Dean’s already in a bad mood when Castiel shows up. Sam’s gone God knows where and not answering his cell and Dean’s woken up for the past six nights in a row with dreams of red and pain and great black wings and implacable eyes that see too much. He feels like he could really enjoy killing some evil sons of bitches right about now, but they haven’t rounded up a job yet. They’re letting Dean “rest up”, says Sam, though Dean’s been rarin’ to go and it’s Sam who’s been distracted and distant and dragging his feet. The sitting around doing nothing's got Dean on edge. He's never liked having too much time to think and he especially doesn't like it now.
Castiel’s just there when Dean comes out of the bathroom from his shower, standing in the middle of the room, staring at the faded and peeling wallpaper as if it holds the answer to life’s important questions. Dean’s only wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and when he sees Castiel in his suit and tie and trench coat he feels decidedly underdressed.
“Jesus,” Dean growls, pulling on a t-shirt. “You again? What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?”
“We still have to talk, Dean,” Castiel says. “There’s more that you need to know.”
“Yeah? You know what I wanna know?” There’s a question that’s been burning a hole in Dean’s mind ever since that night a week ago when his whole already messed-up world had been turned upside down. “Why me? What’s so fucking special about me?”
There’s a moment of silence, broken by the sound of Dean’s sharp breaths, loud in the quiet motel room. Castiel just gazes back at him, his eyes dark and intent, yet removed. Dean can’t read him at all.
“I wasn’t given all the whys and wherefores.” That's Castiel's answer, and it's no answer at all.
“I’m just askin’, because you know, us Winchesters have already made a few sacrifices here and there.” Dean can feel his blood pressure rising just talking about this. He’s itching for a fight, too much nervous energy with nowhere to go, too much frustration at unanswered questions and inactivity and this big, blank spot inside him that is the past four months. “If that’s what your so-called boss is asking for, well I’m thinking he’s gonna have to look elsewhere. We’re done with that, me and Sam.” Dean shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “We’re done.”
“God feels your pain,” Castiel says, and that is it. That is just fucking it.
“God feels my –” Dean sputters. He sees red around the edges of his vision, his heart suddenly beating so hard and fast it feels like it’s gonna explode. “My – You fucking – how dare you –” He inhales a great, shuddering breath, anger boiling up inside him. “Your fucking God can kiss my ass,” he snarls. Castiel’s brows lower slightly, but other than that his expression doesn’t change. “Did God feel my pain when my mother burned on the ceiling?” Dean’s right up in Castiel’s face, too pissed to care that fucking around with supernatural beings, angel or not, isn’t exactly smart. “Or when the demon ripped our family apart – and just kept on ripping ‘til there was nothing left? Did he feel my pain when Dad traded his soul or when Sam died and I traded mine? Well? Did he? Cuz if he did, he's got a funny way of showing it.” Dean grabs Castiel by his stupid tax accountant tie and winds it around his fist. “Look me in the eye and tell me the truth, Mr. Angel of the Lord – why should I believe in a God who let those things happen? Can you tell me that?”
“God loves you, Dean,” Castiel avers. He’s calm in the face of Dean’s rage. He looks very earnest, but then he always looks earnest, as far as Dean’s been able to tell. “He has chosen you. You are very special to Him.”
“Am I?” Dean mocks. His lip curls and his fist tightens around Castiel’s tie. Angel on a leash, he thinks.
“Yes, you are.” Castiel doesn’t try to get away. He just lets Dean hold him and even though they’re breathing each other’s air Castiel seems entirely relaxed, which maybe isn’t so surprising since Dean’s noticed that he doesn’t seem to have any sense of personal space. “You’re very special.”
“Well, that’s just peachy,” Dean says. “So, your boss lets every demon in Creation fuck with the Winchesters to their heart’s content, and then when he decides he needs something, suddenly I’m special and he’s loved me all along and he feels my fucking pain. That how it works?” Those little tendrils of red are snaking in on Dean’s vision again and Castiel’s face goes out of focus, swims back in again. “Well, you can tell him from me that he doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to make demands when he’s never given me shit!”
“God gave you life,” Castiel states. “And God saved you from Hades and returned your soul to righteousness. You have been shaped by loss and tempered by suffering so that now you can stand tall before the Host and be His warrior.”
Dean whites out at that, at the implication that what’s happened to him, to Sam, to his dad and his mom – that every tragedy of his pathetic life was engineered to suit some master plan of an uncaring God. “You arrogant fuck,” he chokes out and he doesn’t think about it consciously because if he did he might pause and he doesn’t want to pause, he just wants to wipe that placid look off the fucker’s face. He wants to make him hurt, make him bleed. His fist hits Castiel’s cheekbone with a satisfying crack and then there’s a second blow to his jaw and a third that catches him on the chin. Castiel doesn’t stagger or fall, doesn’t even budge.
Dean stands, fists clenched, breathing hard. He blinks, realizing what he’s done, breaks out in a cold sweat wondering if he's about to learn the meaning of the phrase 'divine retribution' firsthand.
Castiel’s face is unmarked, of course. He sighs, sounding put upon.
“Are you done?” he asks. Dean doesn’t move because he still wants to beat the guy’s face in and attempting that would be pointless, not to mention dangerous. “You cannot harm me, Dean.” Dean doesn’t say anything, but he takes a cautious step back.
One second Castiel’s a safe distance away and the next he’s standing right in front of Dean, way too close. It’s unsettling and Dean tries to move away but Castiel reaches up, so quick, hand to the back of Dean’s head, holding him effortlessly in place.
“What the –”
“You may deny me,” Castiel says, whispers really, into the space between them, a space that gets smaller as he leans in close until there's only an inch or two between them. Dean’s breathing in sharp, panicked gasps, watching Castiel in utter confusion. “You may rail against me. You may smite me with you fist or your guns or your useless demon knife. But your apostasy will not change the fact that God loves you.”
Dean shakes his head. “God doesn’t love me.” He hates that his voice cracks.
“Oh, but He does,” Castiel says, so quietly he’s almost whispering again. He cradles Dean’s face between his palms. “He does, and He sent me as His messenger to prove His love to you and ready you to fulfill your destiny.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean says, trying for bravado, but the words come out far too shaky to achieve it. “And how’re you gonna do that?”
Castiel’s eyes bore into him, serious and determined. When Dean looks into them he can sense something beyond this rather unremarkable man in his beige trench coat and his workaday suit. There’s something in there, something ancient, something that has experienced what Dean cannot even imagine. Dean blinks and looks away. He doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want know about any of it.
“I’ll do whatever I have to do,” Castiel says. “Whatever you need me to do.”
Castiel is very close, head tilted back slightly so he can look Dean in the eyes. Dean’s not sure what prompts him – probably nothing other than a desire to shock, to make Castiel react, to prove that in fact, God does not, could not, love a man like him.
He presses his lips to Castiel’s in a harsh, ungentle kiss. He feels Castiel’s body stiffen and Dean thinks, with a mixture of anticipation and fear, that now, finally, he will get a reaction, he will move this creature to anger and violence and will see what he’s really made of.
But that’s not what happens.
Castiel kisses him back, tentatively at first, but it’s definitely a kiss. It’s as if he understands the principle but has never put it into practice which, Dean figures, is entirely possible. His lips – his vessel’s lips – are a little chapped, but soft and full. They part willingly when Dean teases them open with a sharp nip and a nudge of his tongue. There’s a moment when Dean thinks that Castiel will put a stop to it, when Dean pushes his tongue inside and Castiel makes a noise, something surprised and maybe a little pained, but then his breath hitches and his mouth opens a bit more and his tongue slides along Dean’s, and it’s, it’s, oh, it’s sweet, it’s so fucking sweet. Tingles race over Dean’s skin, heat creeps through his body, pooling heavily in his groin. A wave of weakness sweeps over him and he makes an odd, helpless little sound. His knees wobble precariously and he grabs onto Castiel’s shoulders, but Castiel’s arms are around him and they feel far stronger than the man’s frame suggests.
Dean realizes that maybe he's in trouble when he feels the sweetness of the kiss morph into something deeper and more dangerous. Castiel’s kiss is focused and intense, just as he is; his taste is delicious and strange, as sweet as honey but hot, spicy. Kissing him makes Dean feel drugged – high and blissed-out, like the time he took Ecstasy. He can’t get enough control of his muscles to move, can’t think, doesn’t know what to do next or what he meant by beginning this, all he knows is that now that it’s started, he never wants it to end.
“What are you doing?” Dean gasps when Castiel pushes him backward until the backs of his legs hit the bed. His voice slurs over the words like he's drunk. “What’re you – oh, God –”
“You wanted this,” Castiel says. His voice has deepened to a growl. “Do you think you can toy with me? Do you seek to provoke me?” His hands are tight around Dean’s biceps as he bears him down to the bed. One hand comes to Dean's face, splays over his cheek in a rough grip. “Well, consider me provoked.”
“I can’t –”
“Too late, Dean,” Castiel’s mouth comes down hard onto Dean’s, it’s open and wet and hot – there’s lips and tongue and teeth. It’s a kiss, it’s just a kiss, except that it’s not – except that it feels like this kiss is somehow reaching inside him and touching Dean’s soul. The sensations are too sharp, overwhelming him with something that he can’t name. Lust, desire, arousal – it’s all of those but it’s more than any one of them, more than all of them combined. He wonders if maybe he’s going crazy because there’s no way just a kiss should have him hard and aching and feeling this desperate. It’s frightening because it’s not natural; Dean knows it’s not right. He’s messing with some serious mojo and everything about it feels wrong but it’s so damn good that he can’t find the strength to fight it.
“You can’t do this,” Dean manages to choke out when Castiel moves back enough to reach a hand between them and grab the collar of Dean’s t-shirt. “This isn’t – isn’t what angels d-do.”
The corner of Castiel’s lip quirks. It’s the first time Dean’s seen anything approaching a smile on the guy’s face and he doesn’t think it bodes well for him.
"So, now you will believe I'm an angel? It seems a little strange that this is what it takes to convince you." Castiel gives a little jerk and Dean’s shirt rips easily down the center and then his palm is hot on Dean’s chest, pressed over his heart and Dean’s suddenly conscious of how hard it's jackhammering against his ribcage.
"I'm just saying, if - if you were - then you wouldn't b-be doing this. This isn't what angels do."
“Isn’t it?” There’s a predatory light in Castiel’s eyes that doesn't strike Dean as very angelic.
“No! Angels don’t go around molesting humans.”
“And do humans go around molesting angels? Because I’ve never heard of that before. Not in all the millennia of my existence.”
Castiel’s hand moves slowly downward and he watches it as if he’s curious to see where it might be headed. Dean’s panting, almost hyperventilating, filled with dread and desire and weakness, his body humming with electricity, his muscles jumping under Castiel’s touch. The hand pauses at the waistband of Dean’s sweatpants and Dean stops breathing. Castiel hooks two fingers under the elastic and drags it down over the head of Dean’s cock and Dean moans and thinks he’ll die of either embarrassment or arousal or fear, he’s not sure which.
Castiel just keeps dragging his sweats down and Dean finds himself lifting his hips to help him which, he guesses, pretty much makes him complicit in this whole fucked-up scene. And he is complicit, after all. He’s the one who started it, even if he never in a million years expected it to go this far – to go as far as him splayed out on the bed, flushed and sweating and hard-dicked, his body vibrating with unsatisfied lust, and an angel kneeling between his legs, staring at him like he’s never seen a naked man before.
Yeah, an angel – he might as well admit what he’s known deep down was the truth ever since he saw those freaky shadow-wings. The guy’s an angel – though Dean still wouldn’t swear that he’s on the side of good.
So Dean’s got an angel kneeling between his legs, touching him in a way that’s got to be sinful. An angel who’s still completely dressed. Who’s still, in fact, wearing that ridiculous trench coat. Maybe angels don’t get undressed to have sex. Which is what they’re doing, right? Having sex. He’s having sex with an angel, which is just fucked-up beyond belief. Dammit, he doesn’t have the faintest idea what the hell’s going on. It’s so far out of the realm of his experience that he’s got nothing to compare it to. It’s not the guy thing – there’ve been a few guys, quick, dirty one-nighters when he was feeling particularly horny and in the mood for something rough. So, no, it’s not the guy thing. It’s the angel thing.
Castiel's eyes are raking Dean’s body and it’s making him incredibly uncomfortable at the same time that it’s making his dick harder than ever. Castiel reaches out and runs two fingers along the gnarled scar on Dean’s hip, the one he got from a chupacabra when he was seventeen. Dean’s breath stutters because those fingers leave a trail of shivery pleasure in their wake that makes him arch, makes his hands fist in the bedding and his cock leak onto his belly.
“Oh fuck,” he groans. Castiel touches a scar on his thigh (a black dog he tangled with on one of his first solo hunts), one that twists around and in and up. Dean shudders hard, inhales a desperate gulping breath. It’s uncanny how intense that barely-there touch is, piercing him through with knife-sharp bliss, cutting him to the core.
“Your body is marked by evil.” Castiel touches another scar, on his knee this time and Dean can't even remember what gave him that one, his brain's so shorted-out from pleasure. “But now you are marked by me as well.” Castiel bends Dean’s leg, lifting his knee and places a kiss on the scar. Dean’s head slams back into the pillow and he yells, writhing across the bed like a live wire. Castiel’s mouth moves to the scar on Dean’s thigh and it’s too good, too strong, too much. His cock’s jerking and his balls contract tight and he wants, oh fuck, he wants. He spreads wide, shameless, whimpers pitifully when Castiel denies him and instead leans up over him. “Look at you,” he murmurs dispassionately. “Weak. Lustful.” Dean meets his eyes and it’s not an entirely unkind look that he finds there. “Human.”
He touches Dean’s cock, just a quick, light swirl of his thumb beneath the head, but it’s enough to make Dean scream. He arches high and comes in hard, sharp spurts over his chest and stomach, cock convulsing, balls pumping so hard it’s almost painful and he’s frozen, can’t even move, can only lay there, gasping in stunned amazement, his body wracked with pleasure, tensed and shaking as warm stickiness lands on his skin. He moans, feeling broken apart, collapses back to the bed, mindlessly rocking his hips.
“Please,” he gasps out between breaths. “I can’t –”
“Turn over,” Castiel says, moving out of the way. “Onto your stomach.”
“Oh, God, no –” Dean doesn’t think he can take it. It’s too much. He thinks this just might be the death of him.
“Yes.” There’s no arguing with that tone. It’s a tone that makes Dean need to obey.
Dean can barely move, but Castiel helps him roll over. He comes up trembling onto his knees, legs wide apart. His body’s still humming with that same twisting, unsatisfied desire, even though he just came all over himself. He wants so bad it’s killing him, burning him up from inside. His body aches with emptiness, with the desolation of abject surrender. He doesn’t care if it hurts, doesn’t care if there’s nothing to ease the way, doesn’t care if he’s pathetically needy or acting like the Whore of fucking Babylon. He just wants. He wants what Castiel has, what Castiel is, with a hunger that’s as ferocious and ungovernable as any hellhound.
His fingers claw the sheets, his muscles twitch and jerk. He thinks his face is wet, but if he's crying, he doesn't want to know. Pleasepleaseplease he whines. He doesn’t recognize his voice, high and shattered and half-choked.
He feels Castiel’s hand on the small of his back, warm and firm, and Dean raises his hips, pushing up into the touch.
“You are my Temptation, Dean,” Castiel murmurs. “You could bring me down low.”
His hand passes over Dean’s buttock, smoothing reverently over the curve of it. Dean shivers, bites back a sob. His dick lurches, spitting a drop onto the sheet beneath him and he realizes that by some freakin’ miracle he’s hard again. Still. Please, Dean mouths silently. Please.
Fingertips flirt along the line of his crack, light and teasing. “This is what you want?” Castiel asks. A finger pauses at Dean’s hole, pressing gently. Dean flushes hot, so hot, panting, his body opening, mutely inviting. “This crude, physical joining? Do you think it will fill the emptiness within you?”
Dean moans, insensible. He can’t follow what Castiel is saying, too shaken apart with bone-deep lust. “Yes. God, yes, please.”
Castiel sighs, sounding almost regretful. “You hunger for love, Dean. Not sex. You hunger for God’s love, that’s why the emptiness burns so hot in you.” Suddenly, he’s against Dean’s back, all along him, warm and smooth and naked and God, he feels good, hard cock pressed into Dean’s cleft, sliding firmly between his cheeks. Dean surges back, wild and frantic, but Castiel is like a wall made of stone, immovable. “If I give you what you want,” he says, speaking against the nape of Dean’s neck, hot breath sending chills down Dean’s spine, “will you believe?”
“Yes,” Dean rasps. “Yes.” He’s out of his mind. He’d promise anything. “Anything. I will. Please.”
“Close your eyes,” Castiel says. “And whatever happens, don’t open them.”
“No. No.” Dean hopes he can remember. He has to.
He expects to feel the cock breach him. He expects it to hurt – he doesn’t care, but he expects it.
It’s not like that at all.
Castiel’s body heats against his back until it’s searing. Dean cries out once in pain and then again as he feels something alter in the solidity of Castiel’s form, as if he’s dissolving at Dean’s back and sinking into him through his skin. His eyes are squeezed shut, his head ducked down, but he can see light through his lids and he knows that if he opened them it’d be like looking into the sun. He’s terrified and he tries to jerk away, but he’s held fast. He thinks of that handprint on his shoulder, can feel those hands on him now, inhumanly strong.
“You asked for this,” a voice echoes in his head, a deep, rich, sonorous voice, and he knows it’s Castiel’s voice, but it’s not the voice of his vessel and it’s not the ringing that makes his ears bleed. “You begged for this, Dean. And you will take it.”
He’s being filled, split apart, cleaved in two. He can feel this presence inside him and he’s not even sure if it’s physical, if there’s any actual fucking going on, because it’s so much more than that. It’s big and it’s incredibly strong and he can’t breathe, he’s gasping like a beached fish, shaking like he’s palsied. There’s a flash against his eyelids, the brightening of blinding light and his eyes want to open, lashes fluttering traitorously.
“No,” he mutters, trying to fight the urge. “No.”
A hand at the back of his head pushes his face into the pillow, holding him there. Dean’s grateful for the safety of darkness but can only moan, choking off when he feels a flare of power in the palm holding him in place, power that pushes into him with a surge of sublime pleasure.
“Open to me, Dean,” Castiel says. Commands. “Let me in and you will see.”
For a moment Dean cannot process the words, too bound up in ecstasy to follow them. Then he hears and he understands what Castiel wants and it occurs to him to wonder if this is what it is to be possessed by an angel, but he drops his guard and opens his mind, surrendering. He cannot remain closed off, not with his soul filled with light and his mind overwhelmed with he doesn’t even know what. Just so much. So much of everything.
He feels Castiel inside him and it’s terrifying, utterly terrifying. When he was standing in front of Dean he was strange but Dean could think of him as a man – a man with wings and powers and strict views on theology, but still a man. Now, with Castiel inside him he is unmistakably other, strange, distant, ancient and perilously beautiful. Everything falls away, the room, the bed, Dean’s awareness of his body and of Castiel’s, all Dean’s thoughts and will. Something slots into place inside him and he suddenly sees.
He sees the world, crawling with human souls, sees angels and demons moving among them. He sees the darkness that is Hell and the light of Heaven. He sees how it all fits together and how every life connects to every other life. He sees God’s intention that has never come to fruition and how it isn’t lost, how bits of it survive even today. He sees the End of Days on the horizon, forces of darkness marshaling, the gates of Heaven and Hell swinging open. Dean sees himself, standing back to back with Sam in the middle of a vast and empty plain beneath a storm-ravaged sky, lightening crackling around them, hands outstretched as if they’re holding something off.
There’s a flash and the vision is gone, there’s just the light again, wrapping him in its sweet, fiery embrace. Dean can’t feel his body, doesn’t know if he’s screaming or coming or flying or dying or maybe all of it at once. Time unspools, meaningless, awareness drops away. Dean’s lost in rapture, frozen in endless transports of ecstasy.
He’s not conscious of it ending but at some point he must pass out because the next thing he knows he’s laying on his side in a mess of rumpled sheets, curled in on himself. Castiel is behind him, his body – just the body of a man once again – warm against Dean’s back and thighs, his hand on Dean's shoulder, resting over the mark branded on Dean's skin. Dean lies motionless, stupid with exhaustion and still riding the wave of euphoria.
“You can open your eyes now.” Castiel’s voice, his human voice, is low in Dean’s ear. “Do not be afraid. Look on the world. Look on the world and believe.”
Dean squeezes his eyes tightly shut, burrows his face into the pillow that is damp with his tears. He doesn’t want to look upon a world where God exists, where His love is real and His angel was sent down from Heaven with a message for him. He doesn’t want to see the world through the eyes of God’s Chosen. He wants to stay just Dean for a little while more.