if it damages his body.
***
Castiel lurks in the shadowed corner of the filthy pub and watches his charge gulping down much-too-great amount of alcohol. That’s all his been doing as of late - consuming large amounts of the poisonous liquor. The angel does not know what to do, or how to get through to the hunter. Watching the human sink back into familiar self-destructive behaviour tears Castiel from the inside out. It makes him regret following his orders. Worse yet, it makes him question said orders - which is precisely what got him in this mess in the first place.
Ever since returning from Hell, Dean has been a wreckage of his former self. Castiel knows it, his superiors know it, Sam and Bobby know it. It’s impossible not to notice. Castiel doesn’t know much about the former Dean Winchester, but from what he heard, he had been a fierce, dedicated hunter. One thing hasn’t changed, though - Dean’s inability to trust others, namely God and everyone associated with Him. Castiel understands the human, really - he doesn’t think anyone else in Dean’s position would’ve been quick to grant their trust. But what bothers Castiel is the fact that Dean doesn’t trust him.
Castiel never felt as helpless as he does this very minute. But he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. The orders were clear. The threats were very real. If Castiel were to continue let his feelings for his human charge dedicate his course of action, not only would he be stripped from his grace, but Dean Winchester would be thrown right back to perdition.
***
For the fifth night in a row, Dean sits in the same murky pub, and drinks the same cheap whiskey until it’s coming out of his throat. He briefly entertains the possibility of going over to flirt with the hot brunette that’s been eyeing him the entire evening, but it doesn’t take long for him to dismiss the thought. It’s been a while since he last got laid, true - in fact, the number of times he engaged in any sexual behaviour since returning from the pit have been few. The chaos of the past year left little room for leisure time.
As he stares at the regrettably ending amounts of his drinks, Dean realizes he is completely and utterly alone. It’s not unusual for a hunter to be living the lone life, what with the job not allowing much social interaction with living humans, but it’d been different for the Winchesters - they’d had each other. If he’s honest with himself, he’s been alone for a while now - Sam running around screwing Ruby (and engaging in some other activities Dean wasn’t aware of at the time), both his parents dead and his newly discovered brother brutally murdered. But now Sam, his only family, his centre, is actually gone, actually walking the dark path, and Dean is actually alone.
Dean decides he’s had enough with this ruminating carp and continues his drunken façade at the privacy of his own motel room. As he sips from his flask, filled with even cheaper alcohol than what the pub served, Dean stares at the bed to his left. Booking a single-room would make the situation far too real than Dean cares to admit.
The hunter massages his sore temples, a throaty whimper escaping his lips. He chokes out a single sob, determined to let the rest ice in his lungs. He rubs his alcohol-hazed eyes before getting off the bed to make himself a cup of coffee. He pauses midway, contemplating with himself whether it’s a good idea. After all, he doesn’t want to stay up all night, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. On the other hand, if he lets sleep overcome him, he will dream, as he had for the past few days. Dream that he’s back in Hell, tied and bruised on the rack, with Sam doing the torturing. Sam gouging Dean’s eyes out, Sam slicing his skin, Sam twisting his intestines into tiny knots, his eyes pitch black as he laughs at Dean’s growls of pain.
So really, Dean figures it doesn’t quite matter if he’s awake or knocked out, because there’s no escaping. So he makes the damn coffee.
As he sips the bitter, burning hot liquid, he turns on the TV and flips through the channels. Nothing decent is on, and Dean be damned if he’s gonna watch The Hills, no matter how badly he needs the distraction.
“Dean.” Comes the gruff voice as soon as the TV is turned off.
The hunter sighs in aggravation as he turns around to face the angel. “What do you want, Cas?”
Castiel takes a step forward, intruding Dean’s personal space like he always does. “There are many challenges ahead, Dean. We must prepare.”
Dean jeers at the derisive statement. “For one of God’s pawns, you’re pretty dense, Cas. I told you - I’m done.”
Castiel tilts his head to the side, a there's a dare in his gaze. “No, you're not.”
“Is this the part where you threaten me? Where you’re gonna throw me right back into the pit if I don’t obey?” Dean’s tone and expression are blank and uncaring, and Castiel is ruptured by Dean’s indifference towards his own life, by his willingness to hand it over on a silver plate to whoever’s willing to take. “Well, go right ahead.” The hunter opens his arms wide, cocky grin intact on his lips as he offers himself voluntarily to Death.
“I would never do that.” Castiel breathes out, because it is all he can think to say.
“Right, right,” a stiff, pained smirk is being forced upon the hunter’s handsome features. “‘Cause it ain’t like you done it before.” And Castiel is stricken by the statement, by the strain on Dean’s face as he fights to keep his expression neutral.
Castiel wishes he were better at conveying human emotions. He wants nothing more than to explain himself, than to tell Dean that uttering that threat had hurt him more than it did the hunter; that it was part of the demeanour to keep the other angels off his back for growing too attached to his human charge. He settles for “Dean,” instead, soft and broken. Pleading.
Dean is tired, really fucking tired of the flatness in the angel’s tone. “Go away, Cas.” The hunter takes three steps back, turning away from the angel.
“You have a destiny to fulfill.”
“And I told you I don’t give a damn,” Dean grumbles in response. “It’s not like you give a crap - not about me, anyway - so just drop it. Save us both the time and the energy, and just go.”
“Of course I care!” Castiel growls, spinning Dean around to face him. His gaze is fierce, intense - angry, even. And Dean doesn’t think he’s ever, ever seen the angel like this.
Still, the hunter sneers, determinedly insolent. “Right, so all that crap about not answering to me, was what exactly, a Broadway production?”
Castiel tilts his head to the side, wearing that curious frown he gets whenever something’s not clear to him. “I had orders, Dean. I merely followed them.”
“And what changed now?” Dean probes, more as a rhetorical question he doesn’t expect answered. “Scoot back to the chessboard, soldier.”
“I have new orders.” Castiel replies calmly.
“Oh? And what might those be?” Dean raises an eyebrow, not really caring, because he’s fairly certain they’re as stupid as the rest of them had been.
“Do whatever it takes to pull you out of your misery. To get you back.”
The space between Dean’s eyebrows creases in confusion before the hunter bursts off laughing; laughing so hard tears well in his eyes.
“Man, you angels are weird,” Dean utters as he composes himself. “That sounds like a line from Days of Our Lives.”
Castiel just tilts his head some more, and Dean is kind of concerned it will loll right off his shoulders.
“I'm being serious, Dean.” The angel’s voice drops another octave, and it’s obvious he means business. “The universe is literally hanging by a thread. We need you. You have to stop it.”
Castiel’s voice is so pleading, beseeching. But over all, it is trusting. And no-one has ever, ever believed in Dean Winchester as much as this heavenly creature does. And Dean has to swallow what feels like an entire pint of saliva, of hesitation, of doubt, before he can find his voice again.
“I can’t, Cas.” He breathes out, and his voice is hoarse, shameful, and he has to lower his eyes from the angel’s. “I’m tired.” And as he says it, as he lets the words travel from his lips to the thin air around them, he feels hollow. Vacant. Like everything he’s ever had inside just floated away along with the admission.
“I know,” Castiel whispers softly, and then Dean notices the angel’s hand is still griping his triceps; fingers lightly threaded in the thick fabric of his jacket, spreading warmth through his entire body even through the layers of clothing. And then the back of Cas’ palm is dancing over his cheekbone, light and tender. Dean’s right hand goes to the knot in Castiel’s tie, his left palm pressed against the firm chest, right at the rib-cage. It’s not intentional, and he barely even registers his actions - his hands seeming to have an accord of their own. They are even closer now, so close Castiel’s breath is ghosting over the tender flesh of Dean’s neck.
And that’s really all the incentive Dean needs in order to take the bait, because really, he’s never been too good at keeping his urges in check, and impulsiveness is kind of in his nature. He yanks on the necktie and plunges for Castiel’s mouth; probing tongue pushing through tight lips. The angel doesn’t taste of anything unusual; his mouth is fresh and wet, and Dean has a flash of pine trees and greenery that he can literally smell. And just as he begins to absorb it, sucking it out of Castiel’s lungs, the angel pulls away.
Dean is gasping, still struggling for his own breath as Castiel just stares at him, eyebrows crinkled in what looks like an indignant expression. The eldest Winchester wonders if he just scored a front-row seat to his own funeral, but he doesn’t have much time to debate the thought because Cas grabs the back of his skull with a firm hand and clashes their mouths back together - teeth and tongues meeting almost painfully, in an outright exhilarating way.
And Dean really has to take back the previous statement about Castiel being dense, because he seems to catch on pretty damn quickly. The angel nibbles on the hunter’s bottom lip, quick to switch to the upper lip lest it gets neglected. Dean moans a little in Cas’ mouth before licking its roof; inquisitive and hungry. The angel’s right hand slides to the small of Dean’s back, thrusting their hips against one another, bringing them that much closer. Dean shrugs off Castiel’s ridiculous trenchcoat, allowing it to land on the dirty motel floor with a soft thud. With a strong hand on Castiel’s chest, he pushes the angel on the bed, and has to stop to admire the sight beforehand.
Castiel uses his elbows to level himself on the bed, legs spread and hips angled in an almost come-hither fashion. His hair is even more ruffled then usual, and his normally pale lips are now swollen and moist from their kissing fest. And if Dean wasn’t hard enough already, that sight sends a whole new surge of electricity running through his groin. Dean sheds his own jacket, kicking his shoes across the room before climbing on the bed, his legs on either side of Cas’. The angel tilts his head to stare at Dean, his eyes warning him that even though the angel is the one pinned under him, he’s still very much the one in control. Dean tears open Cas’ shirt - after all, Cas is an angel, and he's fairly certain he can sew back a few buttons. He reaches for the belt-buckle when Castiel takes over; shoving Dean’s tee-shirt out of the way and running his hands over the strong, firm torso. He pays extra attention to the hunter’s right nipple, brushing his thumb over the pink circle, watching it harden under the touch. Castiel then pulls on Dean’s belt, using it to flatten the other man on top of him, skin against skin. Dean literally growls when their erections press together, the sensation so overwhelming it consumes him whole.
Castiel then pulls the belt out of the loops in one swift motion, tossing it to the side. He undoes the single button, pulling down the zipper and sliding the jeans past Dean’s thighs, his fingertips brushing the skin longingly - arousing and seductive. The hunter kicks off his pants, then moving to the more urgent task of stripping Cas of his own fabric-clad prison. He takes his time exploring the angel’s torso, licking a wet trail on the pale chest, like a hungry cat devouring a canister of cream. His partner lets out a soft moan, arching his back to buck further into the wet warmth the glorious mouth is offering.
Castiel had observed Dean Winchester bed numerous women throughout his three decades of life, and it had always been one of the things that fascinated him most about humans - how could they find pleasure in what seemed like such a vulgar, barbaric act? But now, it all makes sense. The pieces fit. He fits. They, him and Dean, fit. And Castiel can’t help but think that this is what he was created for - not for his Father’s service, but for this.
The only clothes separating them now are both their underwear, Castiel’s black boxer-briefs a sharp contrast to his pale skin. Dean’s right arm encircles his lower back, thrusting him forward so their erections rub together in a painful chafe, and the hunter bites his shoulder to muffle his own moans of pleasure. But the angel will have none of it; there is absolutely no way they’re wasting this on mediocre dry-humping, as the humans call it - he needs more. He needs Dean. All of him.
Technically, he can rid Dean of his underwear in the blink of an eye; could’ve saved them both some time by blinking away their clothes. But Castiel likes watching Dean revealed inch by inch, and he’s not about to take the easy route when they’re getting to the good stuff. Shifting to a semi-seated position, he hooks a thumb on each side of the hunter’s underwear, kissing a hip-bone as he inches the fabric down Dean’s legs. The other man growls as Castiel’s teeth graze on his skin, pain and pleasure mixing into one. The angel stops his movements and takes a moment to study what he’s just revealed. Dean’s length is thick and long, pompous and cocky (pun definitely intended), complete with a luscious set of blond curls at the front. Castiel’s fingers lunge in the bush, tender and exploring, and the hunter lets out a throaty moan as he thrusts forwards by reflex.
“No fair,” Dean murmurs through his arousal, “you still have yours on,” his eyes lingering on Castiel’s boxers.
“Do you plan on doing anything to change that?” the angel tilts his head, and Dean swears there’s a smirk plastered and quickly wiped off his face.
“With pleasure.” The hunter replies, pushing Cas flat on the mattress. He grabs his ankles and pulls him forward, until the angel’s covered ass is met with his crotch. They both growl at the sensation, but Dean quickly recovers to set his priorities straight - and right now, number one on the list is riding Cas of the stupid boxers and fucking him sore.
“Dean, if you don’t get inside me now, I will smite you with all my heavenly might.”
And Dean really doesn’t need to be told twice, so he yanks Castiel’s underwear off and throws them across the room, not wanting to see the piece of fabric ever again. He grabs hold of Cas’ ankles once again, this time to position the long legs on his shoulders. Without further notice, he slips a finger in Cas’ tense pink hole, and the angel’s face grimaces slightly at the invasion. Ever the considerate lover, Dean kisses the inside of Cas’ left thigh to distract him, licking a shiny trail on his shaft as he adds another digit and starts scissoring. The angel’s chest heaves as he lets out a guttural, low groan that fills the entire room. He pushes himself forwards, sliding further down Dean’s fingers. And that is fucking it, Dean decides as he watches Cas spread beneath him, his used lips parted and swollen, eyes rolled back, head thrown against the pillow, body limp and hands spread to his sides and he tries to urge Dean’s fingers deeper. And it occurs to Dean that it’s quite ironic, that a freaking’ angel is the epitome of sex - and his cock cannot endure the torture any longer. It’s throbbing to slide inside, and taste the warmth of Cas’ walls.
Dean retrieves his fingers from the angel’s anus with all the will power he can muster, angling his cock at the entrance instead. He awaits Castiel’s permission, but the other male seems to be too far gone - only managing to clutch Dean’s abdominals to give his approval. Dean’s insides inflame all over again at the touch, and he slowly penetrates Castiel’s hole, feeling himself surrounded by warmth and tightness, and Oh, God. Castiel just gasps as Dean’s member inches further and further into him, throwing his head back even more, exposing his throat.
When Dean is all the way inside, he bends down to kiss his angel’s Adam’s apple, then the pulse point. “Cas. I want to see your eyes.”
Castiel’s eyes open in an instant, his blue orbs only a thin ring around the wide, lust filled pupils.
“Move.” Castiel commands, and his partner gladly obeys - and this has to be the first time Dean has actually obeyed an order coming from anyone but his father; and certainly the first time he obeyed an order from Above. Heck, if they’d give out those kind of orders more often, he’d willingly become Heaven’s bitch.
Dean thrusts out and back in roughly, realizing that virgin or not, Castiel isn’t one for the withering-flower approach. He pounds into his angel, keeping his hand on his back to keep their bodies as close as possible. Castiel bites on his ear-lobe, hands firmly placed on the hunter’s ass, teasing the hole, all the while thrusting right back into Dean, until he’s really not certain who’s fucking who here. Castiel’s hands are everywhere at once, and Dean wonders if it’s an angel thing, because Anna certainly didn’t have those kinds of skills as far as he can remember. He grabs a handful of luscious black hair, softer than ever in his hands.
“Dean.” Cas breathes out, wrapping his legs over the hunter’s torso so his dick is even deeper inside him, while his own member is brushing against hard abs. Dean’s hand descends to pay attention to the neglected fellow, stroking the underside roughly and then fondling the balls. Through his haze-clouded lids, he watches as Cas is brought closer and closer to the edge, and he just knows he’ll be more beautiful than ever when that moment comes.
The angel’s gentle hand strokes up his back, sending shivers down his spine and encouraging him to go even faster. As he pounds and pounds, sweat stinging his eyes, Castiel’s index finger ghosts at his anus, pushing inside, all the while continuing to push against Dean to keep their rhythm - and you really, really have to respect the angel for the dedication and his ability to multi-task. Dean can feel himself falling apart, and as Castiel’s finger brushes against his sweet spot, and in turn Dean’s dick does the same to the angel’s, he comes louder than he ever did before, white overcoming his vision as he experiences the most intense orgasm he’s ever had. Castiel comes within a millisecond apart, and his cries of pleasure are squeezing even more out of Dean’s dick - shooting more load than he’d thought he has. The angel’s own fluids cover Dean’s chest and neck, warm and sticky and fucking perfect. He fights to open his eyes as he experiences the last drains of his orgasm, only to see that Cas is doing exactly the same. They study each other as they ride out the aftershock of their orgasms, shades of blue and green swirling in each other until they seem to mingle and become one.
Dean collapses on top of Cas, breathing still ragged as he rests against the angel’s strong chest. They’re both panting and silent, and the hunter worries that the creature will disappear, that he is regretting what they’ve just done. Instead, Castiel places a warm palm on the small of Dean’s back, and kisses the part of his neck he can reach.
“I don’t want to pull out of you,” Dean confesses, his spent cock wanting to stay inside the angel for as long as he’ll allow it.
“Then don’t.” Castiel replies simply. He places a soft kiss on the top of Dean’s head, his hand encircling the hunter’s waist. “Sleep.’
And Dean does, using his angel’s strong shoulder as a particularly comfortable pillow. After all, he needs his rest - he has a brother to save, and an apocalypse to avert. And he’s determined to get it all done before dark the next day, so he can come back for another round with the angel.
Author: Veggie17
Disclaimer: no money or fun for me, boo.
Genre: Angst. PWP.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, Bobby, Sam
Spoilers: Written after 4.21: 'When The Levee Breaks'.
Warnings: Smut. Angst. Blasphemy.
Word Count: 4,451
Summary: Castiel has orders.
All My Heavenly Might
Dean lies numb on the floor, the sharp pieces of shattered glass digging painfully into his back, the last of his stinging tears drying on his cheek. He’s glad the fabric of his jacket is thick enough to prevent the glass from piercing his skin. He really doesn’t have it in him to move at this moment, and grunting aloud is really all he can do.
You’re too weak, Sam’s mockery echoes in his ears, the sense of betrayal now flowing so naturally inside him it might as well be part of his circulation system. Dean Winchester is used to disappointments; is used to people walking out on him. But you’d think that when you go to Hell for someone, that said someone would show some gratitude. Instead of becoming one of the monsters you’d encountered in Hell. So you’d assume. Yes, gratitude would’ve been nice. Shit, fucking Thanks would suffice. But since when does Dean Winchester get what he wants. He learned to suck it up since he was eight, when John shoved a shotgun in his hands, and he was told to Shut the fuck up, and Toughen up. Be a man. Protect your brother.
It seems he failed on all accounts.
Dean stares at the bland ceiling above him, eyes fixated on complete nothingness. He doesn’t want to think anymore. Doesn’t want to worry. Doesn’t want to be burdened with responsibility. He’s utterly tired and drained.
“Dean.” The familiar raspy voice doesn’t come as a surprise to him. It only irritates him. For the most part, he likes Castiel. Or at least he did until the angel became cold and distant since returning from Heaven. “You’re bleeding. Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m peachy,” Dean grunts out, and he’s surprised at how ragged his own voice comes out. And speaking of gratitude, Dean knows he should show some for the angel; he did pull him out of perdition, after all. But Dean really isn’t too concerned with it at the moment, and the angel’s recent dick wad behaviour makes it all the more easy.
He senses Castiel kneel beside him, placing a warm palm on his bruised cheek-bone, and Dean feels the pain melting away. Then, he realizes what Castiel is doing and jerks violently to push the angel away. “I don’t need your help.”
Castiel sighs, long and deep, and Dean swears he catches a wave of weariness and exhaustion cross the angel’s features - alarmingly human. “You have work to do. Let me heal your injuries.”
“‘Work’?” Dean sneers. “The only work I plan on is drinking as much booze as I can,”
“Dean, God’s plan -”
“Fuck you, and fuck your God.” Dean scoffs. Fuck them. Fuck Sam. Fuck the apocalypse. Fuck the universe. What’s the point? The universe isn’t even worth saving. Dean should know - he’s been to Hell, and nowadays Earth is twice as bad. He rather let it rot than kill his own baby brother. Maybe it isn’t right, maybe it isn’t heroic. Who the fuck cares. Odysseus and Achilles can stick the title where the sun don’t shine and keep it all to themselves. “I’m done.”
“Dean.” Castiel says firmly, placing a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I understand you’re in pain - ”
“You don’t understand anything, you son of a bitch.” Dean hisses, voice husky and harsh. “I’m done.”
“Dean, you’re the only one that can stop it.”
Dean actually laughs out lout at that, because really, there’s only a certain degree of naivety he can take. You’re too weak. “I’m not the one that can stop it. I won’t be the one to stop it. You can do whatever you like. Find someone else, throw Lucifer a Welcome Home party, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I am done.”
The angel sighs again, and Dean knows that if he’ll look, he’ll find that fierce, astonishingly powerful glare casted on him. So he doesn’t look. He closes his eyes and lets the silence overcome him. He only opens them again once he knows Castiel is gone.
***
It’s another hour or so, Dean assumes, before Bobby shows up. This time, Dean accepts the offered hand and lets Bobby help him up. Thankfully, Dean doesn’t have to do much explaining; Bobby figures most of it out, and knows better than to bring it up. Dean demands to be dropped off at the nearest pub, and after a short argument, Bobby realizes there’s no point in objecting.
Dean spends the next few days drinking himself to sleep - doing everything in his power to suppress thoughts and feelings from entering his consciousness. Booze was invented for a reason, and it’s precisely for situations such as Dean found himself in. Well, technically, he’s pretty sure booze wasn’t invented for hunters whose brother demonized and need to take the edge off. But you get the gist.
Anyways. Alcohol’s good. Like, really good. Really really good for the soul, and Dean doesn’t care much if it damages his body.
***
Castiel lurks in the shadowed corner of the filthy pub and watches his charge gulping down much-too-great amount of alcohol. That’s all his been doing as of late - consuming large amounts of the poisonous liquor. The angel does not know what to do, or how to get through to the hunter. Watching the human sink back into familiar self-destructive behaviour tears Castiel from the inside out. It makes him regret following his orders. Worse yet, it makes him question said orders - which is precisely what got him in this mess in the first place.
Ever since returning from Hell, Dean has been a wreckage of his former self. Castiel knows it, his superiors know it, Sam and Bobby know it. It’s impossible not to notice. Castiel doesn’t know much about the former Dean Winchester, but from what he heard, he had been a fierce, dedicated hunter. One thing hasn’t changed, though - Dean’s inability to trust others, namely God and everyone associated with Him. Castiel understands the human, really - he doesn’t think anyone else in Dean’s position would’ve been quick to grant their trust. But what bothers Castiel is the fact that Dean doesn’t trust him.
Castiel never felt as helpless as he does this very minute. But he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. The orders were clear. The threats were very real. If Castiel were to continue let his feelings for his human charge dedicate his course of action, not only would he be stripped from his grace, but Dean Winchester would be thrown right back to perdition.
***
For the fifth night in a row, Dean sits in the same murky pub, and drinks the same cheap whiskey until it’s coming out of his throat. He briefly entertains the possibility of going over to flirt with the hot brunette that’s been eyeing him the entire evening, but it doesn’t take long for him to dismiss the thought. It’s been a while since he last got laid, true - in fact, the number of times he engaged in any sexual behaviour since returning from the pit have been few. The chaos of the past year left little room for leisure time.
As he stares at the regrettably ending amounts of his drinks, Dean realizes he is completely and utterly alone. It’s not unusual for a hunter to be living the lone life, what with the job not allowing much social interaction with living humans, but it’d been different for the Winchesters - they’d had each other. If he’s honest with himself, he’s been alone for a while now - Sam running around screwing Ruby (and engaging in some other activities Dean wasn’t aware of at the time), both his parents dead and his newly discovered brother brutally murdered. But now Sam, his only family, his centre, is actually gone, actually walking the dark path, and Dean is actually alone.
Dean decides he’s had enough with this ruminating carp and continues his drunken façade at the privacy of his own motel room. As he sips from his flask, filled with even cheaper alcohol than what the pub served, Dean stares at the bed to his left. Booking a single-room would make the situation far too real than Dean cares to admit.
The hunter massages his sore temples, a throaty whimper escaping his lips. He chokes out a single sob, determined to let the rest ice in his lungs. He rubs his alcohol-hazed eyes before getting off the bed to make himself a cup of coffee. He pauses midway, contemplating with himself whether it’s a good idea. After all, he doesn’t want to stay up all night, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. On the other hand, if he lets sleep overcome him, he will dream, as he had for the past few days. Dream that he’s back in Hell, tied and bruised on the rack, with Sam doing the torturing. Sam gouging Dean’s eyes out, Sam slicing his skin, Sam twisting his intestines into tiny knots, his eyes pitch black as he laughs at Dean’s growls of pain.
So really, Dean figures it doesn’t quite matter if he’s awake or knocked out, because there’s no escaping. So he makes the damn coffee.
As he sips the bitter, burning hot liquid, he turns on the TV and flips through the channels. Nothing decent is on, and Dean be damned if he’s gonna watch The Hills, no matter how badly he needs the distraction.
“Dean.” Comes the gruff voice as soon as the TV is turned off.
The hunter sighs in aggravation as he turns around to face the angel. “What do you want, Cas?”
Castiel takes a step forward, intruding Dean’s personal space like he always does. “There are many challenges ahead, Dean. We must prepare.”
Dean jeers at the derisive statement. “For one of God’s pawns, you’re pretty dense, Cas. I told you - I’m done.”
Castiel tilts his head to the side, a there's a dare in his gaze. “No, you're not.”
“Is this the part where you threaten me? Where you’re gonna throw me right back into the pit if I don’t obey?” Dean’s tone and expression are blank and uncaring, and Castiel is ruptured by Dean’s indifference towards his own life, by his willingness to hand it over on a silver plate to whoever’s willing to take. “Well, go right ahead.” The hunter opens his arms wide, cocky grin intact on his lips as he offers himself voluntarily to Death.
“I would never do that.” Castiel breathes out, because it is all he can think to say.
“Right, right,” a stiff, pained smirk is being forced upon the hunter’s handsome features. “‘Cause it ain’t like you done it before.” And Castiel is stricken by the statement, by the strain on Dean’s face as he fights to keep his expression neutral.
Castiel wishes he were better at conveying human emotions. He wants nothing more than to explain himself, than to tell Dean that uttering that threat had hurt him more than it did the hunter; that it was part of the demeanour to keep the other angels off his back for growing too attached to his human charge. He settles for “Dean,” instead, soft and broken. Pleading.
Dean is tired, really fucking tired of the flatness in the angel’s tone. “Go away, Cas.” The hunter takes three steps back, turning away from the angel.
“You have a destiny to fulfill.”
“And I told you I don’t give a damn,” Dean grumbles in response. “It’s not like you give a crap - not about me, anyway - so just drop it. Save us both the time and the energy, and just go.”
“Of course I care!” Castiel growls, spinning Dean around to face him. His gaze is fierce, intense - angry, even. And Dean doesn’t think he’s ever, ever seen the angel like this.
Still, the hunter sneers, determinedly insolent. “Right, so all that crap about not answering to me, was what exactly, a Broadway production?”
Castiel tilts his head to the side, wearing that curious frown he gets whenever something’s not clear to him. “I had orders, Dean. I merely followed them.”
“And what changed now?” Dean probes, more as a rhetorical question he doesn’t expect answered. “Scoot back to the chessboard, soldier.”
“I have new orders.” Castiel replies calmly.
“Oh? And what might those be?” Dean raises an eyebrow, not really caring, because he’s fairly certain they’re as stupid as the rest of them had been.
“Do whatever it takes to pull you out of your misery. To get you back.”
The space between Dean’s eyebrows creases in confusion before the hunter bursts off laughing; laughing so hard tears well in his eyes.
“Man, you angels are weird,” Dean utters as he composes himself. “That sounds like a line from Days of Our Lives.”
Castiel just tilts his head some more, and Dean is kind of concerned it will loll right off his shoulders.
“I'm being serious, Dean.” The angel’s voice drops another octave, and it’s obvious he means business. “The universe is literally hanging by a thread. We need you. You have to stop it.”
Castiel’s voice is so pleading, beseeching. But over all, it is trusting. And no-one has ever, ever believed in Dean Winchester as much as this heavenly creature does. And Dean has to swallow what feels like an entire pint of saliva, of hesitation, of doubt, before he can find his voice again.
“I can’t, Cas.” He breathes out, and his voice is hoarse, shameful, and he has to lower his eyes from the angel’s. “I’m tired.” And as he says it, as he lets the words travel from his lips to the thin air around them, he feels hollow. Vacant. Like everything he’s ever had inside just floated away along with the admission.
“I know,” Castiel whispers softly, and then Dean notices the angel’s hand is still griping his triceps; fingers lightly threaded in the thick fabric of his jacket, spreading warmth through his entire body even through the layers of clothing. And then the back of Cas’ palm is dancing over his cheekbone, light and tender. Dean’s right hand goes to the knot in Castiel’s tie, his left palm pressed against the firm chest, right at the rib-cage. It’s not intentional, and he barely even registers his actions - his hands seeming to have an accord of their own. They are even closer now, so close Castiel’s breath is ghosting over the tender flesh of Dean’s neck.
And that’s really all the incentive Dean needs in order to take the bait, because really, he’s never been too good at keeping his urges in check, and impulsiveness is kind of in his nature. He yanks on the necktie and plunges for Castiel’s mouth; probing tongue pushing through tight lips. The angel doesn’t taste of anything unusual; his mouth is fresh and wet, and Dean has a flash of pine trees and greenery that he can literally smell. And just as he begins to absorb it, sucking it out of Castiel’s lungs, the angel pulls away.
Dean is gasping, still struggling for his own breath as Castiel just stares at him, eyebrows crinkled in what looks like an indignant expression. The eldest Winchester wonders if he just scored a front-row seat to his own funeral, but he doesn’t have much time to debate the thought because Cas grabs the back of his skull with a firm hand and clashes their mouths back together - teeth and tongues meeting almost painfully, in an outright exhilarating way.
And Dean really has to take back the previous statement about Castiel being dense, because he seems to catch on pretty damn quickly. The angel nibbles on the hunter’s bottom lip, quick to switch to the upper lip lest it gets neglected. Dean moans a little in Cas’ mouth before licking its roof; inquisitive and hungry. The angel’s right hand slides to the small of Dean’s back, thrusting their hips against one another, bringing them that much closer. Dean shrugs off Castiel’s ridiculous trenchcoat, allowing it to land on the dirty motel floor with a soft thud. With a strong hand on Castiel’s chest, he pushes the angel on the bed, and has to stop to admire the sight beforehand.
Castiel uses his elbows to level himself on the bed, legs spread and hips angled in an almost come-hither fashion. His hair is even more ruffled then usual, and his normally pale lips are now swollen and moist from their kissing fest. And if Dean wasn’t hard enough already, that sight sends a whole new surge of electricity running through his groin. Dean sheds his own jacket, kicking his shoes across the room before climbing on the bed, his legs on either side of Cas’. The angel tilts his head to stare at Dean, his eyes warning him that even though the angel is the one pinned under him, he’s still very much the one in control. Dean tears open Cas’ shirt - after all, Cas is an angel, and he's fairly certain he can sew back a few buttons. He reaches for the belt-buckle when Castiel takes over; shoving Dean’s tee-shirt out of the way and running his hands over the strong, firm torso. He pays extra attention to the hunter’s right nipple, brushing his thumb over the pink circle, watching it harden under the touch. Castiel then pulls on Dean’s belt, using it to flatten the other man on top of him, skin against skin. Dean literally growls when their erections press together, the sensation so overwhelming it consumes him whole.
Castiel then pulls the belt out of the loops in one swift motion, tossing it to the side. He undoes the single button, pulling down the zipper and sliding the jeans past Dean’s thighs, his fingertips brushing the skin longingly - arousing and seductive. The hunter kicks off his pants, then moving to the more urgent task of stripping Cas of his own fabric-clad prison. He takes his time exploring the angel’s torso, licking a wet trail on the pale chest, like a hungry cat devouring a canister of cream. His partner lets out a soft moan, arching his back to buck further into the wet warmth the glorious mouth is offering.
Castiel had observed Dean Winchester bed numerous women throughout his three decades of life, and it had always been one of the things that fascinated him most about humans - how could they find pleasure in what seemed like such a vulgar, barbaric act? But now, it all makes sense. The pieces fit. He fits. They, him and Dean, fit. And Castiel can’t help but think that this is what he was created for - not for his Father’s service, but for this.
The only clothes separating them now are both their underwear, Castiel’s black boxer-briefs a sharp contrast to his pale skin. Dean’s right arm encircles his lower back, thrusting him forward so their erections rub together in a painful chafe, and the hunter bites his shoulder to muffle his own moans of pleasure. But the angel will have none of it; there is absolutely no way they’re wasting this on mediocre dry-humping, as the humans call it - he needs more. He needs Dean. All of him.
Technically, he can rid Dean of his underwear in the blink of an eye; could’ve saved them both some time by blinking away their clothes. But Castiel likes watching Dean revealed inch by inch, and he’s not about to take the easy route when they’re getting to the good stuff. Shifting to a semi-seated position, he hooks a thumb on each side of the hunter’s underwear, kissing a hip-bone as he inches the fabric down Dean’s legs. The other man growls as Castiel’s teeth graze on his skin, pain and pleasure mixing into one. The angel stops his movements and takes a moment to study what he’s just revealed. Dean’s length is thick and long, pompous and cocky (pun definitely intended), complete with a luscious set of blond curls at the front. Castiel’s fingers lunge in the bush, tender and exploring, and the hunter lets out a throaty moan as he thrusts forwards by reflex.
“No fair,” Dean murmurs through his arousal, “you still have yours on,” his eyes lingering on Castiel’s boxers.
“Do you plan on doing anything to change that?” the angel tilts his head, and Dean swears there’s a smirk plastered and quickly wiped off his face.
“With pleasure.” The hunter replies, pushing Cas flat on the mattress. He grabs his ankles and pulls him forward, until the angel’s covered ass is met with his crotch. They both growl at the sensation, but Dean quickly recovers to set his priorities straight - and right now, number one on the list is riding Cas of the stupid boxers and fucking him sore.
“Dean, if you don’t get inside me now, I will smite you with all my heavenly might.”
And Dean really doesn’t need to be told twice, so he yanks Castiel’s underwear off and throws them across the room, not wanting to see the piece of fabric ever again. He grabs hold of Cas’ ankles once again, this time to position the long legs on his shoulders. Without further notice, he slips a finger in Cas’ tense pink hole, and the angel’s face grimaces slightly at the invasion. Ever the considerate lover, Dean kisses the inside of Cas’ left thigh to distract him, licking a shiny trail on his shaft as he adds another digit and starts scissoring. The angel’s chest heaves as he lets out a guttural, low groan that fills the entire room. He pushes himself forwards, sliding further down Dean’s fingers. And that is fucking it, Dean decides as he watches Cas spread beneath him, his used lips parted and swollen, eyes rolled back, head thrown against the pillow, body limp and hands spread to his sides and he tries to urge Dean’s fingers deeper. And it occurs to Dean that it’s quite ironic, that a freaking’ angel is the epitome of sex - and his cock cannot endure the torture any longer. It’s throbbing to slide inside, and taste the warmth of Cas’ walls.
Dean retrieves his fingers from the angel’s anus with all the will power he can muster, angling his cock at the entrance instead. He awaits Castiel’s permission, but the other male seems to be too far gone - only managing to clutch Dean’s abdominals to give his approval. Dean’s insides inflame all over again at the touch, and he slowly penetrates Castiel’s hole, feeling himself surrounded by warmth and tightness, and Oh, God. Castiel just gasps as Dean’s member inches further and further into him, throwing his head back even more, exposing his throat.
When Dean is all the way inside, he bends down to kiss his angel’s Adam’s apple, then the pulse point. “Cas. I want to see your eyes.”
Castiel’s eyes open in an instant, his blue orbs only a thin ring around the wide, lust filled pupils.
“Move.” Castiel commands, and his partner gladly obeys - and this has to be the first time Dean has actually obeyed an order coming from anyone but his father; and certainly the first time he obeyed an order from Above. Heck, if they’d give out those kind of orders more often, he’d willingly become Heaven’s bitch.
Dean thrusts out and back in roughly, realizing that virgin or not, Castiel isn’t one for the withering-flower approach. He pounds into his angel, keeping his hand on his back to keep their bodies as close as possible. Castiel bites on his ear-lobe, hands firmly placed on the hunter’s ass, teasing the hole, all the while thrusting right back into Dean, until he’s really not certain who’s fucking who here. Castiel’s hands are everywhere at once, and Dean wonders if it’s an angel thing, because Anna certainly didn’t have those kinds of skills as far as he can remember. He grabs a handful of luscious black hair, softer than ever in his hands.
“Dean.” Cas breathes out, wrapping his legs over the hunter’s torso so his dick is even deeper inside him, while his own member is brushing against hard abs. Dean’s hand descends to pay attention to the neglected fellow, stroking the underside roughly and then fondling the balls. Through his haze-clouded lids, he watches as Cas is brought closer and closer to the edge, and he just knows he’ll be more beautiful than ever when that moment comes.
The angel’s gentle hand strokes up his back, sending shivers down his spine and encouraging him to go even faster. As he pounds and pounds, sweat stinging his eyes, Castiel’s index finger ghosts at his anus, pushing inside, all the while continuing to push against Dean to keep their rhythm - and you really, really have to respect the angel for the dedication and his ability to multi-task. Dean can feel himself falling apart, and as Castiel’s finger brushes against his sweet spot, and in turn Dean’s dick does the same to the angel’s, he comes louder than he ever did before, white overcoming his vision as he experiences the most intense orgasm he’s ever had. Castiel comes within a millisecond apart, and his cries of pleasure are squeezing even more out of Dean’s dick - shooting more load than he’d thought he has. The angel’s own fluids cover Dean’s chest and neck, warm and sticky and fucking perfect. He fights to open his eyes as he experiences the last drains of his orgasm, only to see that Cas is doing exactly the same. They study each other as they ride out the aftershock of their orgasms, shades of blue and green swirling in each other until they seem to mingle and become one.
Dean collapses on top of Cas, breathing still ragged as he rests against the angel’s strong chest. They’re both panting and silent, and the hunter worries that the creature will disappear, that he is regretting what they’ve just done. Instead, Castiel places a warm palm on the small of Dean’s back, and kisses the part of his neck he can reach.
“I don’t want to pull out of you,” Dean confesses, his spent cock wanting to stay inside the angel for as long as he’ll allow it.
“Then don’t.” Castiel replies simply. He places a soft kiss on the top of Dean’s head, his hand encircling the hunter’s waist. “Sleep.’
And Dean does, using his angel’s strong shoulder as a particularly comfortable pillow. After all, he needs his rest - he has a brother to save, and an apocalypse to avert. And he’s determined to get it all done before dark the next day, so he can come back for another round with the angel.