Dean didn't know when sex and violence had become so intertwined within his mind. He also didn't particularly care. They were complementary highs, like whiskey and cigarettes, deadly and indulgent. There was an element of guilt to it, sure, that almost went without saying. Dean Winchester was nothing without guilt, which perhaps should have done more to undermine the pure carnal pleasure he took wherever he could find it. That said, he didn't feel guilty when he held Raphael close to his chest and watched the life drain out of him. No, this was pure excitement, power and blood and delicious cruelty. His veins thrummed with an electric pulse, every nerve ending alive with ecstasy. His mouth fell open slightly, he licked his lips, mind emptied of everything but sensation.
He took a moment to savour, breathe in, breathe out, then released his hold on the dead man. Raphael fell to the floor of the bathroom, blood soaking linoleum, and Dean leaned down to retrieve the knife, wiping it clean on the shirt of his victim.
The high of the kill dimmed slightly, and Dean became aware of his surroundings again, hearing the pulsating beat of the crappy club music outside. He stepped over the body, walking over to one of the cracked porcelain sinks and washing his hands. He knew someone could walk in at any moment, he knew he could get caught literally red-handed, he also knew he liked it that way. Exhibitionism and murder were perhaps not the best combination, but damn if it didn't get him hard.
He looked at himself in the mirror, eyes dilated, cheeks flushed. He needed to get fucked, immediately, while the buzz of the kill was still fresh and insistent. He ran a damp hand through his hair, winked at his reflection, and sauntered out onto the dance floor.
Pop or techno or whatever the hell this music was may not have been his idea of a good time, but he had to admit that the combination of bass and strobe lights did some delicious things to his body. He felt almost giddy as he weaved his way between scantily clad dancers, the air heavy with sweat and sex and alcohol.
He could kill anyone here, if he wanted to, fortunately for them his desire was sated for the night, and besides, he had rules.
How long would it be, he wondered, before some drunken idiot stumbled over the body and the club was hit with an all new kind of chaos? He doubted it would be too long. He should leave, but not yet. He was on the hunt.
He wasn't the only one, it seemed. His gaze was drawn to the predatory gleam in the eyes of a man standing beside the bar. His shoulders were stiff, everything about the layers of shirt and jacket and trench coat screaming that he was out of place in this environment, and yet, those eyes. That expression was not one of discomfort, but of hunger. Dean moved like he was drawn to him with a magnetic force, not really aware of making the decision to do so.
"So what's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?" Dean grinned as he leaned an elbow on the bar.
Those intense eyes moved deliberately as they looked him up and down, lingering in a way that made Dean feel like he was being touched all over. He swallowed as an appraising eyebrow was raised, the corner of the stranger’s mouth quirking at the question.
"I'll tell you a secret," he spoke with a voice that rumbled like thunder, "I'm not that nice."
Dean shifted, trying to subtly adjust his pants, an attempt that clearly failed miserably as the stranger’s gaze followed the movement, before he returned to staring into Dean’s eyes as if he could see what was behind them.
"You wanna get out of here?" Dean's voice was hoarse, it was practically a miracle he hadn't stuttered. Thank Satan for small mercies.
The stranger narrowed his eyes, tilting his head to the side and pursing his lips. Dean’s heart thudded in his chest, worrying that he'd read that look wrong, knowing that having seen this man no one else would do for the night. After a small eternity the silent deliberation ended and the stranger nodded his head. Dean breathed a sigh of relief and lead the way out of the club, not needing to look to know that he was being followed, he could feel the eyes on him like a physical thing.
The cold air of the outside world came none too soon, Dean was vibrating out of his skin, desperate to see and taste and touch.
He mouthed another word of thanks to the dark lord above as he led the way to his motel room, barely a block away, he didn't think he'd have been able to survive a cab ride. As it was he was practically running. He fumbled for his keys and heard a low chuckle behind him.
"Do you intend to rush this entire encounter to the extent you are hurrying the preface?"
Dean shivered, finally managing to get the key in the lock and open the door.
"I might not have a choice if you keep talking."
"Well," the asshole somehow lowered his voice further, obviously pretty fucking aware of the effect it had on people, "we can’t have that."
He shoved Dean through the door and down on the bed, with no warning or care for his well-being. Dean moaned like a teenager being touched for the first time, barely preventing himself from rutting against the mattress. It seemed the stranger read his intentions, because he pressed a firm hand to his back, right between his shoulder blades, ensuring he couldn't move even if he wanted to. Dean struggled half-heartedly, knowing he should put up at least a token resistance to being manhandled like this by a stranger, but finding that he was well and truly trapped.
"Now now, do not fight unless you truly want your freedom, otherwise you may find yourself getting it, and losing what you desire."
His clothes were roughly torn from him, buttons probably popping from his favourite shirt, but Dean couldn't care less. There wasn't even a pause as the knife was discovered and tossed aside. Dean had the fleeting thought that he should be alarmed by that, surely normal people had some reaction to finding weaponry tucked beneath someone's clothing, but potential danger seemed immaterial with a warm, unexpectedly strong, body pressing him into the bed. He'd fought off attackers while naked before, both homophobes and enemies, he could do it again.
"I assume you have condoms and lubricant?" The stranger spoke in his ear.
He waved a hand in the general direction of the bedside table, already turned to mush with barely a touch, but it seemed to be enough. Supplies were retrieved and, with as little fanfare as anything else tonight, slick fingers speared into him. Dean cried out as he was briskly scissored open, writhing in a heady combination of pleasure and pain.
"Now-" he gasped, "who's rushing things?"
"Would you like me to slow down?" The fingers were removed and Dean sobbed at the loss.
"Don't you fucking dare."
He pushed his ass back in invitation.
"Now now," the stranger tutted, "coarse language is not the way to get what do you need."
"Just fucking-" Dean's words died on his tongue as a thick cock pushed into him.
"Fuck you? Was that what you wanted?" He had the gall to stop halfway in, Dean tried to turn to see if the evil smirk he could hear in the words was just his imagination, but his head was pushed into the pillow before he could. "Speak up, one rarely gets what they want in life without asking for it."
Dean was burning with fury and arousal, absolutely refusing to do as he was told, and knowing that he really should be grateful for the reprieve that was so infuriating him. He was barely prepped and, he was fairly sure, the stranger had one of the biggest cocks he had ever taken. That said-
Dean shoved himself down, burying the dick to the hilt, gasping at the pain even as his own cock hardened against the sheets.
"Well well, it seems someone has a masochistic streak. Naughty boy," the words were practically purred, "of course, that is probably fortunate, since I am one hell of a sadist." Dean barely had chance to register the steel that had crept into his tone, because with that last word he pulled out almost all the way and slammed back in, hard.
If Dean thought he had been a writhing mess before, he had clearly not understood the true meaning of the phrase. Once he started fucking him he didn't let up for a second, somehow punching into him harder with every thrust. Dean was seeing stars even before he found his prostate, afterwards everything just sort of whited out. He was reduced to nothing but sensation, as pure as it was obscene. He was distantly aware that he was babbling nonsense, begging for it harder even though it couldn't get any harder, then just making animalistic noises of pleasure. Some lingering rational part of his brain wondered if it was possible for the inside of his ass to bruise, before it was swept away on the tide of an orgasm so intense that he was surprised he didn't pass out.
The pressure on his back was released and he heard a zipper being done up. Holy shit had he been clothed the entire time? A new flash of arousal went through him at the thought. He caught a flash of trench coat as it whisked towards the door, and he sluggishly turned onto his back, fighting limbs that had gone limp to raise himself up on his elbows.
"Wait," he mumbled.
The stranger paused with his hand on the doorknob, turning to look at him with a familiar raised eyebrow.
"What's your name?"
Stupid, Dean didn't know why he'd asked. Who cared about the names of one night stands?
"Now that would be telling," yes, there was the smirk he'd heard in that voice, that unfairly sexy voice that was still sending chills through him even as fucked out as he was.
Dean opened his mouth to say something else, though he wasn't sure exactly what, but before he could the door was clicking shut and the stranger was gone.
He collapsed back on the bed.
Asshole, he thought, before exhaustion wrapped tendrils around his mind and he drifted off to sleep.
Castiel had never liked Raphael, a part of him was glad to see him gone, but he knew appearances had to be maintained. He could pretend to grieve as a friend, his companions needn't know he celebrated the loss of an enemy, silently. Dying in a bathroom certainly wasn't a pleasant way to go, lacked a certain level of dignity, he wondered if Raphael had been upset by that in his last moments, or if he'd been more focused on the fact of death, than the form in which it came. Anna had tears in her eyes, he noted as she looked to him for comfort, now that was something he was not glad of. The pain this was causing his preferred brethren was something that surely must be avenged. His judgement on the one who had done this would be as swift as it was brutal.
"They will pay dearly for this," Uriel practically growled.
"Worry not brother, I will make sure of it," Castiel spoke as deadly calmness swept over him. He had his orders, a mission to complete. He would smite the hunters with righteous fury, and the land would be cleansed by it.