Summary: Dean Winchester lives his life in the cold, believing that he's undeserving. When he gets a taste of God's love, it's more than he can handle, and he makes a choice that might lead to his damnation. Or his salvation. Set after 4.02
Warnings: It's slash. Obviously. Why else would it be here? Also, slight blasphemy, which irks me when it comes out. And it's kinda dark in the beginning.
A/N: My first NC-17. Mostly rated for language, situations, and the darkness. Not description. Sorry. It started out a story to fill the space left by the lack of Impala!porn and turned into… this. I'm very proud of it. Also, the verses quoted later on is Deuteronomy 22:28-29.
Disclaimer: The show and it's characters aren't mine. I know. So sad.
He had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. Not that it would be particularly difficult to watch him in his present predicament. He was surrounded by windows on all sides, completely vulnerable, and less than a week out of Hell, too.
Dean grumbled under his breath and punched at his pillow, resisting the urge to curse his brother. Sam was the one with his panties in a twist, yet the older and more attractive man was the one curled uncomfortably into the backseat of the car with nothing more than a thin motel sheet and stained feather pillow to keep him company.
Those, and the bright blue eyes staring through the window at him. Friggin' angels.
He seriously considered not doing it, considered just rolling over and trying to go back to sleep in the cramped space… but he couldn't. He reached across and unlocked the door, pushing it open. "Get in."
Castiel slid into the backseat, careful to avoid Dean's body as the human folded his legs from the seat to the floor, and shut the door behind him. "You're not in your room."
Dean looked around the car, as if seeing the interior for the first time, eyes wide. "Really? You think?" He made sure to lace his voice with as much biting sarcasm as he could muster at- he checked his watch- two in the morning.
"Why are you not in your room?" the angel asked, as if the question hadn't been implied in his original statement.
"Had a fight."
"No." Dean rolled his eyes. "With the tooth fairy." He shot a sideways glance at Castiel, who was still watching him with that piercing, confused gaze, his head cocked to one side. "Yes," Dean sighed. "With Sam."
The angel raised his eyebrows. "I thought that Samuel, out of the two of you, would be more apt to believe."
"And he does," Dean said. "That's the problem. He doesn't believe an angel would threaten to send me back to Hell."
He was surprised when the supernatural being in question actually managed to look embarrassed. The holy tax accountant ducked his head and threaded his fingers through his hair, averting his gaze. "About that… we need to talk."
Dean felt fear clench in his chest. His lungs shriveled, his heart stuttered, his stomach curled into uncomfortable knots. He was going back. He was actually going back. Less than a week out of the pit and he'd somehow managed to fuck it all up and get his ass thrown right back in. "Shit."
Castiel looked up at that, fixing him with that stare, now equal parts guilty and curious. "What?"
The hunter just swallowed. Just stared into those endless eyes and swallowed hard, trying to remember the feeling of moisture in his mouth, of skin on his body, blood in his veins, life in his heart. "I'm sorry."
He apologized. He always apologized. Everything he did, everything he'd ever done, he felt he needed to apologize for. He didn't deserve redemption, didn't deserve a second chance, didn't deserve any of what he'd been given, and they- whoever they were- had finally realized that. He didn't know why he thought apologizing might help now. It never did.
"You shouldn't say that." And he was right again. "I should."
Dean looked at him. "What?"
"The things that I said the other night were said under duress. I had just come from battle. I didn't mean them in the way that they were interpreted."
He thought about that for a moment. "But you still meant them."
The angel sighed. "Not as a threat."
"As what, then? A show of power? A 'look at me, I'm so shiny?' Freakin' angel-boy over here. Comes in with a flash of lightning and a herald of trumpets. Ripped ya out, can send ya right back in."
"I can, but I won't."
"Not until you're done with me."
"Yeah, right." Dean scoffed. "That's what they all say." He hugged his pillow to his chest and resisted the urge to wrap the motel sheet that much tighter around himself. "That's what Sammy said."
"That I wouldn't send you back?" Castiel asked. "Or that he would stay?"
Dean narrowed his eyes. "The former. And that's none of your business."
The angel nodded, letting the conversation drop, and looked around the car. Dean watched him, waiting for him to leave, or to go back on his half-word, his half-promise, and drag him kicking and screaming back into Hell.
"It's nice in here," Castiel finally said, his inspection of the car done. "It smells nice. Like you."
Dean blinked. "What?"
"Your jacket," the angel explained. "The leather." He motioned to the seats.
"Oh. Yeah. Sure." He sighed, still waiting for something, a sign that big brother was always right, that God and angels and everything that Sam and their mother had ever believed in to balance out the bad in the world didn't exist. He waited.
"You know," Castiel said after another extended pause, "you can be wrong sometimes. It wouldn't be the end of the world."
"You gotta get outta my head."
"You're always thinking about how you don't deserve this, and you don't deserve that. How you don't feel worthy of anything or anyone. What do you think would happen if you indulged yourself one selfish desire?"
"I'd go to Hell." The answer came without hesitation, without thought. He knew it because it had happened, because he had lived it. He'd died it.
"That wasn't for yourself. You did that for Sam."
"I didn't want to be alone. Look at what happened. Hell on Earth. I can't have things."
"You don't believe that you deserve things. This is your problem, Dean. You don't see your own worth."
"That's because I don't have any." He was actually going to get into an argument with an angel over his self-esteem issues. In his car. At two in the morning. Only a Winchester, folks.
"Why do you think you were resurrected?"
"Because my life is some sick, cosmic joke that gives your God the jollies?"
Castiel shook his head, his face passive, eyes patient. "No. Because you need to see the truth. We have work for you, Dean. It is work that no one else on this Earth or below it could do. Work that no one above it could handle. You need to realize that."
"And when it's done?"
"Life goes on."
He didn't believe it, couldn't believe it, not with the fragments of memories of bone and flesh and blood and fear so fresh in his pained mind. Not when he'd been threatened the night before, been told that he'd be hurled back into the pit as cold blue eyes bored into him. "But not mine."
"Why should it?"
"Because God loves you."
Dean laughed. He'd meant for it to be a hearty sound, full of the life he knew was still ticking away, leaking out, flying by. Instead, it came out choked, wrong. "If God loved me, He would have saved me sooner. Or, you know, given me…"
"What?" The angel interrupted the pause, the one that had threatened to make Dean's thoughts wander, take on a mind of their own. "A better family? A better life? A constant lover?"
He started at that last one. "Are you guys even allowed to know about that stuff?"
Castiel smiled. "Know, yes. Practice, no. You've heard of the Grigori?"
Dean nodded. "Fallen angels. Slept with human chicks. Hope they were hot."
"They Fell because of love."
"Know what that's like."
"You have not experienced true love."
The hunter rolled his eyes and shoved the pillow into a corner. "I swear, if you start spouting off about how much Jesus loves me-"
"God's love knows no bounds, Dean."
"If you will just open your heart-"
"No." He wasn't buying it. Wasn't buying the never-ending love, wasn't buying the angel-angle, wasn't buying any of it.
"Why are you so resistant?"
"Why are you so insistent?"
"Dean." He scooted closer on the seat, invading what little space Dean had, making him back up against the stained pillow.
"You need to let God into your heart."
"If I say 'ok,' will you back up off me?"
The angel leaned closer. "You need to accept that He has a plan for you."
"You need to accept the concept of personal space."
Closer still. "You need to realize that you are loved."
Their lips connected. For a second, a brief moment in time, Dean was too shocked to react. And then it hit him. It was a warmth, bubbling up from within, strange and oddly comforting. He got lost in it instantly, falling away from rational thought and the chorus of wrongwrongsowrong in his mind.
It felt good, that warmth. Like he'd been missing it, somehow. Like it was supposed to be there and had gotten lost, but now he'd found it again, found it in… in this other person?
But that wasn't right, because it was inside him. It was so warm, so comforting, rising within. It made him feel safe, feel wanted, like maybe he could finally belong somewhere. Like maybe, for once in his miserable life, he didn't have to be alone.
And then it was gone. The angel pulled away, drew back, and that feeling left with him.
"You see?" Castiel asked. "You see God's love, Dean? The power that it holds?"
Dean stared at him- the monster- as that feeling of warmth that had risen so pleasantly within him ebbed away too quickly. It was cold in the car, and his clothes were too thin, the sheet was too thin, his skin was too thin. He didn't belong there. He didn't belong anywhere, and that one sign of comfort was just a ploy. It was a falsehood, planted on his lips to make him believe, to give him hope, and then be taken away in the instant that he wanted it most because he wanted it most.
So he stared. "I…"
"God's love is not like other love, Dean. It knows no bounds. It comes from within."
"You must believe. You must have faith. You are loved."
He blinked. "I want…"
"You'll have answers in time."
"No." He had to get it back, to get that feeling, that warmth, that sense of belonging and happiness and hope and love. He had to be wanted by someone. Anyone.
He had to feel wanted.
He'd done it before he even realized what he was doing. "I want you." He pounced.
He had the angel pressed up against the door in an instant, hands gripping the other man's shoulder's tightly, staring down at him with longing in his eyes. He was met with passive surprise, almost as if Castiel had been expecting it. There wasn't a struggle, wasn't shock, wasn't so much as a gasp.
He had to change that.
Dean Winchester wasn't used to being bossed around, not by anyone he didn't respect. And this clown? Definitely hadn't earned it. So to give him something so sweet and then rip it away? Well, he was asking for it, angel or not. Dean was never the submissive in the relationship, platonic or not, and they had just crossed that line.
He bore down, lips meeting in a kiss that was far less innocent than their first, forcing the other man's mouth open. That same warmth seeped back into his system, welling up from inside him, and he was happy to find that it was familiar now. It belonged.
He finally met resistance, as Castiel's hands wormed up to land on his chest and tried to push him away, but Dean had a height and weight advantage. He wasn't going anywhere.
"What's the matter?" he asked, breathless, daring to pull himself away from the angel for a moment, hating the way that heat died down in his system as their contact was broken. "Thought you said I should go after something for myself?"
"Go to Hell."
"Only if you come with me." He lowered his mouth back to the angel's, reveling in the way it felt. It was like walking through the front door of his old house after the first day of pre-school to find that his mom had made chocolate chip cookies just for him. She was so proud, she'd sat him down and asked him what he'd learned and told him he was so smart and that she had a surprise for him. He was going to be a big brother. It was the best day of his life. He was safe and warm and loved. He had a family. He was happy.
He'd never been so happy.
That pressure on his chest was still there, increasing now, actually pushing him up and away from the other man, threatening to disengage what he'd worked so hard for, what he'd wanted so badly and hadn't thought about, what he'd just taken. And that wasn't fair. He'd earned this. He hadn't asked to be ripped from the pit, hadn't asked to get his family torn apart at the seams. He deserved something. Anything. Love would be nice, the kind of family he'd always imagined better, but this would do for now, this feeling of actually being good enough for someone. Anyone.
He dug his nails into the thick fabric of the jacket that apparently never got taken off and held on for dear life. For dear love. He wasn't giving it up without a fight.
Neither was Castiel, and that wasn't acceptable. Somewhere in the back of Dean's mind, a single word (rape) bubbled to the surface, but he pushed it back down. He was desperate. He was cold. He was unwanted, banished to the car because an angel wouldn't threaten to send you to Hell why can't you just accept that good things happen sometimes?
Good things didn't happen. Not to him. Not unless he got ruthless and stupid and selfish and (raped) took what he wanted without asking. Not unless he did something drastic. Drastic, like distracting the angel enough to get his fill and move on with his life, get smote right on back to Hell, where fire and brimstone and endless (rape) torture awaited him.
Something drastic like sliding one hand down the angel's body, over a lean-muscled arm and chest, down to belted and buckled pants. All the while, never coming up for air, never breaking that mouth-to-mouth contact that somehow managed to sustain that warmth, that life, that sense of safety and home and belonging that sent a curl of warmth up through his belly.
He undid the buckle of Castiel's belt with one skilled hand, his mind focusing on the feeling encompassing him, the sense of belonging that had eluded him since his brother's sixth month of life. If he just focused on that, just remembered what he needed, how good it felt, then maybe it wouldn't matter that he was moving on to the button of the dark slacks, to the zipper.
But it felt so good. He felt so loved. All he could think about was getting those strong hands off his chest, getting rid of the resistance that threatened to take that feeling away from him. He slid his hand into the pants, so much nicer than anything he'd ever be able to afford with his own money, and instantly found what he was looking for.
It didn't take much work to get things started. In fact, when he took his mind off the warmth flowing through his own body he realized that he was half-hard. Him and the angel, both. Sins of the flesh.
Keeping one hand clamped on Castiel's shoulder, he wrapped the other around his cock, gripping too tightly, too desperate to keep those burning hands off his own chest. He would be the one doing the branding tonight, branding them both, sending them straight back to Hell.
And even as he stroked and pulled, he felt loved, felt warm, felt wanted. The hands that had marked him slackened and fell away. He felt himself relax- not completely, but enough to actually enjoy what he was doing, enjoy the way it felt.
He was surprised when the hands came back up, one to rest on his bicep, over the mark, the other to thread around behind his neck, pulling them closer together. He stroked and pulled and raped and kissed and licked and loved and it felt right because he felt right and for just that moment, nothing was going to change that.
He moaned a little, deep in the back of his throat, like the wounded animal he was, always had been, but maybe wasn't doomed to forever be. Maybe he could be fixed. Maybe, with just a few more nights like this, cramped up in the car, bent over an angel, jerking and thrusting and lapping and loving and falling fast, he wouldn't need the backseat of the car. Maybe he could feel like this all the time.
And the angel came, arching into him and gasping as if it had never happened before. Dean was pretty sure it hadn't. He had fucked a virgin, right there in the backseat of his baby- and not for the first time. He had raped something good and light and right and pure, and he pulled back, breathing hard, and looked at him.
Castiel was lying there, head cocked at an uncomfortable angle against the steamed-up window, eyes closed, face flushed, mouth red and swollen. Dean leaned in once more, licked at the corner of his parted lips, drew away with that last bit of warmth, of home, of belonging before finding a way to curl awkwardly beside the sleeping angel and take care of his own throbbing needs.
Hell, Cass had been right. It was about time he started caring about his own fucking self.
So, that's the end of part one. Part two should be up tomorrow. Until then, let me know what you think!