Title: Prophetic Erotica: Chapter 6
Author : Lassroyale
Rating : NC-17
Warnings : none
Spoilers : Up to and including 4.18
Pairings : Dean/Castiel
Disclaimer : Not mine, which is really a damn shame. Kripke, you still own Supernatural and its delicious eye-candy…for now. ;)

Summary : the prophet Chuck has another series of books that he's been writing in secret about the torrid affair of an Angel and a Hunter. During one of these dreams he has a vision of a terrible plan and wants to intervene...but how can you undo prophecy?

A/N: This chapter ended up being quite different than what I intended it to be, but I also wanted it to be a contrast from the last. Because of this is only a little Crowley this time around. I don't want to force things or rush things when it can flow nicely if written properly in another chapter. Please enjoy and review!

Chapter 6

It had taken Chuck a long time to get ready the day after he had the vision of Castiel being tortured. He moved slowly, his joints stiff like he was an old man with arthritis fighting the chill of a winter day. Tension flooded his neck and shoulders whenever he closed his eyes, for his thoughts were clouded with memories of Castiel's face as he twisted on the hook, while his ears were filled with the sound of the Angel's screams.

He was haunted by it.

He had sat around in his bathrobe for a long while after the Trickster had woken him from his dream, staring blankly at a spot on his carpet while his mind toyed with the idea of completely shutting down. It would be nice to just forget everything he had seen. It would be nice to pretend that he had the option of pretending he hadn't seen what he had seen. The plain truth was that he did not have that choice.

Not for the first time, Chuck felt utterly helpless.

He did not want to write about what he had prophesized. He did not want to write it because to put it in text would make it closer to truth than he would like. It would cement the prophecy and lay the foundation for its reality. It would make him a witness to the destruction of Dean Winchester.

Chuck could not be a part of that. He would not be a part of that.

Ever since the revelation that the events in his stories were real and not the sadistic creation of his mind, the prophet had gained a new awareness to what it was that he was writing. It was now as if he felt the ache of every injury ever inflicted upon the Winchesters, the pain of their losses, and the anger of their injustices. It was as if he could finally understand the nuances of their emotions and the reasoning behind their actions as they grew and adapted to meet each extraordinary circumstance that was thrust upon them. These weren't characters. They were human – no mere humans, by any stretch, but human, nevertheless.

They had flesh and blood and breath in their lungs. They laughed and cried and questioned themselves at every turn. He knew them more intimately than they knew themselves.

And what Chuck knew with the utmost conviction, was that Dean Winchester did not deserve to lose Castiel. He did not deserve to have the part of himself he had given the Angel destroyed. And that is exactly what would happen if Castiel were taken from him in front of his eyes.

Humans were supposed to have free will and this did not seem like freedom to the prophet.

"I must be crazy to even be thinking this," he murmured to the oppressive silence of his living room. Aloud, his voice lacked the conviction he felt stirring in his heart. Chuck rose from the couch, unfolding his body, which protested his motions with the snap and pop of sore muscle. He stood, grasping at the fledgling courage he felt blossoming within him and holding onto the edges of the feeling with trembling fingers.

Prophet or not, he still had free will. Prophet or not, he would try and do something to prevent the terrible things he had seen from coming to pass.

"I am the prophet Chuck," he announced to the empty room, "and nothing is immutable."

His words echoed hollowly against the walls, like the fading whisper of dry laughter.

~~~~~ ** ~~~~~

"Who am I?"

The question hung in the air for a moment before fading away, absorbed by the hum of people going about their daily lives in blissful unawares. Dean watched the crowd flow around him with the absent interest of one who is lost deeply to their own thoughts, and whose thoughts happened to weigh quite heavily up them. He saw and catalogued bits of information he couldn't help but pick up – the two men speaking and gesticulating wildly at the west side of the park; the small, dark woman who stared at him with hooded eyes; the pair of children playing tag while their parents enjoyed the warmth of the afternoon.

"Who am I?"

The question plagued him and refused to go unanswered, for things in Dean Winchester's world were changing. As a rule, the Hunter met change with a loaded shotgun and a suspicious glare. Change meant the things he had come to know and depend on in life might not be as reliable as he so wished. Change meant that his convictions might actually be wrong.

Change meant introspection and Dean did not do well with introspection.

Now he had a question for which he was the only one could answer it : Who the hell am I?

He was a man. He was a son. He was a brother. He was the legacy of a family who protected those who couldn't do it themselves. He was a Hunter.

Dean leaned back on his elbows in the lawn where he sat, the grass yielding to accept his weight with a soft rustle. Beneath his palms he could feel each blade of grass press against the callous of his hand and the coolness of the earth beneath. Like a child, he dug his fingers deeply into the ground, relishing the trickle of dirt between his fingers as he made a loose fist.

He was a selfish bastard who took what he little pleasure he could get in this life with relish and abandon. He was stubborn to a point that went well beyond pigheadedness. At times he was chauvinistic…and yes, at times he was a goddamned asshole.

He tilted his face towards the glow of the sun, taking a keen moment of delight to simply feel the way the rays warmed his skin, the heat sinking deep into his bones. The wind sighed around him, caressing his cheeks with a cool breath and playfully plucking at his short hair.

He was…

He was a man in love with an Angel.

The admission brought with it real fear, which was an odd sensation for Dean. He was no stranger to fear, for he had seen enough in his short life to develop a healthy respect for raw sensation of adrenaline-based fear.

This however, this was different. This fear was more intimate and far more penetrating than the primal rush he felt in the thick of a fight. This fear didn't make his hands shake or his palms sweat or his heart stutter in his chest.

This fear isolated him. This fear altered him. This fear woke him in the middle of the night with irrational concern for HIM.

Dean was in love with Castiel and it terrified him to the core.

When the Angel had kissed him that night and his true voice had whispered to his very soul, the Hunter had felt a piece of him loosen and exhale. He had felt himself wrench apart with agonizing slowness, like a door opened on rusted hinges. He knew it then and he knew it now: He loved Castiel with a force that made him tremble.

So he did what he had always done and shied away. He had told the Angel to go away.

The Angel had been absent for close to two weeks and Dean thought he might actually be dying of a broken heart. He pined – fuckin' PINED – for the sonofabitch , and nothing would fix it until Castiel was back.

He was finally ready to accept the fact that he was in love with an Angel in a male vessel.

He was finally ready to accept that he was in love.

He was finally ready to accept that he was loved.


So he waited
Until the sun
Nestled itself and
Everything grew quiet as
Twilight fell.


Dean remained in the park for a long time after the air had grown cool and the park had become all but abandoned. As the moon peaked with Cheshire smile from behind a gathering of clouds, the Hunter did something he had only done once before in his life.

He prayed.

Within moments, Castiel was there, his blue eyes dark sapphire in the wan light.

"Dean," said the Angel.

"Cas," replied the Hunter.

An awkward silence settled over them and Dean could feel a wall building between them, brick by silent brick. He had to tear it down before he lost his nerve…before this thing - whatever it was - was destroyed before he said what he needed to say.

He blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"I'd sell the Impala for you, y'know." Dean winced as soon as the words left his mouth, berating himself but continued to speak, covering his words with more words. He hoped that he might get to the point of what he was trying to make, sooner rather than later. "It's my baby, okay? The only thing that my dad ever gave me freely…it's like every memory I have of my parents. She's gotten me through great times and times I wish I could forget, steady true, and reliable when nothing else in my life was. Sammy says I love her unnaturally and maybe I do. I used to think I wouldn't ever give my baby up for anything in the world…but…I'd, uh…if you asked me to do it, I would."

Castiel merely tilted his head to the side and favored the Hunter with an intense stare. He said nothing, but a faintly puzzled expression seemed to settle over his handsome features.

As Dean opened his mouth to retract what he had just said – he wasn't sure what that was anyway – the Angel held up a hand for silence. Then, amazingly, Castiel's lips curved into a small smile.

"You have an unusual way of saying things, Dean Winchester," he said, striding forward to stand directly before the Hunter, "and I love you as well."

The relief that Dean felt wash through him was drowned out quickly by a torrent of lust as Castiel kissed him roughly, his lips somewhat dry and chapped as he plundered his mouth with staggering intensity. He heard himself make an eager sound of need as Cas's tongue slipped past his lips to explore, the kiss deepening until he thought he could taste the very essence of the Angel's grace.

The first time Dean Winchester ever made love, it was with an Angel of the Lord.

He remembered some things more vividly than others, from that first night with Castiel.

He remembered the feel of the grass beneath him as it pressed into his bare back and the tickle of the dirt on his naked legs. He remembered the way the moon cast silvered light onto Castiel's pale skin when the Angel shed his clothes and hovered over him, making him appear so unearthly it was breathtaking. He remembered the feel of Cas's lips as the Angel kissed every exposed part of him, starting with his toes and working slowly upwards.

He remembered crying out and nearly losing himself right then and there, as Cas pressed his lips to his erection and swallowed him whole, breaching him at the same time with his wet, saliva-coated fingers.

He remembered the stars winking down at him from over Castiel's shoulders as the Angel filled him for the first time, taking his time - goddamned bastard - until he was so full that there was no room for himself.

So Dean had given himself away then, giving everything to Castiel until there was nothing left for him but the Angel. Everything had blurred, until the Hunter didn't know anything but the feel of Castiel moving inside him, the coolness of the sweat that dripped down his chest…the firm grip of powerful hands on the back of his thighs.

They scenery seemed to shift and warp as he felt his orgasm building, and he urged Cas to fuck him harder and harder as the sensations swept through him with no beginning or end. The Angel fucked him with deep, powerful strokes and the world dropped away.

They were in the park, beneath the star-strewn sky and then suddenly they were in his old childhood bed, the smell of fresh sheets mixed the smell of sex strong in his nostrils. With another thrust he was in the Impala, leather creaking with their sinuous movements. A groan of pleasure brought them to a nameless motel room. When Castiel bent to capture his mouth in a searing kiss, the room shifted again and they were high on a pedestal made of white marble, while servants worshiped at their feet. The Angel rocked into him harder, and then they were in a small church, the stained glass windows creating geometric rainbow patterns on Cas's skin as he thrust Dean over the edge into bliss and toppled after him.

He came in an explosion of bright golden light and a rush of heat, his spunk hot and sticky pressed between Cas's body and his own. He opened his eyes when Castiel slid out of him and rolled to his side, feeling agreeably boneless as he tried to catch his breath. The Angel shifted next to him and kissed the curve of his shoulder, lapping at the sweat that coated his skin in a cool sheen.

"Fuuuuuuuck…" Dean had moaned, rolling onto his back and drawing Cas to him. The Angel peered at him with those too-blue eyes and replied very seriously.

"That is one way to…express it."

Dean remembered laughing, light effortless laughter at Castiel's words, feeling freer than he had any right to feel.

"I love you, Cas," he said.

Dean Winchester had changed that night for when he kissed the Angel and told him again that he loved him, the words came without doubt…and without any fear.

~~~~~ ** ~~~~~

As Chuck finished typing the newest chapter of Dean and Castiel's story, he knew that he had made the right decision to intercede in what was supposedly predestined. He hadn't worked out exactly how per se, but there had to be something…

Again, the prophet fished into his pocket and pulled out the sleek looking business card the Trickster had given him bearing the name, 'Anthony J. Crowley'. This time, he picked up the phone and dialed the number.

It picked up after the first ring.

"Hello?" asked an accented male voice. Chuck tried to place the enunciation but it eluded him…though if he had to guess he'd say British – more or less. He cleared his throat and replied after a moment.

"Umm, is this Anthony Crowley?" he ventured, hoping he conveyed confidence in his tone. The voice at the other end immediately became suspicious.

"Who is this? How did you get this number?" it snapped, clearly agitated.

"Well, see, I'm Chuck and –" There was groan at the other end of the line and the voice interrupted him.

"I told him not to give you my number. Look, whatever problem it is you're having sorry, but I can't interfere in Armageddon…" Crowley paused, "again. Last there were miles of red tape to sort through and I have other things to do. Besides, bad things happen when you interfere with prophecy." A pause. "Not that I'd mind," he added. "I sort of go for the whole, 'bad things happening', at least in general terms."

Chuck sputtered and fished around for a way to explain how important it was that he (somehow) prevent what he had envisioned from coming to pass.

"You don't understand, preventing my vision from coming true is really important."

"Uh-huh," replied Crowley.

"Very important, if this happens it could affect the balance on the outcome of the Apocalypse. "


The prophet was desperate and he could feel his courage begin to flag. Despondency was starting to creep back to plague the edges of his mind, and the weight of helplessness settled back on his shoulders.

This man was supposed to help him. The Trickster wouldn't have given him Crowley's name if there wasn't something the other could do to help him. He had to believe that. He made one last bid, his voice rising with his concern.

"It's…it's…" he fished for something to say – something meaningful that would help his argument – and glanced around, nearly dropping the phone when he saw a word scrawled on his yellow notepad. It hadn't been there a second ago. He said it aloud before he realized it.


"What did you say?" asked Crowley sharply, his voice sounding less British and more...sibilant, with each syllable.

"Ineffable?" replied Chuck, looking at the word on his notepad again. There was a garbled noise from the other end of the phone. He blinked.

"Did you just hiss ?"