Title: Hiding, Needing to be Sought
Word count: 2,914, unbeta'd
Warnings/kinks/contents: sexual content, language, spoilers for 07 and beyond, Dean having feels.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Note: Winter is a great time to write fic. I become so inspired when it's grey and quiet outside. : )
I love you. I love you desperately, violently, tenderly, completely.
There's a soft pinkness to Castiel's skin that is warm under his hand where Dean touches it. He watches the way Castiel's shoulders shiver when Dean's fingers follow each knob of his spine. Dean presses down gently into the muscle, watching the skin whiten before he draws back and blood rushes to the surface, hot against his fingertips. Castiel lets out a soft hum when Dean's hand follows the line of his hip and presses his palm flat to it, curling his fingers to dig into the hip bone. There's another soft sound and Dean presses up against Castiel's back.
Castiel's face is pressed into the pillow and Dean gently pulls at his shoulder. Castiel is unmovable; concrete reinforced with steel. Dean can still feel the hitches in Castiel's breath and the way his body jumps and stutters when Dean breathes across his neck. It's some time before Castiel rolls towards him, Dean's hands sliding across slick skin as he turns into Dean's side, face into the crook of Dean's neck. Dark hair tickles the tip of Dean's nose.
Castiel does this every time – the hiding. It's careful and methodical. It looks almost practiced. He hides his face beneath his arms or into the mattress or Dean's shoulder, always seeming to look for a nook where he can make himself unseen. It makes Dean's stomach turn because it looks like shame. It looks like guilt. The ceiling yields no answer as to why when Dean stares up at it. There's a dark leak stain against the paint in one corner and a crack in the paint near the fan, but it does not speak.
"Cas?" Dean's voice grates against his throat, hoarse. There's nothing from Castiel and Dean trails his fingers through Castiel's hair and guides his head back. Half-mast, content blue eyes meet his with a tired smile. The tension Dean had regarded before is gone and he can see it in the drop of his shoulders and roll of his neck when Dean pulls his head back further and kisses him.
"Cas?" Dean murmurs again around his tongue that he pushes into Castiel's mouth, so hot and wet. Castiel groans and the shiver starts in his shoulders and runs down to his thighs and Dean feels ever last second of it. He draws back, sucking in a cold breath and tries not to think so intensely of how grateful he is that Castiel no longer tastes of Purgatory.
"Yes, Dean?" Castiel finally answers. He stretches suddenly and Dean watches the way his back arches gracefully from the bed and he yawns. The words close up in Dean's throat for a moment as he lets himself stare. Castiel's skin shines almost gloriously from the sweat that cools against his body, hair jutting out in tufts from the many times Dean ran his hands through it. Dean follows every hard line and soft curve of Castiel's frame – truly an angel in flesh – to the tender, pink opening that's still dripping Dean's come.
Dean's hand is moving before he can really give it thought, palm curving up Castiel's thigh. Castiel jumps, startled. Dean digs his nails in, leaving behind soft red marks before he follows the cleft of Castiel's ass to his hole, pressing the pads of his fingers against the rim. Castiel sucks in a harsh breath and turns his face away when it chokes back between his teeth as a moan, throwing an arm over his eyes.
"Why do you do that?" Dean asks and Castiel stops short. He peers out from beneath his arm, brow furrowed in a way that's almost endearingly confused and on the side of desperate as Dean draws his hand back.
"I am sorry, I do not under—"
"What are you hiding, Cas?" Dean asks softly. The reaction is immediate. The rigidness sets in at Castiel's knees as they lock tight and it courses upwards through the rest of him, chest stilling and face going impeccably blank.
"There is nothing I am hiding." Castiel replies, voice even. Dean knows he's prying and from the look – or lack thereof, really – on Castiel's face, he knows that he's digging for something Castiel has tried to bury away in hopes that no one will see. But Castiel, newly restored angel and yet so newly human at the same time, is an open book with any new emotions.
It also makes him a terrible liar.
"Don't do that, Cas." And Dean is frustrated and feels hurt because it had taken so much to forgive Cas, and it's taking so much more to trust him again. He doesn't say these things out loud, but knows at the same time that he doesn't have to. Castiel's eyes flicker across his face and then dart away. He goes to sit up and Dean grabs his arm. Castiel stares down at it and for a moment, Dean is heavily aware of the fact Castiel is still somewhat of an otherworldly creature and could snap off his arm without blinking if he felt like doing so. But Dean doesn't let go.
"I do not understand what it is that you do not want me to do." Castiel says.
"I want you to stop lying and talk to me," Dean has a hard time trying to control the bite in his words. They've been here before, sitting in the motel room across from each other – I'm afraid I might kill myself – with Sam walking through the door. But damn it, Castiel knows what he is doing and Dean can see it in his eyes. The face is set carefully without emotion, but what was that old saying? Eyes are the window to the soul, Dean thinks bitterly.
"I am not lying—"
"Hiding something is the same thing as lying. Just because I don't ask and you don't say anything, doesn't mean it's not lying," Dean has to keep his voice down because Sam's in the adjoining room. But he's mad now and can feel it creeping hot in his skin and up his neck and into his face. Castiel is pulling from Dean's hand and there's a note of panic in his movements as he sits on the edge of the bed. Dean swears angrily and Castiel's shoulders square themselves.
"Damn it Cas, are you ashamed?" Dean breathes out, hot and bitter, "You hide every time." The words hit somewhere deep in Castiel and Dean can see it when his back straightens, "You can't even look me in the eye when we kiss, much less when we fuck." Castiel's head whips around to stare at Dean with a moment of disbelief and Dean meets it, furious.
"Dean, I am not—" Castiel turns back to him and Dean cuts him short.
"You have a real way of showing it."
"Dean, I am not ashamed." Castiel's voice drops down, almost a growl and it's dangerous. Dean pauses a moment, meeting the ferocity of Castiel's eyes. There's a hurricane hidden in the depths and it's angry and strong, seeming to blend with the rest of Castiel's face; lips drawn into a tight line, brows knitted together. Dean scoffs and's he's sure he sees lightening.
"If this doesn't make you feel humiliated or—"
"Or mortification or some sort of fucked up ill repute—"
"Then why the fuck do you hide?"
"Because I am overwhelmed!" Castiel shouts, his voice filling the room, a booming sound that makes the panes of glass in the windows rattle in their frames. Dean freezes. Castiel is kneeling on the bed, eyes intent on the scrunched covers. His hands are loosely fisted upon his knees, but his face is upset and angry and surprised and so many things at once that Dean loses count. Castiel's face pinches for a moment and Dean can see his nostrils flare. More importantly, he can see the way Castiel's arms twitch, like he wants to bring them to his face and shield it, find some sort of physical barrier to keep him from being seen.
It takes Dean a long time to figure out what the words mean. He knows the exact moment he does, before he even breathes out the word, "Oh," because Castiel's face suddenly unravels with relief and embarrassment.
"I have never—" Castiel tries to start and Dean finds it almost endearing in the way the slender fingers grasp and unfold as he flutters for words. Dean thinks he can hear feathers rustling.
"Oh, Cas," is all Dean can sigh out and there's the familiar flush of heat running up Castiel's neck and into his face. He gets it. He gets it like he's gone face first into a brick wall, an unmoving and solid force, too large to miss and Dean wonders how he never noticed it. Castiel's eyes tear away first, the silent staring contest over, "Cas, why didn't you—"
"Because it is all so new and I did not know how to approach you because I did not have the words to describe what I was feeling." Castiel's words nearly slur together with the speed they come out of his mouth. Castiel's a being far older than Dean likes to imagine, remembers Castiel recalling the birth of the sun, how warm it had been and Dean tries to forget that the hot star is over four billion years old.
And Castiel has watched the creation of everything and he's seen humanity since its beginning. He knows how humans need, how they want, how they push and tug, and yet give, give, give until others are strong enough to pull. Dean knows Castiel knows. He's not stupid. Castiel might fall asleep at inappropriate times, be too honest to a fault, not quite understand the concept of feeling quite yet, but he's known about humans longer than Dean's family first rooted the earth. Castiel knows about sex; the mannerisms, the methods, and, what Dean found hilarious, everything from the body's internal to the external reaction during. He's gotten the impromptu lecture more times than he has fingers.
So, Castiel knows about these things – but yet, he doesn't know them. He's not supposed to know them. He'd never planned on knowing them and then, the angel had pulled his sorry ass out of hell and the rest was history; a tangled, red-thread-of-fate kind of history.
Castiel's still staring at the floor, wide-eyed and suddenly so out of his element. Dean feels himself sober, the previous anger flickering out like an already dying flame. He cools, feels it seep into his skin. He wonders how he missed it. Humans have the innate urge to be touched, to touch, to feel. Emotions were sticky and messy and so wonderful and he'd known them all his life. They were still confusing and heavy.
But for someone who has seen the birth of the universe and some billion years later has never felt a fucking thing is suddenly thrown from their home, sinking well over their head into humanity and all that comes with it? Well, yeah – it's got to feel a little like drowning.
"I apologize that I did not tell you." Castiel's voice is quiet, enough so that Dean's not sure he even said it when he looks up at the angel. Castiel has gone very still, face pointedly blank and that's as much as hiding as throwing his face into blankets or Dean's neck. Dean feels himself growl. Startled light sparks in Castiel's eyes, but he remains where he kneels when Dean crawls over and closes the space between them. He grasps Castiel by the shoulder with one hand, the nape of the neck with the other and crushes their mouths together.
"Don't hide anymore, Cas." Dean grinds out. He fists a hand into Castiel's hair, feeling the fine strands comb through his fingers. Castiel whimpers, the sound swallowed by Dean's mouth.
"Dean – please – I am sorr—" Castiel tries to speak around Dean's tongue, but can't. Dean doesn't want him to talk. It distracts him from falling open, from letting Dean curl his fingers into the cracks in the brick wall and tear it down, chunk by chunk, fanning away the smoke. He pushes Castiel back, pushes and pushes until the angel moves and falls. There's a moment of panic in Castiel's eyes as his body is weightless in the air – falling – and then Dean smothers Castiel's body with his own, pushing him into the mattress.
"No more Cas, no more," Dean whispers words into Castiel's skin against his neck and feels the choked sob twist past Castiel's lips from the bobbing of his throat, "Please, Cas," Dean hears himself beg and can't be deterred to not. Castiel's shaking beneath him as Dean finds each hard curve and twist of his body, running over flat planes and smooth skin, muscles jumping beneath his fingers, "Please, no more."
Dean crawls the expanse of pale skin in front of him and pries open the shell with his mouth and tongue, running teeth across salted skin in action that his throat could never find the words to form. His hands mark a language never spoken against hot flesh, that he knows Castiel understands is just for him and arches into it with promise.
"Yes, Dean." Castiel groans out when Dean's fingers push inside of him, push and twist and he's screaming, still slick with Dean's come.
"Promise me." Dean breathes and pleads into his mouth all at once. There's another thrust of fingers, pushing hard, a delicious drag as they pull out. Castiel's crying, tears too hot and stinging his cheeks as they stream down. He wants to hide, feels the surge of his body as he struggles not to throw his arms over his face. It's all so much; his skin tingles and dances, chest too tight to draw air, heartbeat and blood rushing in his ears and it's all so hot and he loves Dean Winchester more than words could possibly convey.
"I promise." Castiel chokes out and Dean kisses him, fingers gone and leaving him empty before he's guiding himself inside. Castiel hisses, Dean's cock filling him, stretching him and then there are hands running up his arms and forcing them above his head. Palms flatten against his forearms and brace them down.
"Dean—" Castiel whimpers and arches beneath him, knees drawn up under Dean's arms as Dean breathes harshly above him. Dean's face is exposed to his, mouth somewhat slack, eyes squeezed shut and how did humans do this every day of their lives? Unconsciously, Castiel's arms tug at Dean's grip and he feels the hands tighten and nails dig in as Dean rolls his hip and flattens him further into the bed.
It's slow, Dean breathing into his neck as the drag of his cock in short, canting thrust pushes the head against Castiel's prostate. He doesn't stop, milking stimulation until Castiel is nothing short of a sobbing, whimpering mess, jerking beneath him and pulling desperately at his arms as he feels open and vulnerable and—
"God, you're beautiful." Dean breathes out, hips pumping with earnest now, fucking him nearly into the headboard as it slams against the wall. The fill of Dean's cock inside of him burns and Castiel can't barricade the noises any longer as those words swirl through him. He spreads his legs further, pulls Dean's cock deeper and squeezes and Dean lets out a choked curse, slamming in now, just as desperate.
Castiel's feels panic rise in him as Dean's thrusts shorten again, sharp, twitching thrusts against his prostate and it's too much and he's suddenly scared, face too open, all of this too much—
And Dean kisses him, breathes into his mouth and tells him it's okay, that he's got him and Castiel can't help the series of "Ah-ah-ah," when he comes untouched, spilling between them, legs jerking at Dean's sides. Dean groans, pushing forward and trapping Castiel to the mattress as he fucks into him with earnest and need, hands braced beneath Castiel's back as he brings them together, slick skin sliding.
Dean comes with a shout, buried in heat that's so tight and slick with his own come and so fucking perfect when he feels Castiel flutter around him, body so sensitive. Dean drags it out until Castiel's pushing at his chest, murmuring about too much, too much before Dean pulls out and hums, landing heavily on the mattress.
It's silent for a long time and Dean thinks maybe Castiel is more human than they'd first thought, that he might be sleeping, but when he looks over, Castiel is staring at him. There's something raw in that look, words going unsaid between them, thanks and adoration and what Dean truly thinks might be love because something about Castiel niggles at him in a way that nothing else has; something protective, something fierce, something passionate, something terrifying.
"No more." Dean's voice is gruff and Castiel nods, face unchanging and warm.
"No more." Castiel repeats and Dean reaches out an arm.
You would ask how I could be so certain. But some things can't be measured by time. Ask me an hour from now. Ask me a month from now. A year, ten years, a lifetime. The way I love you will outlast every calendar, clock, and every toll of every bell that will ever be cast.
Lisa Kleypas, A Wallflower Christmas
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