Look (says me) I've never written sex!pollen... I must rectify (hehe) this imediatly. The resultant angst was not intentional, and is probably not very sexy at all. Set early season 4
(oh – and HAPPY GODDAMN SEASON SEVEN EVERYONE!)
From the look in Cas's eyes, Dean's not even sure he remembers he's an angel anymore.
He doesn't look like one for damn sure, pale skin smudged all over with dark bruises in the shape of hands, pinching fingers, Dean's mouth. His stomach splashed and marked over and over again with trails of come, some still thick and wet, others dried thin and scaling off. Castiel's body is bent back at an impressive angle, hips anchored in Dean's lap where the hunter lies flat on the bed, Cas's back bending away to where Castiel's hands are planted on the bed on either side of Dean's knees. The angel's head is thrown back as he moans, riding down and claiming the length that anchors them together.
Dean would be thinking that Castiel barely looks conscious of his actions, let alone in control of them.
If he wasn't in exactly the same state.
He might also think, if his brain weren't currently swimming with magically induced ghost possession – that witches could fuck right off.
As it is his brain is swimming in endorphins, exhaustion and pain. He's been stripped raw, his cock sending buzzes of agony through his nerves with ever slide of Castiel's stretched and puffy flesh around it. There was tin trails of blood drying on him from his initial thrust up into Castiel's body, the harsh tearing of flesh that marked them both with blood and made Castiel cry out in pain.
The worst part of it had been, at the beginning, whilst not in control of their bodies, they had been aware. Castiel had flapped in to give them the information about a seal that he'd uncovered, Dean had been in the middle of inspecting an altar in a sorority house, where witches (fucking witches) had conjured up angry spirits.
The spirits that were currently forcing them together over and over in order to power themselves of waves of ecstatic energy.
Castiel shakes and sobs out a final, desperate sound, coming dry and painful in a twist of muscle spasm. He rocks forwards and lies against Dean's chest, panting. Dean feels the horrible roil of muscle control snap up his spine again, turning Castiel over with a pained whine and rubbing the head of his raw cock around the painfully abused flesh of Castiel's opening. Castiel lets out a choked grunt as Dean enters him again, and the hunter looks at the angel's face to see a narrow line of salt tears running from the corner of each closed eye.
His body moves without his permission, driving towards a frustratingly elusive climax that Dean knows will be just as torturous as the sex itself. His voice and mind are still his own until he's over taken by that release however, so he leans his mouth to the ear of the creature that is still such a mystery to him, the thing that raised him from hell, and who is currently writhing in half disguised, half painful pleasure as Dean rubs his prostate raw, sending hot and cold shudders through him.
"Cas..." he rasps, mouth dry from licking, sucking at tacky flesh and the salt ooze of the vessel's prick, something that's lost its disgusting nature in his mind. It's hard to maintain such delicacies when said fluid is caking his lips, beading his eye lashes, tainting the skin he laps at with his dry tongue. "Cas...Sam'll fx this." He doesn't have the strength for more. But Sam will save them, will dismantle the other altars and set them free of this compulsive need to rub and push and fuck until they're raw as bared sinew and chaffing in their own salt sweat.
Castiel's hands clasp at his back and rake their borrowed nails down the soft flesh of his shoulders and sides. Dean feels blood drip over his skin and hisses. Castiel whimpers against his throat, a moan tailing it into the air as their abused flesh continues to clench and push together.
He's fighting to dredge up English words enough to communicate with Dean. He doesn't even know Dean, he's held the pure core of him, the soul of him – but the man that surrounds that soul is still unknown to him. Castiel has had his purity, his autonomy taken from him by mere children with magical tricks. He had lost his virgin status, his strength has been sublimated by Dean, however unintentionally and there is blood drying on his thighs, seed filling him up.
He is defiled.
And all of that, all of that loss, has bought him this. Dean inside of him, soft concern in his ear and dismay on his features at every rough touch. From the first moment Dean tore at his clothing with fear in his eyes and a stuttered pleading for forgiveness in his mouth – Castiel had known that Dean felt for him.
Dean loved him, and it was perhaps, the weirdest feeling the world had yet to ply him with. Compared to that uncertain bliss, the feeling of his sphincter being torn, his body clawed at and made sore and aching? It was a pain that fell by the wayside.
Unfortunately, his mind is whirling with Enochian, and not words that Dean would understand or appreciate in his current state of half ravagedly attempting copulation. All he can say is,
"I believe you." His breath catching as Dean forces his way inside again with a low groan. Dean rests his head in the hollow Castiel's throat and tries to suck in a breath as his insides strain to produce any kind of liquid offering to accompany the snap of orgasm.
They hold each other closer and move together.
When Sam dashes the last remaining altar to pieces and the curse dissipates along with the spirits, Dean and Castiel sag like puppets with broken strings. In warm, aching calm, Castiel lies with Dean's weight half on top of him, forgetting that he can (and should) fly from this, from the filth of their coupling.
Dean wakes on his side, with a thousand hitches in his joints and muscles, and a wet trailing sensation on his back.
The bedroom is dark, the wall hangings of the unhinged bitches who kept them here are dark and stained. Dean feels a hand resting gently on his stomach, where the muscles are ripped and convulsing. The wet trail returns and he realises that someone is licking the wounds in his back.
"Cas...?" He's probably kill for some water right now and as if summoned by his desire, a plastic cup rises over his shoulder and presses to his lips. He drinks and gasps when the cup is withdrawn. The lapping at his back returns, sharp tip of a tongue tracing the long grooves of nail slashes and bringing some measure of relief.
"Castiel." He breathes out, and the hand strokes his stomach once more before rising to press to the still red, raised handprint scar on his arm – the first mark Cas had placed on him.
"I'm sorry for this." Dean murmurs. He is, he barely knows the stiffly distant angel but he never wanted to hold him down and hurt him in the ways he had experienced himself in hell. Castiel stops lapping at his back and moves a little closer, holding him firmly, and saying with his silence, that Dean is forgiven.