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Dean's boots scuffed slowly over the floor. It was rough concrete, which he knew because he'd already tripped twice and skinned the hell out of his hands. It was dark, the only light a moonbeam shafting in through the high window the freak that had grabbed him had entered and left through, and he was convinced it did more harm than good. Destroyed his night vision.
Even though he couldn't see it, he knew that the place was a damn maze, utterly crammed with junk. He could hear the occasional tnk of plastic and shff of cloth-on-cloth as stuff shifted, the stability probably thrown off by all the times he'd already run into it. No shelves, or at least none that he'd been able to find. Just piles he slowly and painstakingly felt his way along, trying to reach the wall without winding up buried alive. Maybe there would be a light switch. Maybe this place somehow had power.
He would have killed to have had a flashlight. Hell, he would have gamely taken on a war crime or two, to still have his cell phone. Besides being able to use it for light, it would have been a way to get hold of Sam, to have him track him. But he'd dropped it when he was nabbed, impact throwing it right out of his hands.
Dean had been in the middle of a run down to the nearest convenience store, Sam back at the motel doing research. He was about to make a call, see if he could talk him out of the burrito he'd asked for because they both had to know that was a terrible idea. It was dark out, bad part of town, so pretty much run of the mill for them. Home sweet home.
Then Dean had heard a sound like a leather bedsheet being snapped flat. Wind whistling over something as it tore through the air. He hadn't even had time to look up before something hit him like a truck on an incline, knocking the wind out of him so hard he couldn't so much as squeak, carrying him a few feet forward by momentum alone. Before he could faceplant and skid, massive talons hooked under his armpits, and he was ripped up into the sky.
He could have tried to keep an eye on where it was taking him. Should have. Even though he'd dropped his phone, there was nothing that said he wouldn't get his hands on another one, and knowing his location would make things a hell of a lot better for him and Sam both. But…
Dean was man enough to admit that he had a healthy and robust fear of heights. Even on a good day, even more or less safe behind a window in a highrise or on an airplane - never mind the fact earthquakes and plane crashes happened all the time. But this was something unknown, something with massive claws and bat-like wings that he could only see when he looked up because they blocked out patches of stars and slit-pupiled blue eyes that glowed like Christmas lights in the darkness, and the only thing keeping him from going splat was it deciding not to drop him at that exact second.
When he looked down, saw everything whipping past in a van Gogh blur under him, his brain took "moving" and read it as "falling" even though he wasn't, and his consciousness did a somersault through something that felt like the same sensation he got on a roller coaster, only with none of the fun and three times the adrenaline nausea.
So Dean had closed his eyes. And only opened them again when he was unceremoniously dumped in here, looking up just in time to see his kidnapper make a hairpin U-turn on those massive wings and glide right back out through the moonlit window. That still hadn't been enough to let him figure out what it actually was, but maybe that was a good thing.
If he'd been dropped on the concrete, the skidding probably would have peeled his face off, but he'd landed on something soft. When crawling around and patting at it had built a vague nest shape in his head, he'd sat frozen for a long few minutes, thinking about babies that were nothing but mouths full of long, serrated teeth swarming towards him soon as they sensed his movements. But nothing happened, so he climbed out, and immediately ate shit when he stepped on something that rolled under his boot.
He tried to stay positive. At least he was doing something.
Dean thought it might be a warehouse he was in. The size, the emptiness (outside the crap everywhere, at least), the floor. Sounds echoed like they were bouncing off metal walls. If he could just figure out some way to get that information to Sam, it would probably really narrow down the search for him…
Some way to get that information to Sam. Yeah, and while Dean was at it, might as well ask for a talking pony. He was pretty sure enough time had passed for Sam to figure out something was wrong. He would have left the motel to look for him, found his phone. Heard it when he tried to call Dean, if he didn't just stumble across it on the pavement.
He'd be outside. Unprotected under that empty black sky. The thing had left immediately after dumping Dean, hadn't even landed…he wondered if it had been going back for Sam.
If it had been, they stood a better chance of getting out of here if they were together. Assuming it didn't drop Sam on the way back because he was too heavy. Or just sink those butcher-knife claws into his skull instead of using them to pick him up.
The only thing that stopped the anxiety from eating Dean alive on the spot was his hands hitting a wall. Solid, not made out of precariously-stacked crap. Metal, like he'd thought, but with some insulation. He felt a little tension leak out of his shoulders now that his world was just a little more clearly-defined again, and began to grope his way along it until…bingo. Light switch.
Dean didn't expect anything to happen when he flipped it. Nothing did happen for a long second, outside of a visible pop and crackle of electricity that made him think he'd blown the fuse. But then there was a low electrical buzzing, and fluorescent overhead lights flickered on one by one in three sections. They were dim, bulbs probably beginning to fail and housings choked with either dirt or bugs, but Dean still found himself squinting and shielding his eyes as they adjusted. When they did, he straightened, looked around.
He'd been right: it was a warehouse. Medium-sized. And it looked like a hoarder's wet dream.
There were piles, ranging from taller than him to short little stacks. And there were also shelving units, so full they bowed U-shaped in the middle. Apparently-random paths had been established throughout the whole thing, winding and branching and merging in a way that made him think of river deltas on maps. With the sheer amount of stuff, Dean was honestly impressed there was any walking space at all. Whatever was nesting here probably would've been real good at Tetris.
There was definitely a theme to it, one Dean saw right away. He saw hubcaps, hood ornaments, stained glass, and gazing balls glittering under the lights. Sunglasses. Model cars. Close by, on top of a pile of neatly-sorted jewelry, sat what Dean was almost positive was a real, actual diamond necklace, and that wasn't even taking into account all the gold and silver and other gemstones.
There were also crumpled cans, candy and chip wrappers, and broken glass mixed into all of it. Metallic plastic bags. A dirty T-shirt with a holographic print on it. Scraps of tinfoil, and not the kind that had been hammered and polished into that neat ball thing Sam had been real committed to making for a few months after he saw it online. If it was shiny, it was in here, the glare coming off all of it almost blinding. Like a magpie's hoard had gotten seriously out of hand.
They'd come here because of the articles in the local newspaper, interest pieces and letters to the editor where people bitched about something giant and bat-winged swooping out of the sky to steal lawn ornaments and livestock. Looked like it had found Dean before he and Sam could find it.
Awesome. Just his luck.
He was just about to start moving along the walls, looking for a door (because there had to be one, right?), when he heard the same flapping noise that he had right before he'd been grabbed. It was back. He scrambled to hide, wedging himself in between a pair of shelves with broken bottles bristling at him from all sides, and only realized at the last second that he should have turned the light off. Probably didn't matter, though. He'd bet dollars to doughnuts this thing could spot him in the dark just fine.
Dean looked up at the window, and it came through fast. Black and white blur. It folded its wings and dropped out of the air around the area where he thought the nest was, and he moved towards it as quiet as he could. Navigating was way easier with the lights on.
He managed to give himself a line of sight just as the thing was straightening up after landing. The area around the nest was a whole lot neater, and softer, too. More fabric. The nest was cobbled together out of clothes and blankets and pillows and cushions and at least one mattress, and he had to admit it looked pretty comfy. There was also a trench coat hanging off one shelf, long enough to maybe hide a pair of wings. Because this monster absolutely had wings.
They were the first thing Dean noticed about it. Massive, glossy, shaped kind of like a bat's, but the span had to be a good sixteen or seventeen feet when they were spread. They were the kind of layered blue-black you saw on really expensive cars. The tail was the same color, spray of flattened scales fanning off it, and the four slightly-curved horns that swept back over the head. But it still looked way too much like a person, even with its back to him. Messy black hair. Rumpled sweater with holes hemmed into it for the wings. Jeans. Dean expected a pair of sneakers, but nope, it had long ankles the way a dog or cat did, and big, scaly blue raptor feet. Those were absolutely the claws that had grabbed him.
It was big, maybe six feet tall. It was scaly. When it turned and checked the nest, then walked to one of the shelves, displaying a human face with a scruffy jaw, Dean saw the Day-Glo blue eyes he remembered from outside, and predator's fangs dimpling the pink lips.
Son of a bitch, Dean mouthed to himself.
He'd been carried off by a goddamn dragon.
Dean's money had been on harpy, Sam had thought chupacabra. Little far north of the border for their tastes, but they'd had weirder. Dean wasn't really sure which one of them had been closer.
He'd heard of dragons. Knew they existed, knew what they looked like, and knew they were rare, even by monster standards. He'd never run into one before, and he sure as shit didn't know how to gank one. Sure, he'd heard all the fairy tales and shit, but he didn't have a sword, or a whole bunch of spices, or a strong belief in a savior God, and he somehow wasn't sure that the gun tucked in the small of his back was going to cut it. It was a fucking dragon, for Chrissakes.
It, or maybe he, lifted a hand. Nails like black claws, splotches of blue-black across wrist and knuckles. Scales. Dean realized the dragon was holding a rainbow wind spinner, made out of shiny plastic, when he hung it from the shelf. He set it whirling with one claw, smiled a little to himself. His tail twitched back and forth across the floor behind him like a happy cat.
Dean leaned forward, squinting. He automatically put one hand on the nearest object to steady himself, which happened to be a lumpy plastic bag. A plastic bag that was lumpy, as it turned out, because it was full of those shiny balls you hung on Christmas trees. Which he found out when his touch shifted it slightly and they all spilled over the floor in a loud, bouncing clatter.
A burst of adrenaline yanked Dean's muscles so painfully tight his ribs creaked and his shoulders hit his ears.
The dragon whirled immediately to face him. His wings moved like they were lighter than all the rest of him, wobbling the way flexible planes of wood or metal did. He stared, head tilting very slow to one side like a confused bird, and Dean realized his right hand had landed automatically on the grip of his gun. His finger was even already laying alongside the trigger.
Might as well. Not like he had any other options.
Pulling his gun free, Dean fell into position, steadying his right hand with his left, and fired. He knew the second the first bullet left the barrel that he was using the whole clip, just to make sure. The gunshots sounded like thunder on the plains, the way they echoed in the warehouse, and the recoil itched up and down his forearms as holes stitched their way across the dragon's chest, the heavy yarn of his shirt shuddering with each one. Every single shot hit center mass, which was impressive even when you took into account how little distance there was between the two of them.
Dean probably would have felt better about it if the dragon had moved at all during the whole thing.
His ears rang when he was finished, finger resting on the trigger of a gun that had just officially become useless as soon as the last bullet was gone. His hands felt numb and stiff, the way they always did after he shot. Dean and the dragon stared at each other for a long second, then the dragon looked down at his chest, and slowly pulled his sweater up to his throat. Dean saw he had a spray of big, flat scales across his pecs, where chest hair might be on a normal dude.
All the bullets were flattened against them, the way they would have been on a Kevlar vest. The dragon swept them to the floor with one hand, and they tnked against the concrete like a gentle rain.
Dean stuffed the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, muscle memory making him flick the safety on as he did so, and turned to run.
His boots hit the ground loudly, but it wasn't like there was any point in trying to be quiet anymore. He ducked down one clear trail after another, keeping low after he heard the dragon flap his wings and lift off into the air, hoping not to feel claws in his back but with his muscles wound tight in preparation. He made it to one of the walls, ran along it, heading for what he was pretty sure was the front of the warehouse. Maybe the back. Either way, there would probably be a door, and even if it was buried, he might be able to dig it out and run before the dragon reached him.
It was his best chance. He obviously wasn't going to be able to kill this thing right now.
The dragon landed right in front of Dean at a junction between paths, air going out of his wings with a fumf and knees bending to absorb the shock. Dean immediately backpedaled, boots slipping a little on a bag of metallic confetti that had spilled across the concrete, and turned and bolted in the opposite direction, going around a mountain of Mardi Gras beads still in their packaging. He could swear he heard an annoyed huff as the dragon lifted off again, and the wingbeats sounded a little laborious.
Good. Maybe he could tire him out.
With the awareness of the dragon overhead beating down on his shoulders like a backpack full of gravel, Dean rounded a junk pile. And there were the doors, big swinging bay things you could drive a truck through, and the relief was so strong it felt icy. For about two seconds. Until he noticed that the metal had been smeared together like clay along the doorway, where the two doors met, the hinges. A massive blob of impenetrable steel that had probably used to be handles, chains, and a padlock had dripped down from the middle, puddled cold on the floor.
"Right," Dean said to himself, even as his breath sawed in and out of his chest, "fire-breathing."
He could check the other side of the warehouse. Maybe there was another door there. But even if he made it, he really doubted it would be in any condition better than this one was. Considering how meticulous the dragon obviously was.
The only way out of here was the open window he'd been flown in through, a good ten or twelve feet up a sheer metal wall from his head.
It wasn't going to help. Dean knew damn well it wouldn't help. But he found himself rearing back on one leg anyway, driving a kick into the middle of the door with all his strength and his full body weight behind it, yelling less because it was hard and more because he was trapped and damn well knew it.
The door shuddered just a little. The wall shuddered more. And every bone Dean had shuddered the most with the brunt of the rebound impact, muscles buzzing like he'd mainlined a hornet's nest, teeth aching. He staggered back, trying to suck strength back into himself through the deep, gulping breaths he was taking, and knew the dragon was about to land right behind him about half a second before he actually hit.
Dean spun. The dragon had his wings out, blocking off all the clear space on either side of him. There was crap to Dean's right, junk to his left, and sure. He could try wading through it. But even if he didn't lay his femoral artery wide open on a spear of extra-shiny broken glass or polished rebar or something, he'd be moving at a snail's pace. Bad option.
Besides, he didn't like the idea of putting his back to those claws again.
The dragon took a step forward, claws clicking on concrete, and Dean bent to snatch his butterfly knife out of his boot. He flipped the blade out as he straightened up, held it out and ready, other hand ready to block.
"Back off," Dean warned.
The dragon didn't answer. He looked at the knife with a mild kind of interest, and then took another step forward. He held himself weird, angled at the hips, moved slow and swaying like a cat stalking prey. His wings were still out, forcing Dean towards the wall, and he had no choice but to back up. A knife wasn't worth anything if you didn't use it, something his dad had drummed into him often enough, but he just didn't like the idea of getting within range of those teeth. Those claws. Those razor edges he could see on the wings now he was this close.
Of course, Dean realized grimly as his back hit the door, if the dragon just took another step or two towards him, he'd be in range anyway.
He lifted the knife a little higher. Ready to slash at the throat, because it was mostly human skin, and because he was going to have to. The dragon's head tilted.
"Have you ever slain a dragon before?" he asked. His voice was about what Dean would have expected, actually: raspy, gravelly. Fire must be hell on the throat.
"Oh, yeah," Dean answered, shifting his feet, "tons. Back home, they call me St. George."
The dragon gave that a couple seconds of thought, then told Dean, "You're lying. If you'd even killed one of us, you would have figured out what works and…what doesn't."
He looked pointedly at the knife. Dean, figuring that a throat slash or an eye-stab was probably still worth a try, raised his eyebrows.
"What works?" he asked, and nodded off to one side. "Y'mean like that?"
Miraculously, the dragon looked. No matter how many times Dean used that trick and it worked - which was often - it still felt like God throwing him a bone. He lunged.
Apparently, the dragon's reflexes were better than his, because he caught the blade in one hand. Clawed fingers wrapped around it, and Dean watched pain twitch across his face. Dark, glossy blood welled along the blade, dripped to the handle, and Dean grinned, going to pull it free. But the dragon's fingers squeezed harder, grip tightening.
"Yeah, okay," Dean agreed, and pushed harder, watching the dragon's wrist shake and more of his blood ooze out of his fist. "We can do this the hard way if you want."
He was just barely starting to feel almost good about his chances when he realized that the dragon's fist was glowing. Like his hand was wrapped around a flashlight instead of a knife, bones candled and flesh lava-red. Then the knife started glowing, too. It was maybe half a second before the heat reached Dean's palm.
He held on as long as he could. Watching the blade soften. Hearing the wound on the dragon's searing palm cauterize itself with a hss and a whiff of burnt pork. But the handles of the butterfly knife were metal, and there wasn't a whole lot of point in Dean completely ruining his hand. Even if a self-preservation instinct hadn't spun up out of the deep and forced him to let go.
Dean shook his hand out, sucking his teeth and blinking back automatic tears of pain. Clutching his wrist, he checked his palm, saw small blisters rising. Probably ought to be glad it wasn't worse.
The dragon opened his own hand, glow fading. Dean watched what was left of his knife splatter on the ground between them, heat waves shimmering off it, making a loud, harsh noise when molten metal met cold concrete. He looked back up at the dragon, and spread his hands, swallowing and forcing a smile.
"Well, Smaug," he said, "you got me trapped, unarmed, and with my back up against a literal wall, so looks like I'm gonna find out what you want with me." He raised his eyebrows. "Lemme guess. You're gonna eat me."
"Of course I'm not going to eat you." The dragon seemed shocked by the implication, and more than a little disgusted, too. "And you're mistaken. My name is Castiel."
"That's nice," Dean said flatly. Castiel looked disappointed he didn't follow it up with his own name, but moved past it in a second.
"Why would you think I wanted to eat you?" he almost demanded, taking another step forward. Dean felt like a squirrel on a branch with a hawk overhead, flattening himself against the wall. "You knew what I was, you weren't surprised. You brought weapons. They didn't work, but you were still armed. You have to know why you're here."
"Right, yeah, 'cause you handed me an orientation booklet when you swooped down outta the sky and snatched me up for no goddamn reason," Dean snapped, very aware of the heat coming off Castiel and yet still somehow unable to keep his fucking mouth shut. "Must've skipped that page, sorry."
"I am in the process of building my hoard." Castiel lifted his chin imperiously, wings spreading just a little further. "You should feel honored, being one of the items chosen."
"Yeah, no, actually, I think I'm kinda offended," Dean answered. He'd been trying to scan the portions of the hoard visible to him right now, find something he could use as a weapon. No dice. "Seeing as how you seem to mostly be into a whole bunch of useless trash."
"I collect items of beauty." Castiel bared his teeth. Outside of the canines, they actually weren't all that much sharper than a human's. "Things that catch and hold the light, things that bear the colors of the rainbow in solid form, effigies of gods and rare plants and fantastic beasts."
He gestured broadly, and happened to draw Dean's attention to one crumpled item in particular. He wondered if Castiel considered Chester Cheetah a god or a fantastic beast. Coin-flip, maybe.
"It's standard for my kind to cultivate a small collection of beautiful humans as the centerpiece of their hoard," Castiel continued, almost like he was delivering some kind of lecture. "Why do you think we used to retrieve princesses and other royalty?"
Dean squinted. "Didn't have to do with the virgin thing?"
Castiel's eyes, the same kind of luminescent blue that made Dean think of the inside of nuclear reactors, swept up and down his body. It made him feel like maybe he ought to have put his hands in front of his groin, covered up the goods. "We're dragons, not unicorns. And I took you. What do you think?"
Dean flushed, and felt the weirdest urge to defend the fact he'd had sex. He did his best to think past it, even as Castiel kept looking at him, head tilting, eyes studying, wings lifting, tail twitching. Had to take stock of the situation. He obviously wasn't going to be able to kill Castiel, and Castiel didn't seem all that interested in killing him, which was a point in his favor. But Dean really favored the hack-and-slash method, along with all the offshoots: salt-and-burn, research-and-ritual, bind-and-banish…none of which were options here.
So. If Sam had been grabbed instead - assuming Castiel could have lifted his ass off the ground to begin with - how would he touchy-feely his way out of this one?
"So, uh, I'm flattered," Dean started, "like you said." Castiel's head rose. He looked proud. "But you're gonna have to find another…beautiful dude."
Castiel's head cocked in confusion. Non-stop body language with this thing. Dean continued.
"Look, I'm a hunter." He pointed to himself. "We came here to kill you."
"And you have failed." Castiel's tone was matter-of-fact. An amused, bird-like little chirring noise rolled in the back of his throat. "You no longer have to worry about slaying me; you can let that task go. It's beyond your means."
"That ain't what I'm saying. We came here 'cause people have seen you taking their shit. Word's getting around." Dean spoke slowly, figured he might have a better chance of getting through that way. "You gotta be more careful. You wanna bring somebody who actually knows how to…slay you down on your head?"
Castiel looked troubled. Dean was just about to breathe a sigh of relief when he moved in closer, blinking at him as his claws scraped across the floor, and murmured, "You can show me, then. Tell me how to avoid detection."
"No - son of a bitch, you're not getting it. I didn't come here alone, my brother's definitely looking for me by now. And he - you don't wanna tangle with him. He's smart. He'll figure out how to gank you like…" Dean snapped his fingers. "That." Assuming, of course, that Sam's Silmarillion-reading ass didn't just want to buy Castiel coffee and ask him a billion questions while Dean stewed in his own juices here. "But if you just drop me outside, we'll leave, and you can keep on doing your whole Winona Ryder thing."
Castiel didn't answer right away. He was so close that, even pressed against the sealed door from scalp to heels, Dean couldn't see anything but his face. He had the same flat scales there that Dean had seen on his chest and hands, scattered across his cheeks and nose like freckles, making it look like somebody had dipped a brush in a can of Sherwin-Williams Dark Night and then shook it in his face.
Outside of that, though, and the eyes, and the fangs, and all the other dragon-y parts, Castiel was…almost the kind of guy Dean might buy a drink if he saw him at a bar. The bedhead his black hair had been ruffled into and that he was almost pulling off, the unshaven jaw, the confused little moue he was holding his very pink mouth in.
And that fucking voice. The smoke and rasp of it. Like his throat was in permanent bedroom mode.
Not that Dean was thinking about it like that. Or Castiel like that. Sure, yeah, maybe he hadn't bought all that many people drinks in bars lately or pulled the benefits that came from doing that. But he was not, and absolutely never would be, desperate enough to legitimately consider a monster. Just thinking about thinking about it was enough to make his skin crawl, and he had to get his mind off this right fucking now.
Castiel was ironically what wound up saving him, when he spoke. For about five minutes. "All right."
"Uh." Dean blinked. "What?"
"I'll let you go," Castiel replied. "But I have one condition."
This wasn't Dean's first rodeo, or even his thirtieth, so he wasn't at all surprised by that. Never mind the fact Castiel was the one who'd scooped him up in the first place and he didn't owe him shit. "What, you want me to fork over something shiny? You could have my knife, but you kinda ruined it."
He would have nodded down to it on the floor, if doing so wouldn't have meant braining himself on Castiel's horns. He was that goddamn close.
Dean could smell him. He would have expected a hot, animal reek to boil off him, what with all the time he very obviously spent picking through garbage, but he was surprisingly clean, only his breath carrying a slight whiff of something meat-eater-y. Mostly, he smelled like ozone, like a lightning strike. And hot metal. And…maybe something kind of sweet and fruity, and tart. Apples, or lemons?
"You want my gun?" Dean found his hand had wandered to the small of his back, the little pocket the curve of it and the grip of his gun made against the wall, and was grateful for it. He needed to stop thinking about how Castiel looked, how he smelled, right now. "I-I mean, really rather you didn't, but - "
"As beautiful a weapon as your gun is," Castiel interrupted as Dean swallowed the stutter, punching it down inside himself, "I'm not interested."
He lifted a hand. Dean sucked in a breath, tried to flatten his chest, make himself smaller, but it didn't do any good. Castiel's claws caught barely on his stubble as he cupped his jaw. His palm was smooth and warm, had Dean thinking of a cat or dog's pads. Polished calluses.
"I want you." Dean scowled, almost pointed out that what they were bargaining for here was letting him go, but Castiel continued before he could. "I want to mate with you."
"What?" Dean demanded. His face was hot, unbearable, and he had to jerk his head away and look at Castiel's hand to make sure he hadn't activated furnace mode again. "Son of a - no. Fuck no. Absolutely not, I don't screw…man, we ain't even the same species, why the hell are you interested?"
"I said I would let you go under one condition," Castiel said calmly, hand falling back to his side. None of the rest of him moved, except for a flutter of something pearly-iridescent across his eyes, which…gross, gross, gross, he'd just blinked sideways with an extra pair of eyelids. "That's my condition."
"I'm not whoring myself out to some kind of winged freak." Spitting it out made Dean feel better, though he didn't start thinking about the consequences until the last word was out. Lucky for him, Castiel didn't look bothered, just stood there impassively. He tried to calm down, reason with him. "'Sides, I know what lizards have got going on down there, we're not…"
"I am not a reptile," Castiel stated calmly. "We're perfectly compatible, in a sexual manner."
"Awesome." Dean raised his hands helplessly. "There's nothing else?"
"No." And Castiel was eye-fucking him again, like he had X-ray vision and could see Dean's cock in his jeans. Dean swallowed hard.
"So, you some kinda kinky bastard, or this a common thing?" Dean didn't know why he was stalling. It wasn't like he was going to figure out anything he hadn't already come up with and rejected. "Dragons fucking shit from their hoards."
"Fucking humans," Castiel corrected. "It's not uncommon. We tend to fall into two camps: those who prefer to look, and those who prefer to…" A windchime hung from the nearest shelf. Castiel extended one wing fully, touched it and set it tinkling with the tip, a dreamy expression on his face. "...touch. To use." He looked at Dean. "I am one of the latter."
Dean said nothing, swallowing. Castiel rolled his shoulders in a shrug that set his wings bouncing.
"If you would like to consider it, you're welcome to stay here as long as you like," he told him. "Or if you would like to refuse. You're free to do so. You are my first human, so…I would welcome the opportunity to learn how to properly care for you."
Dean blew out a breath. This wasn't his first time being captured, or his first time between a rock and a hard place, but it was the first time his only two options had been spending the rest of his life as the equivalent of a grade-schooler's first hamster or sticking his dick in an all-purposes hole.
At least one would be over a hell of a lot faster. Assuming there wasn't some kind of nasty dragon poison involved. Assuming Castiel kept his word.
"Fine," Dean grated, mouth barely moving as he forced the word out. Castiel smiled, ridiculously bright and sunny, and he added, "Not like I have much of a choice, right?"
The smile disappeared, replaced by a concerned frown. "Of course you have a choice. Do you think I would ever force you?"
"You - yeah, whatever." Dean was absolutely not having this conversation. He began to turn, to press his front against the door that was more of a wall and shuck his jeans off. "Let's just…get this over with."
Castiel stopped him, putting the claw at the top of one wing on his arm. His touch was gentle, but Dean flinched anyway, and heard a sad little chirping noise from down inside Castiel's chest. He tilted his head, stepping backwards and drawing Dean away from the door with him.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he murmured. "Come with me."
And, at this point, there just wasn't a whole lot else that Dean could do. So he let Castiel guide him, with little touches from his wings, down the paths that ran through his hoard, back to the center of the whole thing. Where the nest was, and the trench coat, and the wind spinner that he'd hung up right after he landed.
Castiel turned Dean, looked at him, and smiled again. Fangs and pink lips. Then he started herding Dean towards the nest, a low sound rising in his throat, eyelids dropping, pupils slitting. Dean swallowed hard as he walked backwards.
He'd totally lost control of the situation, if he'd ever even had any, and was getting more helpless by the second. And the worst part was he didn't hate it.
No, scratch that: the worst part was the throbbing he could feel in his cock, laying chubby against one thigh.
He wondered if dragons had some kind of pheromones they gave off. There was absolutely no way he was this horny for a monster just because he hadn't gotten laid in a while.
Dean's calves hit the outer wall of Castiel's nest, and he went ass over elbows, landing hard enough on his back to knock the wind out of him. Again. Thankfully, it seemed to be pillows and blankets all the way down. He was glad that the particular snippet of lore about dragons sleeping on their hoards didn't seem to be true, because all of Castiel's metal and glass would have turned him into Swiss cheese.
Dean instantly hated being on his back. It never felt good, soft parts being exposed to things with claws and fangs; some pre-caveman prey instinct he'd never quite been able to crush. It only got worse when Castiel landed above him, on all fours over him, hands and clawed feet, wings hooded, curl of his tail visible up behind his back.
Dean swallowed, heart a hammer in his throat, but didn't start freaking out for real until Castiel took either side of him and flipped him effortlessly over onto his front.
It clicked. He stopped thinking about a multi-use hole and started thinking about a spiny, forked lizard dick…if Castiel even had one, Dean really didn't know what the whole situation was like for dragons. An adrenaline dump had him feeling like he was sucking on a live wire, penny taste in his mouth and all.
"Wait, wait, wait, hey - no, this ain't what we agreed on - " Dean was babbling, even fully aware they had laid down exactly zero ground rules and he had super mega fucked up on this one. He clawed at the fabric in front of him, a kid's quilt with shiny patches, but didn't make it so much as an inch before Castiel pinned him down with one hand between his shoulder blades, squashing the breath out of his lungs.
But despite the force, it felt kind of gentle. Playful, almost. That feeling got stronger when Dean felt Castiel's mouth on the back of his neck, even though the touch of his teeth had hairs zinging straight from his scalp all the way down his spine. He shuddered. Something like an aroused purr vibrated through his bones, rumbling out of Castiel. His cock was trapped achingly hard against his stomach.
Pheromones. Had to be.
Castiel moved down him. Hands in fists on the quilt, Dean thought about trying to get away again - not because he thought he'd make it, but just so that he could say later he tried. He jumped, twitching, when Castiel pulled his jeans and boxers down, sucking in a breath as his heart beat so hard his vision throbbed in time with his pulse.
"No, no, hey - no, I do not bottom for - "
Then Castiel's hands were on his cheeks, claws dimpling flesh, and they were spread wide, and his tongue was washing over Dean's hole.
Dean must have subconsciously been expecting something rough, like a cat, because the softness of it surprised him. The feel of Castiel's tongue against his skin reminded him of the kind of microfiber cloths he used to polish weapons, except boiling hot, and wet. Very wet. The amount of saliva, thick and viscous, might have been gross. If Castiel hadn't been eating him out half as good as he was.
His tongue dragged across Dean's entrance in long, flat swipes. Muted pleasure pulsed down along Dean's balls. Soft little jolts traveled along his cock, and his hips rocked automatically, bare dick rutting into the fleecy material underneath him. His knees slowly spread, movements speeding up as Castiel's did.
Castiel made a rough noise suddenly, grip tightening. Dean didn't feel skin break, but hissed a startled breath in anyway as Castiel held him still, lifted his hips a little. His tongue kept swiping, started probing, and Dean felt himself relax, open up. His fists trembled as he squeezed them harder, palms stinging under his nails until he forced himself to grab handfuls of the quilt to hold instead. Head flat on the bottom of the nest, Dean panted, swallowing over and over again to keep a thin whine from slipping out as Castiel's tongue entered him.
He delved right in, exploring Dean's walls, stretching him out. Dean tensed at the burn, then relaxed inch by trembling inch. Inside him, holding him, Castiel felt almost too hot. He was starting to sweat.
Dean had read somewhere, or maybe somebody had told him, that you couldn't reach anybody's prostate with your tongue. Personal experience bore it out. That must be a fact that applied exclusively to people, though, because when Castiel's tongue flicked over his prostate, Dean's jaw locked almost hard enough to crack his fillings.
Castiel, eating him out like he was going for a gold medal in rimming, had lifted Dean's hips higher. Dean's back was slightly arched, and his cock was in the air. He'd never been much for precome, but he could feel it beading on his tip now, like it was being milked out by the steady pulse of Castiel's tongue inside him. The tip lazily circled Dean's prostate, and he felt himself drool, blinking rapidly.
He shook as Castiel licked him open. It felt like he was at it for an hour or more, pleasure so strong it was damn near unbearable, Dean skating right along the edge of an orgasm half a dozen times or more. When Castiel pulled his tongue out, there was no swallowing it down again: Dean whined, then groaned out his disappointment, eyes falling closed as he was dropped unceremoniously back to the floor of the nest. But he opened his eyes again and lifted his head when he heard Castiel fumbling with his own jeans, looking over his shoulder just in time to see his cock spring free.
He definitely had one. And in some ways, it really wasn't all that different from a human cock. Most of it was the same flushed color Dean was used to seeing, at least. But that was where the similarities ended. He couldn't stop staring at it, taking in the differences.
The mushroom head of it was more pointed than any cock he'd ever seen, and purplish ripples ran all the way down to the base. Where it was coming out of something that almost looked like a pussy, no balls to be seen, only a smattering of scales where pubic hair would have been on a person. Dean was a lot less worried about that than the bristle of fleshy spikes bulging about halfway down the shaft, though.
That and the fact it was big. Massive. Nine or ten inches if it was two, and that wasn't even accounting for the girth.
This thing was not going to fit inside him, Dean immediately knew. Prepped or not, he wasn't a bottom, not even a switch, he wasn't used to it, and he was going to forcefully ignore the needy fluttering of his hole, because if Castiel tried to stuff it up there, it was going to tear loose a ton of stuff he'd really rather keep in place -
Dean pushed himself up. His breath shook on its way into him, stuttered on its way out. So long as he could get out of the nest, he was sure, it would be fine, because Castiel couldn't fuck him if he wasn't in here. But just like before, he didn't make it even an inch. Castiel's hands came down on his shoulders, smashing him to the floor, and the hot, supple cord of his tail coiled around Dean's waist.
"Don't worry," Castiel assured him, voice a growl. "It won't hurt."
"N-no, dude, you don't - you said I was your first, right? Seriously, I - " Words jittery with adrenaline, Dean did his best to stammer through an explanation, because Castiel clearly had no idea how human bodies worked and needed to know that Dean had to have more prep than a rimjob and goopy saliva.
But he didn't even get half of it out before he felt the hot, pointed head of Castiel's cock at his soft entrance, and he froze rock-solid in the most useless fear response ever. Then Castiel's hips rocked above him, and it just…slid in on one thrust, spearing Dean all the way down to the base of it.
There wasn't any tearing. No pain, no gush of blood. Just a burning stretch that had him shuddering in delight. Castiel's saliva was like lube, and maybe there was also some kind of painkiller or something in it, but at that exact moment, Dean didn't care. Because he could swear that the head of Castiel's cock was butting up against the base of his ribcage, and he felt unbelievably full, and the flare of spines that didn't seem to have caught at all on the way in was resting right up against his prostate. If he could have looked down at his stomach, it felt like he would have been able to see the shape of that enormous dragon dick inside him, bulging out against his skin in detail. All the way down to the ripples on the shaft.
Dean was panting, sweat dripping off him. His hips were back up in the air, lower half of his body dangling off Castiel's dick, and he could feel his eyes rolling back in his head. Like he was in a goddamn hentai.
"I told you so," Castiel purred out, right before he started fucking Dean.
That huge cock started pumping back and forth inside him, rhythm slow at first but steadily working its way up to something brutal, battering. The spines still didn't bother him, even though he could feel them rutting over his prostate. More of a "ribbed for your pleasure" kind of thing.
Castiel was on all fours above him again, breath deep and harsh, animal grunts slipping out of him. Light filtered blue through his wings, like Dean was on the ocean floor. The tail around his waist tightened and relaxed in time with every thrust. When Castiel drove forward, it arched his back, pressed his chest and chin harder into the softness underneath him, strained the muscles of his stomach. He had his knees under him, but couldn't straighten up onto all fours, because Castiel's hands were still on his shoulders. The whole seething weight of him holding Dean down.
Dean really couldn't contribute at all as Castiel blew his back out. He couldn't move, couldn't push back, couldn't do anything but lay there and take it. Those rapid thrusts so powerful he could swear his teeth rattled when Castiel slid home. Castiel's movements milked grunts and gasps from his mouth, occasionally a breathy little noise when he hit his prostate true, and a steady stream of pre from his cock. He badly wanted to stroke himself, but couldn't even get a hand on his own dick.
Dean had never been so hard in his entire life. The pleasure was like a hurricane in his head, his chest, his stomach. His eyes were watering, his face felt flat and numb, and he was barely aware of anything at all except Castiel on top of him.
It felt like he was being shaken apart, and he was a hundred percent fine with that.
Castiel growled above him. Dean felt it in his sternum, his collarbone. The tail whipped off his waist. Then Castiel's mouth was on his neck again, broad chest pressed to Dean's back, and he felt his teeth. He held him there, still growling, as his thrusts got shorter but more aggressive. Dean's shoulders seared, Castiel's hands hot enough to melt through his shirt.
Maybe Castiel was going to kill him. Chomp right through his spinal cord where it hit his brain. But he was sofuckingclose he didn't give a shit.
Dean came when Castiel's teeth broke the skin. Wires crossed, and what should have been pain was a nuclear explosion of pleasure that swept down his back to hit the wave welling up hot from his cock and balls. He'd never come untouched before, and it had him gasping, lungs frozen, eyes tearing up. It was deeper than anything he'd had before, fire in his stomach, needles on his tongue. His vision blurred and fuzzed, static crackling like an inferno through his brain.
Come pulsed out of him, most splattering into the nest, the angle right for some to pool in his belly button. And it just kept - coming. Through the whole orgasm. Forced out by the insistent motion of Castiel's cock inside him. Stretching the climax out longer than any Dean thought he'd ever had before, until the pleasure started frying its way along his nerves, the scale tipping over into pain. He shuddered, feeling jerky, desperate. Still unable to move.
It ended, left Dean feeling like every brain cell in his head had just been blown out of his cock, eyes blinking out of sync, mouth dry, body so weak he might as well have been made out of wet tissue paper. But any aftershocks he might have felt were completely obliterated by Castiel, still pumping away inside him.
Dean's cock was dry, every drop of come squeezed out of him by the motion of Castiel's cock. Castiel's teeth were still in the back of his neck, drips of blood drying tacky on either side, and every kind of movement was lightning in the wounds. His burning hands were still on Dean's shoulders. Dean's bent spine was a flaming supernova. Every inch of his body was fever-sensitive, especially his insides. And Castiel just kept slamming into him with that spiny, rippled dick. Over and over and over.
The overstimulation built at the crown of Dean's head like a migraine. He groaned, squirming, but there wasn't anywhere to go. Especially not with Castiel's hands on his shoulders, his teeth on his neck. His cock up Dean's ass, rubbing him a little rawer with every stroke. Dean could barely even tense up, all his strength spent on that orgasm, and scrabbling at the quilt obviously did nothing at all, was just weak and instinctive and useless.
But it wasn't bad. It still wasn't bad. It was both better and worse than a normal afterglow would have been. He wanted it to stop, but there was still something about it, something that was like dragging a back that had been itching all day, or even longer, over a brick wall…
"C-Cas," Dean whimpered out, and then Castiel came.
Even without the snarling roar that punched out of him, the one he had to let go of Dean's neck to make, Dean would have known. It was hard to miss the way Castiel exploded inside of him, rooted so deep his hips were all but glued to Dean's ass. It was like a water main had popped in him, a firehose going off, like he was being pumped achingly full of something just this side of boiling.
It felt good. Felt good enough to seed tears in Dean's eyes, more tears, it felt like all the skin he had was sticky with tears or blood or jizz. It was almost like he was coming again, too. And it hurt and it felt good and he howled along with Castiel.
He felt his stomach bow out with everything that Castiel was dumping into him. A gallon, more, of creamy, silky, smoldering dragon come, filling him, bloating him. He moaned, entire body shaking like a seizure, felt his eyes rolling up again.
Dean was almost positive he could feel Castiel's cock getting bigger, too. Just a little bit. Maybe just the part with the spikes on it. Locking him in there. Tongue out of his mouth as he panted, trying to force enough air into his compressed lungs, Dean honestly couldn't see a damn thing wrong with that right now.
Castiel stopped coming, eventually. He kind of had to. He stayed where he was for a second, his own breath heaving ragged in and out of him, and Dean could feel him trembling, too. Muscles spent. Looked like it had taken a hell of a lot out of both of them.
Eventually, Castiel laid down, rolling Dean with him. Dean's back cracked, and he grunted, whole body protesting him leaving the position he'd spent…what? Half an hour in? He had no idea, and didn't really care all that much, either.
His stomach made a glooping noise, and he felt the come inside slosh. Once Castiel both got them down onto their sides, Dean looked at his belly, hissing when the movement stretched the bite mark on his neck. Yeah, it was definitely swollen, but not as much as he would have guessed. It was…weird, but kind of hot. The same way it was weird but kind of hot to still have that monster cock rooted inside him.
The literal monster cock. Because a dragon had just given him the best fuck of his life. And a belly full to bursting with come, and a bite on the back of his neck that was gonna scar like an absolute bitch, and sure, it wasn't the first time he'd walked away from a hunt with bite marks, but it was the first time he'd ever picked them up in this particular fashion, and how in the hell was he gonna explain any of this to - ?
Yeah, Dean was gonna try and see if he could put off thinking about that for a little while. A nap seemed a hell of a lot more important just then.
Practically suction-cupped to Dean's back, Castiel put a wing over the two of them, filtered the light blue again. His tail coiled around Dean. as his tongue began to work busily at the back of his neck. The pain started easing the second he started licking, and the same thing was true when he gave some attention to the burns on both of Dean's shoulders, too.
A low groan vibrated in Dean's chest, and Castiel answered it with something a lot like a purr. This was some next-level cuddling, Castiel's arms locked around him, knees slotted into the bare hollows of Dean's, but it didn't feel like he was trapped. The sex had wrung him out, left behind heat in his muscles that meant pain later on, but right now, he was all endorphins and dopey post-coital bliss inside. The tongue on his wounds was rhythmic, soothing.
He didn't remember the last time he was somewhere this warm and safe. He was almost sure he'd never felt so taken care of.
When Castiel moved his hips, tugging at his cock where it was still anchored inside Dean, it didn't hurt. But everything else felt so good, and he was so close to sleep, that the little pulse of discomfort it sent up through him might as well have been pain. He grunted.
"Dude. Cut it out."
"I'm sorry," Castiel murmured. "It's going to be uncomfortable for both of us, but the longer we stay tied, the higher the chance of - "
"Don't fuckin' care, just…leave it," Dean mumbled into the bottom of the nest, squinching his eyes shut and putting one arm over Castiel's.
Castiel was quiet for a while, not moving, then exhaled, a hot puff of air against the back of Dean's neck. He nuzzled it, somewhere his teeth must not have landed, up at the very base of Dean's skull where his hair had been shaved thin and the skin was sensitive. Dean could feel him breathing. Lovingly, he murmured something against him.
Dean, almost asleep again, didn't quite make it out. But it sounded a lot like mate.