I have an excuse for this, I blame my sister who, in the wisdom of the sick and feverish, decided that watching Friends while I was trying to write the next chapter of my most recent fic was a good idea. I hate Friends with a holy passion and begged for Cas to come forth and smite it. He didn't so I had to find another way of getting my grove back. Music is my friend and my enemy. Having listened to most of my Dean/Cas themed list I found Bad Things by Jace Everett and after listening to it on a loop for an hour and a half while the horror of Friends droned on in the background and I blushed red to the roots of my hair, this was born. Then edited, and it somehow became something other than the fic I had envisioned, I don't know how. It does, however, deserve it's rating.

Disclaimer: If I owned them this would be irrefutable canon rather than the products of my brain, I think it is safe to say that it is not canon, though I dare everyone to gues which scene inspired it.

Edited: In the interests of playing with the bunny that has eaten away at my ankles I have changed the end ever so slightly to tie in with 5.10. Plot Bunny and I are going to have a long chat now.

Bad Things.

Dean thinks that he should be getting used to this, the way that every time he sees Castiel these days his breath hitches, the way that it stumbles or stops completely each time the angel gets into his personal space. He tells himself that it is because the angel is stood too close, that he has no concept of how close he is getting rather than that he has any idea what it does to him, because Dean does not understand it, not really, just knows that once Castiel is gone he needs some serious alone time.

Now that Sam is not here that is not the problem that it used to be, except that it is still a problem all things considered. He wonders, once he is spent and scrubbing hard at his own skin to try and wash away the relief and bliss, whether the angel brought him back wrong, whether the part of him that was left behind in the pit was the part that would tell brain, body and heart that this is wrong. It does not matter, because there is still the lust and the desire and the need and whether he was put back together wrong or not it does not change anything, is too late for it to change anything.

Point here being, and he has a point by the way, his brain is not just one track all porn and hunting all the time, that this is the kind of thing that, Michael's vessel or no, gets him smote and sent to straight back to Hell on a one way ticket. Completely and utterly one way, no get out of jail free cards this time, just death and torture and endless longing for real death. So he keeps it all in his head and maybe there is an endless supply of porn in there, because he can certainly come up with enough fantasies to get him off once Castiel is actually out of the room and still mercifully oblivious to Dean's need and desire and damn near blasphemous thoughts. At least, Dean hopes that he is oblivious.

So when Castiel pops in again, and this time close enough that Dean cannot turn because they are all but pressed together and that is doing something to a certain part of his anatomy that he does not want the angel to see, ever, he cannot help but feel trapped. He swallows, tries twice to speak, to tell Cas to back off and the words stick in his throat as the angel rubs against him, breath ghosting hot against the back of his neck and hands that normally hang limp at his sides beginning to trace up Dean's arms, arms that are supporting all of his weight as he tries to keep himself upright given that at this precise moment he does not trust his trembling legs to keep him from crashing to the ground.

"Dean," Castiel's voice is little more than a whisper of need and lips are pressed against the back of the hunter's neck where he suckles for a moment before licking the sensitive area softly and if Dean were coherent enough he would ask the angel where he picked up such skills given that the trip to the whorehouse was less than productive in that area. He is not, coherent, however, in fact, coherency abandoned him in about the same moment as Cas muttered his name and he can feel something digging into the back of his thigh and he has a feeling that it is the same thing that is currently tenting the front of his own, suddenly too tight, jeans.

Castiel's hand slides the edge of Dean's t-shirt up his arm, comes to rest on the scar there and traces the outline, fingers feather light and ghosting over it and that, right there, that almost makes Dean lose it utterly and he moans something that even he cannot translate. For one horrible moment he thinks that he may have finally lost his mind, that this is either a really vivid hallucination or a seriously messed up dream and then Castiel bites into his shoulder and the pain of that, which is quickly replaced by something else because apparently Cas likes to lick as well as bite, makes him realise that this is real and wherever this came from is remarkably unimportant, because this is Castiel and at this precise moment he is fulfilling at least one of Dean's fantasies.

Then the angel's hands are gone from his arms and drifting up Dean's sides, bringing the soft cloth of his overworn t-shirt with them, and as much as he does not want to let go of the sink for fear of falling, he does, because he wants the t-shirt off more and for the first time he looks in the mirror, meets the blue of Castiel's eyes even in the mist of the cool glass and holds them until soft black cuts off his vision for a moment.

It occurs to him that the angel is doing all of the work here and he tries to turn as he hears fabric hitting the floor, is surprised when Cas stops him with a murmur and the feel of teeth on skin as he nips his way down Dean's back, licks his way back up again and if that were not so hot that it makes the hunter close his eyes again and moan, he would notice that the lingering pressure of the angel against his back is gone, that even though the tongue swirls and draws over a back that arches a little more as he is nuzzled to lean over the sink again, hands are not involved in the equation.

When he hears the clink of a belt he comes back to himself, the pull of a zipper tells him how far this may go and as much as he wants to, has done for a long time, he should stop it, because his brain is screaming wrong and his body is screaming right and a part of him is saying that he wants it and needs it and that he should go with it.

"Cas," it is meant to be a warning, meant to ask him to stop before this goes further, it does not come out like that. What it actually comes out as is a broken cry and hoarse whine. He is so hard he aches, is desperate for the touch of another, or himself at this point he is not exactly picky, and when he feels Castiel's hands brush against the front of his jeans he forgets why he thought this was a bad idea, because even his brain is on board with the idea now, and he bucks into Cas's waiting hand, feels the tension released for a moment as the angel undoes belt, button and zipper, rocking in time with the now steady thrusts against him and he wants this.

He whines the angel's name again as his jeans pool at his feet and he steps out of them awkwardly, kicking them to one side and leaning more heavily forwards as he feels Castiel's erection against his back, spies a questing hand out the corner of one eye as Cas pushes him down onto his elbows, kicks his legs apart and Dean takes a chance to glance into the mirror again, still able to see the rough haze of moving bodies and the blue of Castiel's eyes.

Whatever the angel was looking for has been found, he realises, hearing the gentle click of a cap being opened even over harsh breathing that is coming from both of them, and then there is something cool against his entrance and he gasps as a finger is pushed slowly inside, cool and slick and it hurts, makes him groan with a pain that is quickly soothed by a soft kiss at the base of his spine and a curious hand on his weeping erection that has been neglected for far too long.

They continue like this, Castiel stroking and stretching, licking, biting and kissing and all Dean can do is moan and whimper, he wants to touch, wants to reach back and pull Cas into a kiss or return the favours bestowed upon him but every time he tries his hands are batted away. When the angel strokes against something inside him that makes him see stars, Dean forgets to care, feels the angel do it once, twice and by the third time he is so close to the edge that another will bring him crashing over it. Which is when everything stops, the three fingers that fill him are removed, the hand that strokes him vanishes and slowly Dean starts to come down, teeters away from the edge enough to hear a breathless moan and hiss of his name before a slick hand his at his hip and something bigger than fingers is sliding into him.

Cas pauses, gives him a moment to adjust, hands tight on his hips until Dean wriggles a little, hears a soft gasp and the angel moves and he has never felt anything quite so incredible. In the misty mirror, eyes that should not be able to see each other connect, hold the others gaze and all they know is the shooting build of pleasure.

As if he knows what Dean needs, Castiel reaches round and grasps his erection once more, stroking him as he finds that place inside again and it is enough. All at once Dean is screaming as his orgasm rushes over him, can hear Castiel calling his name as he follows. He collapses onto the sink, feels Cas leaning heavily on him and he cannot bring himself to care as he finally draws in a breath he had forgotten he could take.

The soft press of lips against his scar and the shift of the weight on top of him alerts him to Castiel's withdrawal and he moves a hand that seems heavy and sluggish to grasp at him, hisses the angel's name, asking him to stay without actually saying the words and Cas presses a kiss to the centre of his mark.

"I will return, Dean," he whispers and in a moment Dean is alone.


Castiel stares at the blonde haired man, chest heaving, blue eyes almost black and trembling hard against the last vestiges of his orgasm.

"I can give you that," Lucifer smirks to the angel, "if you join me, when I win I promise not to kill him. He will be yours."

Castiel shakes his head. "No," he whispers.

"You will change your mind, you're mine now, tainted with lust and the sins of the flesh. Enjoy him while you have him." Lucifer is gone and Castiel is alone and he wonders if the words were true for a moment as he looks at the ring of fire that surrounds him.

I get the feeling that there is a bigger plot here, buried deep in my brain where I hope it will have the decency to stay for a while. At least until I have more time and have stopped turning an unbecoming shade of red every time my sister asks me what I'm writing.