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Wishes Don’t Come True

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Dean watches as his future self stomps over to him, readying himself for the punch he’s no doubt going to get for making that comment about Cas. It doesn’t happen. Instead, Dean is shocked when Dean grabs him by the front of his shirt, pulling him flush against his own body, and kisses him. Dean’s arms flail about, trying to find purchase against the body so much like his own, but rougher, war-torn.

A sound from the corner surprises Dean, another person watching as his future self continues to plunder his mouth, possibly searching for the part of himself he lost long ago. Dean doesn’t think it’s that simple, he won’t find whatever it is he’s looking for, he has already lost that innocence, the caring, optimistic part of himself that believes this will end in anything other than blood. Most likely his own. That’s okay though. So he gives in.

Dean kisses back, biting down on Dean’s lip, tasting the copper and wishing for physical pain that can take away what he’s feeling, take away all that he has seen being in this future, bleak emptiness surrounding everyone, invading and stealing away the shell of people, one by one. Maybe that’s okay too. They’re better off not being here. Some part of Dean doesn’t actually believe that but it doesn’t matter. Nothing does in this place.

So he goes back to kissing himself, tugging on clothing and hair, picking apart this other him, doing his own type of searching. There is movement in the corner now too, the noise of linen clothing being discarded, the rattle of pills meeting plastic, a slick slide of skin on skin. The lighting is dim but Dean can make out Cas’ form, naked except for the bottle of orange that he pops with one hand, shoving a few more tablets of indifference into his system.

Dean thinks about speaking, but that requires that he remove his mouth from the wet slickness that his tongue is playing in, saliva and blood coating sharp teeth. The last articles of clothing get pushed away, left to decay on wood that’s seen enough death, but neither of them seem to care, they go back to scratching at skin, pulling at hair, shoving tongue against tongue, teeth catching on soft skin.

The Dean from this time pushes past him across the table, knowing it’ll hold the weight. He beckons Cas from the corner, a look exchanged and fingers get coated in saliva, pills bumping into Dean’s knuckles, dragging across rough skin and pale marks. Dean wrenches his fingers from Cas’ mouth, petting him on the head before turning back to the Dean spread across the table.

He pushes barely scarred legs apart, looking once at Dean before ramming two fingers into himself. He watches as the pain flashes across Dean’s face, an imitation of happiness coming to both of their lips at the same time. Cas is standing behind Dean, engrossed in the rhythmic movement of Dean’s fingers. Dean is breathing hard, trying to get accustomed to the stretch and burn quickly, but Dean keeps adding fingers, the thin trail of saliva not enough to combat the aching of muscles being pulled in directions they’ve lost memory of repeating.

Dean captures Cas’ eyes, staring at the angel, man, whatever he is now, confused by the empty stare that he returns. The one person Dean can always go to is broken here, a mess of pills, pop, shake, snap, again and again, the hazy film covering his eyes showing no emotion, but Dean can’t rip his eyes away, even as Dean adds another finger, four now moving in and out of him, tearing more than the thin skin around his rim.

If Sam were there he’d probably say something about how Dean’s need for pain is some sort of metaphor for something and that it’s really his soul being torn from him, one last little piece left from when Cas resurrected him. But then Dean remembers that Sam is gone now, seduced by Lucifer, wrapping him in his body, merging souls with the most hated creature in history. Sammy is lost forever, turned into a being that wants the world to burn. Dean thinks he’s accomplished that. Maybe he can burn before the end too.

Dean is shocked out of his musing by coldness, lube touching his insides now along with Dean’s fingers. Dean doesn’t know why now, why not before, but he doesn’t really care as long as the pain comes back, and he knows it will, he knows himself, this fucked-up, broken version of himself isn’t all that different from him now. Maybe he hides it better than this him, who has tired of hiding himself, letting all the broken bits fit together to become this machine, unfeeling and hard, the best type of warrior, the one Dean needs to become to stop the Apocalypse, if he ever gets back to his time. Maybe he’ll be stuck here forever, burning in a world too full of hate and death to ever survive. Maybe he’ll die here, alone with himself and a splintered shell that was once an angel.

Dean knows it’ll never happen. He’ll never be able to stop it. He is who he is and giving in to Michael will never happen, and the Apocalypse will continue, happening exactly the same way, over and over. He almost doesn’t care anymore. Let it happen. Why not?

Dean watches as Cas and Dean come closer, pulling his ass to the edge of the table, watches as they look at each other, while Cas smoothes lube onto both of their cocks.

Dean is confused, turned on by watching them touch, even though it’s just a rough brush of calloused fingertips to fingertips, but he remembers that vividly, that connection that they’ve always shared, that even here in this fucked-up land with no hope, they have this, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut, a tear running down his cheek, glad for one familiar thing in all the madness surrounding him.

Cas breaches him roughly, so lost in his haze of white and orange, high on the fumes of desolation and the promise of a comfort that he can’t feel but knows should be there while he does this. Dean keeps his eyes closes, unwilling to focus on anything but the hard in and out, the scrap of skin on skin, not enough pain, not enough anything in the movement, just a push and pull, something to wile away the empty hours before death.

Cas pumps in and out, lost in a world all his own, using the willing body underneath him, rhythm continuing even as he pops the bottle open again, throwing back a few more pills, so out of it that he doesn’t even notice who is lying under him anymore, just one of the many that come to him for a hard fuck, needing something to feel, even if it’s only pain. Cas accommodates, he was once an angel, he’s still doing his angelic duty, and God can’t complain that he’s not helping the humans, not a good little soldier, even if he’s only Dean’s good little solider now. A soldier awash in the simple pleasures of a human body, wanting and needing, all so pointless, these urges, but Cas is above caring anymore, soaring high on clouds that hold nothing, just pure whiteness, a calm, meaningless distraction from what has become of his life.

Dean stays lost in the darkness, better to be in the dark in his mind than in this place, he can feel the plastic lip of the bottle in Cas’ hand digging into his hip, uneven nails biting into the other one. He wonders where the other Dean is, if he’s watching, he can’t hear him, can only feel the harsh friction inside him, scrapping him red and leaving him wet with lube and the fluid leaking from Cas’ cock. It’s not enough. Nothing is enough in this place, nothing can fill Dean up again the way he use to be, nothing to mend the hole left by Hell and his many sinful deeds.

Dean feels another pressure at his hole, figuring it has to be the other Dean since Cas’ hands haven’t moved. The sharp stab of pain when Dean adds a finger to Dean’s hole, already stretched with Cas’ cock, feels amazing. Dean breathes through the pain, hissing through his teeth, biting into his bottom lip, trying to stifle the need to scream out his pain and loss. Such glorious pain, wave after wave consuming Dean’s attention, fixed on the point where he’s being breached. Dean adds another finger and then another, increasing the shocks of pain until Dean is floating as high as Cas is, in a world of darkness where pain is his only salvation.

Dean removes his fingers from the other him, watching as the puffy entrance tries to close up around Cas’ cock. It fails. Dean smiles. He steps closer to Cas’ body, stilling his hips. Cas turns hazy eyes towards him, annoyed with having to stop. Dean jacks their cocks together, pre-cum and lube mixing, getting ready for the final show, blood and death uniting, just like the world outside, rolling in decomposing flesh, Croats not the only half-mad, hungry animals mindlessly traversing what’s left of the Earth.

Dean holds their cocks together at Dean’s inflamed little hole, guiding Cas’ hips and pushing into the slick heat. Dean arches off the table, pain coming back full-force, and the dull throbbing turning into sharp spikes that run throughout his body, lighting his nerves on fire. Dean bites through his lip, the pain so very good. Dean and Cas pull out slowly until the heads of their cocks force Dean’s rim to widen around them again, trying in vain to dislodge them. With a hard push, they force their cocks back in, setting into a familiar rhythm, not very deep but that’s not the point.

On the first rough thrust, Dean arches off the table, a scream ripping from his throat. The pain is intense, shockwaves of sensation sweeping out from his over-stuffed ass, the thrusts continuing, no stopping to adjust, no emotion other than pain and emptiness allowed to fulfill the bodies playing out this dance. Dean presses his eyes closed tightly, unable, unwilling, to watch as these two people, these two monsters, take him apart, breaking what’s left of his soul and keeping the bits they find for themselves like scavengers, the only occupation in this place of darkness and despair.

Dean and Cas shove their cocks in again, a back and forth that’s easy, mindless. They thrust together, one in this, only in this anymore, loving the squeeze of hot walls around them, the too tight press of cock against cock, slipping together, against each other, over and over. Cas wraps his hand around the part of his cock that can’t get close enough to Dean, to the heat and tightness begging to be stuffed, be filled to capacity and then more, contracting and releasing around Cas’ cock, building the need within him, compelling him to drive in faster, disrupting the perfect synchronization that they had going.

It doesn’t matter though. They find a new pace, one that’s better than the last, letting them each go in deeper, reach farther into the hot cavern and still keep Dean’s hole stretched nice and tight. A few thrusts and they lose it, turning brutal, pumping in and out, not caring that Dean is screaming almost continuously now, the sore rim of his hole starting to tear more, blood seeping from the little gashes.

Cas leans over the table, taking Dean’s leaking cock into his mouth, sucking on it, letting Dean feel the warmth of his tongue contrasting with the smooth capsules, the little ridges catching on Dean’s cock, another bright flare of pain straight from his cock to his brain. Cas thrusts back and forth in Dean, sucking on Dean’s cock, only pulling off for more pills, the need for oxygen only a nasty need of his physical shell, one that he barely pays attention to because he has to, the pills the most important. He goes back to sucking and fucking, lost again in the repetitive motion, as close to happiness as this world allows.

Dean watches as Cas sucks Dean’s cock, knowing how that mouth feels around his cock, knowing how much of a slut Cas has become for just a taste of sex, another drug for him to get lost in, another escape. Dean thrusts into Dean, loving the way his hole opens up for them, forces itself open so they can find their pleasure. He shoves a finger inside of Dean’s hole too, watching as it just opens up and sucks it inside, as Dean screams from the pain and pleasure that’s assaulting his system. Dean loves this, well, he would if he could still love, but he feels something for this act, something desperate, wishes that he is the one lying on that table, in Dean’s place, a masochistic need to be stripped to nothingness and filled with angry and hate, with hope. It’s a useless wish. Wishes don’t come true here. Wishes are nothing.

They thrust in and out of Dean’s gaping entrance, forceful, cruel thrusts meant to cause pain, meant to fulfill their pleasure and nothing else. Cas deep-throats Dean’s cock and that’s it. The end is near. Dean is overloaded with sensations, pain, pleasure, mixing and transforming in this space, bringing a calmness with it that brings Dean right to the edge. He waits to tip over but it doesn’t happen. Dean is consumed by the motion of the two cocks within him, the finger setting a different pace, the sounds of slurping coming from Cas, a blackness filling his vision even as his eyes open, trying to catch a glimpse of them, hoping that seeing their cocks in him will push him over that little bit more. It doesn’t matter. Wishes don’t come true.

Another hot flash of pain travels through Dean’s body. Blood pours. That is it. He flies. And dies.

They end quickly, pulling out with little care or finesse, leaving him bleeding and broken on the slab of wood, a meal consumed and left to rot. Dean doesn’t mind. He lies there, staring at nothingness, his body aching, waiting for nothing, because nothing is coming. His mind is blank. In a moment he’ll have to pull his clothing around himself again, building his shield back up, and prepare to go out into this shattered world and watch as another him kills the one thing he’s been living for his entire life.

He can’t seem to care. Oh well. He thinks he’s finally okay.

He gets up.

The End.