Anon's been at it again! He's good, gives me lovely prompts to work with so how could I say no to this one? Angst of the angsty variety with a side order of schmoop and plot that really had no place in what was supposed to be a piece of PWP. Then again I started this before 6.10 and then watched 6.10. I was reduced to a helpless pile of goo by many things in that episode and so had to reference it. A lot. So, yeah, big (ish) spoilers for all of season 6 to be safe.
Disclaimer: The contents of my brain created this piece of fanfic. It's not safe to be put on the tv because I would probably damage much of the human race with the things lurking in the deep. Therefore, it's safe to assume that since the products of my brain are not happening with satisfying regularity on the show that I don't own it or the boys. More's the pity, really.
Let It Go.
It has been a hard few weeks for Dean. With little respite and no good news the hunter has found that he is having a hard time adapting to the circumstances he finds himself in. Sam has no soul, his grandfather has returned from the dead and Dean has been working for Crowley, of all the demons in creation. He has spent so much time watching out for Sam, playing Jiminy to his Pinocchio, that he has had little time to himself. He needs and he wants, has spent a lot of time loyal to Lisa even though she no longer wants him, has been alone for so long that it is almost unbearable.
He wakes early in the morning, when the false dawn is just beginning to start, steely grey half light flooding through the crack in the curtains and he is alone. With Sam as he is, sleepless and soulless, this is nothing new. It is not unusual for him to wake and find that Sam has vanished in the middle of the night, restless and bored now that he has to wait in a bar or a near dark room for Dean to recharge. This time he wakes half hard, his mind still spinning with the part formed images of a broken dream and a need that is filled with blue and black and the gravel of a voice that shoots straight to his groin.
It is the work of a moment to decide to take advantage of the brief period he is alone for once, a moment where he slides his hand under the simple black t-shirt he has chosen to wear to bed and viciously kicks at the blankets to leave them lying in a heap on the floor. Rough fingers circle gently around his nipple, teasing and searching as he half resolves to take his time. It has been too long since he has had the time to do this and he needs more than a quickie beneath the sheets. He pinches lightly at the sensitive nub, rolls it between his fingers as his other hand drifts to the waist band of his boxers, tracing the skin above the elastic for a moment before pushing them down just enough to free his erection from the suddenly too tight confines of black cotton.
The first press of his hand against hot flesh is a rush of pleasure that he has not allowed himself for days, a moment where everything is bright need and heated movement. The palm of his hand is cool where it has rested above the sheets for long hours, a startling contrast to the heat of his erection. For a while everything narrows down to the sharp strokes and random twists of his hand as he moves it along his length. For a long moment everything is the too bright of building pleasure and the need to reach that peak, that pinnacle where all pain and anguish is forgotten for a moment of bliss.
In his mind he can see large blue eyes, messy dark hair, a delicately formed hand that replaces his own. He can hear the soft breathing and rapidly beating wings of an angel so real that it almost shatters the illusion, rips the fantasy apart into something that would be frightening. He is close, so very close, huffs of a name escaping his lips without thought or acknowledgement as his hand abandons his nipple in favour of drifting down, of bypassing the one that still moves with an increasingly fractured rhythm to press lightly at his entrance. It is enough, just enough, to take the edge off and bring him back from bright and hard.
Everything is muted now, the soft haze of pleasure denied and yet so very close. A gradual build up to something just perfect enough, as much as he will ever get from the object of his fantasy and the name on the tip of his tongue.
"Dean?" The voice cuts through the air, thick and heavy and too much but still too little.
"Cas?" A question, a name choked out through vocal chords that seem to only want to moan. That voice, one that sounds like the owner has been screaming for days, tips him closer, tilts the warm haze closer to sharp and brilliant. He cannot be certain if he is questioning the presence of the angel or asking him closer.
"Yes, Dean." There is the rustle of fabric, the soft fall of a shoe on the carpet. The presence of this being, Dean knows, is not a figment of his imagination. Still, seeming of it's own volition, his hand moves and twists, strokes and squeezes with just the right pressure. He finds that he is too close to care. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" He demands, voice hard and broken. He is aching now, for release or for this angel he cannot be sure. "Don't tell me that you didn't see this in that porno you watched."
His hand has slowed, almost halted, allowing everything to ease once more as he cracks open his eyes. Castiel is staring at him, pupils blow wide with something that Dean hopes is lust. His expression, however, is confused and he glances down at his body's reaction to the show in front of him. It makes Dean grin, makes him start the soft stroke of his hand once more, rubbing his palm over the head of his erection to feel the slip-slide of precum there. The angel's eyes follow the movement, his tongue poking out from between chapped lips to lick a stripe of moisture across them.
"Like what you see?" Dean asks, adding a slightly sharper twist to the upward stroke and feeling his hips lift from the bed at the rush of sensation.
"I.." Castiel does not finish his sentence, taking a step closer and seeming to hesitate. "I should leave," he says finally and Dean fixes his gaze on his friend.
"No," the hunter breathes, "stay."
This is not enough, suddenly, just touching himself in this way and enjoying the sensation that his hand creates is not enough to satisfy him. He may have never considered the possibility of Castiel with his grace intact being interested in sex, but Dean saw the way that the angel reacted to the porn in that run down house. Dean saw that way that Cas slammed Meg against that wall as he kissed her and a part of his brain tells him that if the angel were to kiss him with half the intensity he would shatter under him. He stills, stares at Castiel in the hopes that the need and the challenge in his eyes will entice the angel to stay, allows himself a moment to gather his wits as close to together as he can before sitting and reaching for his friend. Grabbing hold of the trench coat he pulls Castiel to him, sees the tent in his black dress pants that shows just how much the angel enjoyed what he had been seeing.
Castiel does not resist, does not prevent the hunter from pulling him close. Dean uses his handful of coat to pull himself upright, to steady himself on legs that do not quite want to hold as he looks down into blues eyes that hold all the confusion and need of a being who does not know what to do about it.
"Stop me," he whispers before capturing Castiel's lips with his own. It is not that he wants to be stopped, as such, just that he knows if he does not make Cas aware that the choice in this is his it is likely that this whole thing could go very wrong. For a long moment the angel is still, for a long moment Dean thinks that perhaps he has not read his friend so well after all. Then Castiel's lips are moving beneath his, strong hands are grasping at the fragile black t-shirt that still covers Dean's chest, and the angel is crowding against him.
Everything is desperate now, the fumble of fingers that will not obey and the shift of clothing that simply gets in the way. It is the clash of teeth and hands that grip hard enough to bruise. By the time that both are naked Cas is thrusting against him, the press of his erection hot against Dean's thigh, and the hunter wants. They separate only for a moment as they tumble onto the bed, everything else forgotten in the heat and the vibrancy of the moment. There is nothing, now, but them. The dance of Dean's hunt calloused fingers on Castiel's soft, pale, skin. Dean's breathless cries that are accompanied by the wondering gasps of the angel, the hunter's name a prayer on holy lips. This is the hot press of the angel against him, the pressure of another body above his that is so good and too much forgotten. This is everything that Dean has missed since Lisa and everything that he has wanted since long before her.
Eventually Dean reaches between them, rolling them so that they are on their sides facing one another and breathing the same air. His hand closes around them, pressing their erections together in a wave of hot and bliss that has Castiel exhaling a startled gasp that the hunter takes in before pressing their lips together again. There is nothing chaste about this kiss as he strokes them together, twisting his wrist a little and relishing the feeling of them together. All too soon everything is bright again, white flashing and overtaking him as the surprised sound of Cas shouting his name fills the hunter ears. Dean has been on edge for what feels like days and as blinding light explodes behind his eyes, wetness flooding between them, he can only think that he would like to do this with Castiel again.
He seems to float down as he trades sloppy kisses with the angel, running his hands down Castiel's chest as he feels the racing beat of the vessel's heart. After a long moment he opens his eyes, meets the blue of Castiel's and smiles at him. Cas frowns, eyes squinting a little as he seems to think.
"Is this the part where I spank you?" The angel asks and Dean huffs a laugh.
"No, Dumbass," he mutters, his words all affection as he kisses his friend again. "This is the part where we go to sleep and you're still here when I wake up."
The hunter is still in that moment of post orgasmic bliss, the perfect second where all is right in the world and nothing is too sappy so long as he can feel wanted for a moment. Castiel gazes at him for a long moment, blue eyes soft in the half light of dawn, then settles onto his back and closes his eyes.
Honestly, the schmoopy bit right there? No clue. Poke the button?