Work Text:
Cas slides into Dean’s lap like he belongs there.
The sky is oily black and startlingly devoid of stars, just like it always is when Castiel comes to Dean like this; desperate for Dean’s warmth, curling his body against Dean’s like he’s trying to absorb his humanity, pressing hard like he’s offering to trade his grace for Dean’s brand of peace.
Sometimes Cas stays like this for hours—so still and quiet that Dean can barely feel him breathing—and when Castiel finally slips off and walks away, letting the ravenous shadows of the forest swallow him up, Dean’s left with tingling, blood-starved legs that he painfully kneads back to normal circulation.
Sometimes Cas shoves Dean’s shirt up, fascinated by bare skin as he delineates bones and contours with fingertips and tongue. He’ll keep going—zeroing in on Dean’s most sensitive areas like he’s memorized Dean’s personal body map—until Dean’s squirming and desperate to get off any way he can. But each time, Cas callously moves his hips back just far enough to deny Dean that friction, clamping his hands around Dean’s wrists when he attempts to reach down and get a hand between his legs.
Dean gets it. He knows that Cas is fractured; is testing lines of right and wrong, trying to determine which side he falls on. It doesn’t make Dean’s arousal any easier to bear, but he doesn’t blame the angel either; just waits for the moment Cas guiltily shoves himself away, wiping his mouth and turning his back while Dean frantically pumps his painfully-hard cock.
Dean doesn’t know why Castiel needs to do this or why Dean needs to let him. But Dean can feel how deep the angel’s fatigue and self-condemnation run, and that vulnerability triggers a big brother protection in Dean that he finds surprising in its ferocity, especially when he considers that the angel’s probably thousands of years older than he is.
This sense of protection, however, doesn’t feel like cereal prizes and fireworks and checking for monsters in the closet; doesn’t feel like Sam. No, Dean’s been down this road before, and the scenery here’s a little darker—filled with memories of nights turned sideways when he watched one bottle turn into half a dozen more and not one of them had any answers in the bottom; of hunts where the thing they were hunting managed to sink its claws inside one or both of their heads and bust the rotted contents open like a spoiled melon, all without leaving a single visible mark; of days when Dean could tell by the way his father closed his eyes and sunk into bed like he wasn’t sure he wanted to wake up the next day that, regardless of what people say, revenge isn’t sweet at all—just burnt ashes on your tongue and a jagged crack in your belly, deep and puckered like a California fault line no amount of time could ever hope to close.
Purgatory, perhaps, has a grim sense of humor, and Dean figures it’s to blame for thoughts of John appearing in his mind while he’s got his hand on his dick, chasing release that barely even registers as pleasure. All Dean really knows is that Cas needs him, and being able to supply Cas with this—whatever the fuck this is—manages to momentarily satiate the greedy black hole inside of him that’s never content unless he’s got someone to take care of.
Not all of Castiel’s visits are filled with hollow pain and sharp denial, though. Sometimes Cas climbs into his lap and brushes his lips against Dean’s in soft, ghosting touches not solid enough to be called kisses; the slow, parched drag a silent plea for Dean to take control, for Dean to decide where this is going.
This is one of those times.
Dean doesn’t need this like Cas does; doesn’t have nightmares to chase away or darkness to forget—at least, not in this place. Purgatory might be infested with monsters, but they’re tangible and out in the open, and Dean’s never been all that bothered by flesh and bone he knows he can fight.
However, this time Dean’s got Home on his mind; had recently ganked a toothy son-of-a-bitch with stupidly floppy hair and eyes just a shade or two darker than the ones Dean avoids thinking about too often. The features weren’t exact, but they were close enough to make Dean flinch as he swung the knife and watched the creature’s head slip wetly off its shoulders.
For the first time it occurs to Dean that maybe this isn’t about Cas looking for something to fill the void as much as it’s about Cas trying to ask for Dean’s forgiveness.
Dean has no problem giving that. Sometime between Cas putting Sam back together again and standing with them during their last battle, all of Dean’s resentment and feelings of betrayal had dried up, falling through his fingers like grains of sand. Cas was family by now; had given up too much for the Winchesters for Dean to even consider denying him that privilege, even if it came with a bitch of a health plan and a tendency to end up dead.
Smoothing his hands up Cas’s back, Dean pulls the angel close, feels relief loosen the tension in Cas’s body the moment Dean’s lips touch his. That alone is enough to disintegrate any lingering regret Dean may have had about this.
Within moments desperate fingers clutch at skin and hair like Cas expects Dean to change his mind at any second; to cut him loose and let him crash to the ground like an untethered kite. When Dean gently tugs Cas’s hands away from their tight grip, the angel flinches with expectation, but Dean tangles Cas’s fingers with his own, forcing Cas to take a breath and slow down. They have time, if they want to take it, to make this more than just a fast-and-dirty fuck. Dean’s had more than his fill of things trying to fuck with him.
Moving his hands to Castiel’s shoulders, Dean pinches the dirty cloth so he can tug the long trench coat off, and he’s grateful for the excuse to get the soiled material off of Cas. The angel complies easily; slips his arms out of the sleeves and lets the coat pool behind him while Dean slides a hand down a newly-exposed arm, stopping to grasp Cas’s wrist. The skin there is soft and pale, and after Dean locates the pulse point, he lets his thumb rest against it for a minute while his leans in to work into Cas’s mouth, feeling the beat of the angel’s heart accelerate when Dean slides his tongue past Cas’s teeth.
The rest of Dean’s fingers curl around the angel’s deceivingly slender wrist where his thumb and middle finger are just able to touch, and God, he doesn’t even know why that’s hot, but it is, just one more part of Cas that Dean can wrap himself around and hold onto.
Briefly, Dean wonders why everyone thinks they need to leave him to save him; why Cas figured it was better to let Dean go at it alone than risk having an angel nearby and why everyone he’s ever cared about has jumped ship at one point or another. He should probably stop being surprised when it happens, but he can never quite get used to the feeling of betrayal. If you care about something, you hold on tight. So Dean grips Cas firmly and pretends for a moment that this could be enough to give Cas the absolution he needs to follow Dean out of here.
Just as Dean thinks about bringing Cas’s wrist to his mouth, Cas moves his other hand up Dean’s shirt, skating fingers up stomach and chest, letting his nails drag against every responsive region, and Dean’s breath stutters a little. Other than Cas’s irregular night visits, it’s been a long while since he’s had anything reaching out to touch him that wasn’t trying to spill open his guts. And while Dean can appreciate the rare gentleness of this moment, he feels a thin wisp of resentment at the angel for disrupting the visceral purity of this place; for taking away the simplicity that lets Dean go on autopilot as his world tapers down to the splintering of cracked bones and the warm spill of blood.
But.
But Cas’s light fingers feel good on his skin, and despite the transient flicker of annoyance, Dean does want this. So Dean leans away from the decaying trunk of the fallen tree he’d been sitting against and maneuvers Cas so that the angel’s back is against the fraying bark while Dean trails his mouth down Cas’s body and tugs at his pants; his mouth stopping at a bare hip to suck at skin laced with earth and salt. He’s not sure how far Cas intended for this to go, but Dean wants it all; wants to remind Cas how well they work together, how well they know each other (how well they’re about to know each other). He just wants Cas out of Purgatory, and he doesn’t really care how.
When Dean’s eyes flick up, he’s startled by the new expression on Cas’s face as the angel peers down at Dean, desire and awe reflected in wide, blue eyes that look unnaturally bright in the smoke-dark forest.
“Dean.” It’s the first word the angel’s ever spoken when he comes to Dean in the dark, and Dean sucks harder at Castiel’s perfectly-shaped hipbone; imprints the shape of his mouth into the rounded skin and wonders how the fuck he’s never noticed its sensuous curve before.
When Cas makes a sharp, broken noise in the back of his throat, Dean smirks around a mouthful of skin. If Cas believes he has a right to curl up against Dean’s body whenever he wants, Dean is damn well going to make sure the angel remembers that Dean has a choice in the matter, and Dean can be a possessive bastard as well.
After a few minutes, Dean shoulders himself in between Cas’s legs and tongues his way up his cock, tasting a faint musky bitterness, rich sweat, and soft skin that somehow tastes just like Dean imagined Cas would. As he settles in for a comfortable blow job, Dean lets his fingers wander, sliding down the crease behind Cas’s balls and circling the edge of Cas’s hole. He can feel Cas tense at that touch, the spasm making his knees clench around Dean’s head, and Dean moves his mouth off Cas’s dick to hoarsely say:
“Cas, I wanna—”
“I know.” Cas moves his hips up encouragingly as he dizzily adds, “It’s okay.”
Another burst of heat pools in Dean’s stomach, and within seconds, he’s got Castiel bent over a section of tree while Dean’s kneeling behind him with his tongue up his ass. Cas’s trench coat has been thrown over the bark to keep Cas’s hands from chafing, and when Dean carefully slides a finger in next to his tongue, Cas’s hands tighten in the material while his hips start to lightly grind forward.
With nothing substantial to make this work, Dean goes slow; tries to work Cas pliant and loose with just tongue and spit and fingers, and while Dean’s settled himself down to carefully open Cas up, Cas is gasping impatiently, his gravelly voice straining into a higher range than normal.
It takes time, but when he’s got Cas wet and relaxed, Dean crooks his fingers down further, searching until he feels Cas jerk forward and gasp out:
“Fuck! Dean!”
The words are bitten off, barely recognizable, and Dean feels a surge of triumph in his gut at the sight of Cas losing control; white-knuckling his coat and cursing just from Dean rubbing against his prostate. He keeps his finger there, enjoying how it makes Cas squirm, but Dean can feel the heat deepening in his belly, warning him that he needs to get inside the angel right-the-fuck now.
Rising to his feet, Dean slides his fingers in dark hair, marveling at how much wilder and more tousled Cas’s hair has turned since he ran out of magic angel-soap. As Dean slides carefully into Cas, he finds the angel surprisingly relaxed, taking Dean much more easily than he would have guessed. Dean’s hips start an unhurried grind that Cas immediately picks up the cadence of. It’s been a damn long time since Dean’s gone this slow, but it’s good; the pleasure sinking into his bones like its decomposing his body into warm layers of earth. It’s not long before Cas starts moving more insistently, pushing into the thrust of Dean’s pelvis as Dean angles to put pressure in just the right spot to draw out small moans from the angel.
“That’s it,” Dean murmurs as he lets his hands circle around Castiel’s chest to pull him up so Dean can put his mouth next to his ear. “Feels good, right?”
“Yes.” The angel’s voice is thin and breathy. “I—yes.”
Dean guides Cas’s hand down to slide against his dick, and Dean can see the back of Cas’s neck flushing red with exertion and arousal. Licking up a few beads of sweat, Dean tucks his head down and starts to really fuck into Cas, feeling the world narrow down into this point, this connection where he can feel Cas’s muscles tighten around him as they both grind just a little harder, push just a little bit closer as they chase their release.
Cas comes with a low grunt, and Dean’s hands circle around the angel’s chest as he feels the angel clench around his cock, drawing Dean’s orgasm out with a punch that makes his eyes clench tight and his breath echo in the forest that seems older than time.
Dean holds onto Castiel and flops them over while they’re still panting and coming back to full consciousness, his arms tightening around Cas as he smells rich, humid earth beneath them along with the scent of sex tingeing the air. Hoping that Cas will be content to just rest for a while, Dean closes his eyes and leans against the back of a pale, sweat-soaked shoulder.
Unbidden, he remembers all the time he spent trying to put his dad together again to face another day while hoping that if he turned into the perfect son, the perfect hunter—if he let himself be malleable enough for John to shape into whatever form was needed—his dad would never have a reason to leave him.
It’s the definition of insanity; treading the same roads over and over, knowing that they all lead to dead ends but determined to keeping taking them all the same, hoping to find a different destination each time. But Dean has long since discarded any delusions of sanity; knows that his busted psyche is a hospital-shrink’s wet-dream come true. So he puts that same road beneath him now as he lays a hand on Cas’s arm, rubbing his thumb into the thin sheen of sweat and trying to figure out what he form he needs to mold himself into to make Cas stay.
When Dean found Castiel, the angel had been sitting by the river, washing the grime off his hands and looking as lost as Dean had ever seen him. Dean thinks of that moment, and he knows that Cas is still lost; still searching for an atonement that Dean honestly doesn’t think exists.
Dean knows he has it all wrong but is unrepentant—stubbornly accepts the red strike, failed test, lost credit. If you love something, you set it free, or some shit like that. But Dean can’t quite bring himself to agree; abandonment is the worst hell he can think of, and he’d long ago embraced the bittersweet dysfunction of a codependent relationship and love that’s only real if it tests your willingness to bleed and kill and die.
If you love something, you hold on tight. And you never let go.