Foreword: I'd like to place at least four years into the End!verse, where Castiel's become something similar to a transcendentalist on drugs and Dean's turned himself into a soldier. ALSO NOTE THAT I SAID THE END!VERSE, which means that the characters - while still Castiel and Dean, somewhere - are not the same as those of the canon incarnation. (Though, as Lucifer said, it matters not what details we alter, we'll end up here)

This is also my first attempt at real, actual porn. And it is also PWP. (With slight character study elements) So... ah, be kind? Title from Dragonfly by Ziggy Marley. Though it's usage is admittedly frivolous and used liberally!

Hey Miss Dragonfly

[and I wonder how you survive, with the environment going down the drain]

It starts from the end, like a windfall in reverse, a brief catch in the snatch of the glass-edged periphery of his torn-off wings.

There is an apocalypse, and there is an end, and there is a Devil, and no Michael, and there's drugs, orgies and dystopian destruction all around the world. The only other thing they need is for the world to tilt wrong on its axis, or for it to fall away into the immense nothingness that is the Universe. Whatever that really is.

Castiel doesn't remember Creation, and he barely remembers Heaven. What he does remember plays back like an old film reel, like it went and happened to someone else, to another person. An Angel with wings and a halo and whatever is missing inside of him.

What he's got is a broken foot, a soul scraped clean of celestial essence and Grace, and a great desire to find whatever's laying around to fill up the vast cavity that is his erroneous core.

Instead, Dean finds him, and the whole process of wiping up Dean's messes starts over again. The grand vicious cycle.

"Most people knock," Castiel says, from the floor, rolling roach paper between his fingers. It's so difficult to get it tight, packed in. Consistent. He handles it with the impatience of a child. "It's considered common courtesy," He wants to throw it across the room. "Dean."

He tacks on Dean's name like a prayer, with a little benediction in it that's a near echo of what he used to be. (what he could've been, though he says that part to himself and only alone, with all his wrath latching onto it like a vise.)

There's something stormy about the air around Dean; dark and twisty and all kinds of taciturn, and Castiel feels it like a gravitational pull. An equilibrium knocked so graciously out of balance.

"Get on the bed." Dean is gruff, stiff, and curt.

Castiel takes a moment to appreciate (loathe) the man that looms above him, and smirks, bares white teeth and covers-up the way his stomach lurches like he's been caught in turbulence.

"Mission go especially... wrong, today?" And yes, there is a snippet of insensitivity in there, but Castiel blames Dean, just a little. For all of this. For the Crotes, for the damned Apocalypse. For Sam, even. So he's allowed, he has the right, to wheedle their fearless leader, if only to cover up how timorous he really feels inside.

Dean's face hardens up, like a cocoon, and Castiel sets his dirt grass aside with the kind of care you gave newborn children and that's when Dean all but yanks him up by the collar of his shirt, all but shoves him forward and down.

"Take that," Castiel says, with his face against a pillow and a hand pinching the nape of his neck. "As a yes, then." And there is a hand spider-crawling up the back of his shirt and Castiel sort of just relaxes, lets the way his sheets smell wash over him like a balm.

Dean pauses for a second, with a hand around Castiel's abdomen. And Castiel groans irritably, muffled.

"They killed Klara." He tells him, and there's a little bit of bitterness on Dean's tongue.

"A shame," Castiel replies, and oh yes, he remembers Klara. He remembers her long legs and her neediness for something more fulfilling and yeah, he really remembers her. And it is a shame. A damn shame. "She was the leggy brunette, right?"

That vexes Dean back into motion, and Castiel is grateful for it, for the fingertips that yank at his belt. He moves a bit to pull his shirt over his head, throws it into the room like the rag that it is, rolls his hips back, brushes up against half-hard fabric and smiles (grins and bears it) into the plush beneath him when Dean makes some sort of pleased sound. Not a groan or a moan but something so especially Dean, and it vibrates throughout Castiel like a reward.

The fingers on his hip tighten and squeeze, and Castiel writhes like he is being dragged up and out of something. (perdition, maybe, hilariously) Squirms almost petulantly, and rolls himself over so now he's being straddled by Dean, looking up into those eyes.

He wonders, sometimes, if and when he noticed Dean's metamorphosis. It's times like these, with all that primal agony spread out before him like a motel brochure, that it occurs to him. Those thoughts circle his head, provide some kind of exposition for the actions that occur later in the night between the sheets.

Castiel holds his breath like he's bearing smoke, and braces himself for the kiss, one hand snaked around Dean's neck and a thumb up against that Adam's apple. He does not close his eyes, appreciates instead the way that Dean does, moving into a role.

Dean Winchester tastes like alcohol and war, and he feels like hellfire.

Dean's hand knots in the back of his head, tugs up a handful of dark hair and Castiel breathes into him, feels the slightest hitch and catch in the center of his throat, the way the heat pools in his stomach. He laughs, just a bit.

At himself, at Dean, at this whole situation - he doesn't quite know anymore. Maybe it never mattered, in the first place.

Castiel pulls away just in time for Dean to growl into his ear, a question, "Lube?"

"Nightstand," Castiel replies. "Dean."

And Dean pulls over him, clambers to roughly tug drawers open and pull out the necessary essentials. A toothpaste-tube sized packet of lube (frugally conserved for only the most focal of occasions) and a cheap condom.

Castiel stirred, set about the task of unrolling Dean's shirt from the hem of his pants and up, smelling sweat and battle and old liquor, letting it fall to the ground beside the bed.

He took in the sight of Dean, always happy to savor the little time he could appreciate the man without all the burden of clothes. He leaned upwards, pulled Dean down by the shoulders and ground up against him, promiscuously.

Dean's eyes squeezed shut, and he issued a low groan, "Cas."

"I'm ready, Dean." Castiel said, heart fluttering ever so slightly. How long had it been since he'd last heard "Cas"? "Let's go."

Dean sets the lube and the condom aside, works on Castiel's belt with fingers that are nearly expert, and he hisses when the pressure's relieved, just a bit. With his back against the bed and his eyes skywards, Castiel just tries to relax, to ease the sudden tension that's all packed up in his muscles.

The belt falls with a clunk, and Dean pulls Castiel out of his pants - heavy workman's jeans, with thick pockets stuffed with teeth-colored pills - and the cold nips just a bit at the edges of his skin. It jerks him back into motion, makes him release the breath he didn't realize he was holding in. Dean sort of just lets his gaze wander, all over Castiel's skin, a slow crawl.

"Don't trawl, Dean," Castiel breathes, blinks in the afternoon light. "It's a little weird."

Dean just kisses him, looming over him like the cosset Castiel never wanted, and slides in just a little bit of tongue. Apprehensive but appreciative, Castiel moans in return, snakes a hand down and over the bulge in Dean's pants, rubs up with a steady palm.

There are fingers in his briefs, then, and Dean pulls them down. Exposed, he feels entirely vulnerable. And then, there goes Dean's head, down and down and-

Castiel let out a muffled gasp, breath catching up on his throat, because Dean's got his mouth around his cock and it just is all right, then. Everything just seems to fall in place for a moment and it's great. Life kicks back for a bit and all of a sudden there is just this.

Dean glances up, through thick eyelashes and for a second Castiel almost swears he can see just a small fragment of who Dean used to be in there, a little spark that managed to live through the smothering. Castiel jerks up, into Dean's throat, lets his whole body do the talking for him through gyrations and moans and lasciviousness.

And Dean, well, Dean Winchester just smirks around his shaft. It's enough to send Castiel arching backwards, eyes rolling up, and he sort of just... lets go. Everything around him and about him sort of slides out, spirals into something, and Dean grunts from below. His breathing is heavy, and hard, and rushed, and for a second he feels like he's on a trip, like the walls are going to fold in on themselves in a brief second.

It takes him a realize to pinpoint the fact that he feels complete.

Dean tosses wadded-up briefs to the side, and Castiel just settles back into his pillow, takes a bit of a breather, eyes closed like he's going to slip into sleep in just a minute. There's an uncapping sound, and a small squirt, and then Dean's got Castiel's legs pulled up, spread apart.

"You ready?" Dean is curt with him, again.

Which, right, all good things must eventually come to an end.

He nods, stiff, unwieldy. And there's a cold spot, just at his center point, and it draws a gasp out of him, though he had expected it. Dean slides it in, burrows deep, down to the knuckle, and the burn is as familiar as it is welcoming. Castiel lets his eyes open up, lets his cabin room spin itself back into focus, and lets his gaze set on Dean, all furrowed brow and complex frowns and pupil-blown hazel eyes.

The second finger came, working a furious furrow inside, and Castiel found himself tangling the sheets in his fingers. A hiss came out of his clenched teeth, and Dean glanced up at him.

"I'm fine." He grinds out, slightly unprepared, letting himself loosen up again. Dean works down there, finger fucks him just a bit and Castiel finds himself moving on it, cresting on the wake of those fingers, letting it all wash over him.

The third finger, then. And Dean leans forward, takes a nipple in his mouth, and Castiel's hands shoot up, wind through his hair, and around those ears. He moves, writhes beneath Dean like a snake, curls a leg around his hip.

"Dean," He hisses into Dean's ear. "Please."

He sees those irises up close, ringed with green and black and there's another, briefer kiss, almost an afterthought.

Dean shrugs himself out of his pants, and Castiel is ready and wanting, and his cock aches. His fingers have dug trenches in the bed, and he's waiting, just waiting, and Dean is just so painfully slow about it, like he's in a peep show.

Dean's dick is thick, hard and dripping with pre-come. He rolls the condom over, and by now Castiel is all but grinding his teeth, cock bobbing up against his chest, aching to the point that he can feel it all the way up his spine.

Those hands grip his hips, and Dean eases in. There's a quick, synchronized moment where the two of them mingle their whines, and it's beautiful, really, and Castiel laughs - though his laugh weasels out like a whimper - for no other reason than because it is simply exquisite. And terrible. And all sorts of adjectives that slip between Castiel's fingers like water.

Dean goes balls-deep, and stays there, bends over Castiel like he's guarding him, and a drip of sweat finds its way from his muscled chest to Castiel's chin. The smirk Castiel shoots him is white and sharp, like a knife.

Castiel's legs end up around Dean's waist, and his arms around his neck, and there's a transitory moment in which he feels especially like a shell or a second layer of skin. Even more succinctly, he almost thinks that maybe, perhaps, he would like to stay this way together.

Forget war, and Crotes, and drugs and fallen angels. This was what was right.

Dean thrusts, starts especially slow but breathes hard and unrestrained into Castiel's ears. Sneaks a hand onto his ass and squeezes, creates a rhythm that is hard to keep up with, a cadence that lacks regularity.

It's something Castiel enjoys in the same way he enjoys decadence. The same way he enjoys debauchery, or orgies, or the great vacancy within him.

In-between thrusts, Dean kisses like a drowning man, open-mouthed and scorching. Castiel rakes nails down his back, little red furrows that hurt like hell and will be left behind for days to come. Skin slaps fill the room, like an awful, primal chant. Like they'd built an altar upon this. (and isn't that just blasphemous)

It's Castiel who comes first, and again. All across Dean's stomach, groaning into his shoulder, leaving a rough bite in his wake. And then there goes Dean, into him, riding out the orgasm inside Castiel, holding him tight like he'd never let go again. Castiel feels it like a vibration, a wavelength from Dean to him, old-style communications.

And Dean doesn't stay. Not even for a cuddle, though Castiel hadn't expected it of him.

Castiel doesn't dress, but he watches Dean do that instead. Watches the slow buckle of his belt and the way he rolls his shirt over his head, the way he hesitates. Just a small bit.

"Do me a favor, Dean," Castiel says, slightly indignant. "Hand me my joint there, on the ground."

Dean stiffens a bit, but bends over and picks up the discarded roach paper from before, and gives it to him. Doesn't let their fingers touch and takes his hand away quick, because he never does want to linger for long after these... heart-to-hearts of theirs.

Castiel gets the joint rolled right on the first try.

"Thank you," He says, snatching a lighter up from the drawer. "Dean."

And Dean replies, with eyes that were sharp, ruthless and so utterly un-Dean, "Later."

Castiel enjoys the high because it makes him feel again.

Feedback is much appreciated.