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Fucking witches .
Dean had expected the hunt to go smoothly, and for the most part, it had. The witch they were hunting had only been practicing magic for a few weeks, angry and full of vengeance. They burned her spell book, put an end to whatever she’d been planning to do, and decided killing her was unnecessary. She spat some spells at Dean that didn’t have any effect; Dean figured she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet. He packed up and went home.
They hadn’t started kicking back at the motel with a few beers for more than fifteen minutes before the lights broke and the window blew in.
Sam and Dean both grabbed their shotguns-- but it was Castiel.
“Cas?” Sam said, lowering his gun.
“Haven’t blown the lights like that for, what? Six, seven years?” Dean teased, “Gettin’ flabby, huh?”
The air in the room was flat, a mixture of amusement and friendly banter and something else. Something unspoken, heavy; Dean couldn’t quite place what it was. Castiel didn’t respond to Dean’s taunting; he fell to the floor, shaking, sweating.
“I’m dying,” he said without preamble.
Dean’s shotgun hit the floor as he rushed over and pulled Cas’ face towards his with his hands; he said, “No, you’re not, you dumbass,” taking in a deep breath, and assessing the damage. Castiel was hot, starting to disorientate, eyes heavily lidded. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Castiel shook his head, “I feel… Some sort of magic.”
Sam and Dean shared a look.
“Fuck,” Sam cursed, running a hand through his hair. “Um. Okay. What do we do?”
Castiel shook his head again. “Nothing I can ask of you. I’ve felt this before-- thousands of years ago-- It shouldn’t be affecting me so much. It shouldn’t-- shouldn’t hurt like this. Something’s wrong, and I fear it may be fatal.”
Dean pushed Castiel over onto his back to better look at his eyes, watch the heavy breath pour from his lips while he could. He’d be damned if Castiel was going out by a fucking low-level witch . There had to be a spell-- hell, anything .
Castiel’s eyes seemed… darker. Distracted-- if Dean didn’t know better, he’d say Castiel was turned on. Castiel felt heat crawling through his body like food coloring spreads through clean water. And despite the heat, he felt addicted to the touch of Dean’s hands on his cheeks, how they brushed down and touched his shoulders. He ached .
Castiel knew Dean would do what he asked if he did, and that was the worst part: that this desire Castiel had felt for so long had been resolved pettily because of a spell and without Dean’s true consent. It made Castiel feel sick, and still he just barely held back the desire to hold Dean’s hands in his own and mount him.
The motel room was small, the walls felt as if they were closing in on Castiel; he felt claustrophobic. He wanted to pull Dean closer, to envelop him; he wanted to shove him away.
Castiel averted his eyes. “You shouldn’t touch me,” he said.
“Why not? ‘S it contagious?” Dean brushed his knuckles down Castiel’s arm in thought, debate whether or not to remove himself.
Castiel shook his head, “But it makes it worse.”
Dean reluctantly retracted his touch, and stood up. His gaze flickered from the bookcase to Sam on the laptop. He couldn’t think of what he could do to help in a way that was inside the room because he wasn’t about to leave. If Cas was about to friggin’ die , Dean wasn’t going anywhere. Sam was typing fervently on the laptop, no doubt looking for some kind of solution, being helpful like he always was. The room was otherwise quiet and thick with dread.
“She cursed me ,” Dean said through the silence, “She spoke the words of the spell to me . Why did it hurt you?”
Castiel was on the floor, head facing away from Dean, hands folded over his chest. He looked too beautiful to die, a thought Dean pushed away and filed it under things to never think about ever . Cas’ voice was tired and weak when he spoke.
“I believe it coursed through you,” he answered. “The spell’s intention was to kill something you loved. It followed your bond to me.”
Dean’s heart stopped at the word love . He wouldn’t dwell much on it. It didn’t mean anything, couldn’t mean anything.
Castiel swallowed thickly, and continued, “I, however, cannot be killed. At least not like the spell intended. I’m not human. So it resorts to this.”
They fall into silence again. It came like rain, how it returned every now and then, but stronger, and then faded away. Dean sat back on his heels, watching Castiel, treasuring the rise and fall of his chest, and listened to Sam click on the keyboard.
“Take this off,” Dean said, reaching forward to help undress him.
“ Don’t ,” Castiel bit, “Don’t touch me, Dean.”
Dean’s heart clenched at the way Castiel flinched from his touch, but he couldn’t help feel that he was missing something. Castiel’s breathing was ragged, and his eyes somewhat crazed.
“You’re sweating through your clothes,” Dean said, “We should get you into an ice bath or something.”
“I should leave,” Castiel said abruptly.
“Like hell,” Dean refuted.
Castiel looked as if he were about to say something, but ended up keeping quiet. It would be easier if he left. He would be able to wait out the pain, hope that it would subside and that he’d be back to normal, but this ache was unlike any other. It demanded to be satisfied. It demanded to be fed, angry like a wildfire devouring a forest.
Dean was starting to get hysterical. He couldn’t lose Cas. He’d rather die than lose Cas. His mind was racing, running through every possible thing he could do, everything he’d done.
He stopped.
“‘Nothing I can ask of you,’” Dean quoted, “Meaning, there is something we can do, you just don’t want us to do it.”
Castiel swallowed again, his hands wiped at the sweat on his head and then fell limp again. Dean had never seen him so weak, and it made his heart ache.
“Cas,” Dean barked, “Tell me what to do.”
Castiel shook his head, “I can’t--”
“You can , dammit,” Dean neared him, “You’re fucking dying, how can there be something you can’t ask of me?”
“ Because-- ” Castiel shut his eyes, “What’s happening to me-- I know you would not consent for any reason other than my survival. I don’t want that.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dean demanded, “Consent? This is your life , Cas. Hell, tell me to jump off a cliff, I’ll do it.”
Castiel’s mind had long since become foggy, and his patience was running thin. He was tired. He didn’t want to argue. He decided on a half-truth.
“It requires intimacy,” he said dismissively, “in ways you won’t allow.”
Dean started incredulously, “You say that as if there’s something I won’t give you, something I won’t do to save--”
“It requires you to fuck me , Dean,” Castiel cut in sharply.
Sam’s laptop shut loudly. “Well!” He jumped up, “I’m going to the library!”
The motel door clicked closed.
Castiel’s words hung heavy in the air.
Dean cleared his throat, “Oh,” he said lamely.
Silence captured them like a blanket, wrapping tightly around them. Castiel couldn’t read Dean’s expression, not that he was in a state of being able to read well in the first place. When neither of them spoke for a time longer, Castiel decided to explain further.
“What I’m going through is called a heat,” Castiel said quietly. “Angels have them when they are fledglings coming of age, and when they meet a suitable mate. They shouldn’t be nearly this intense.”
“So you’re literally so horny you’re gonna die?” Dean jested.
“ Dean .”
“Sorry.”
It felt like a game of chess, silence between each move, each pawn sliding slowly into place. For years, they’d played this game, flirting and mingling and touching, but it had always ended in stalemate. Something felt different about this time, whether it be the cheap carpet beneath Castiel’s head or the life-or-death circumstance hanging in the air.
It always was life-or-death circumstance that got shit done when it came to the Winchesters, wasn’t it?
Dean stood up, dragged his shirt over his head, and threw it to the floor.
“Well, let’s do it.”
Castiel dragged his eyes to meet Dean’s. “Dean,” he implored, “I couldn’t--”
Dean stopped him with a pointed look. He reached out his hand.
The hand was rough and calloused; Castiel took it in his own, and Dean helped him to his feet.
“ Oh ,” Castiel sighed, falling into Dean’s chest. He felt weakness, he felt want, he felt longing.
Dean helped him out of his trench coat, pulled it off of his shoulders, and Cas heard unspoken in the air an echo of what he’d said earlier.
Take this off.
Castiel caved. He could hardly hold himself back without being in heat, and now with Dean so close and compliant, he felt himself submit wholly. He fell into Dean’s arms, and Dean onto the bed. The mattress was cheap and uncomfortable, but Castiel was never one to recognize comfort.
He shed his clothes as if shedding his uncertainties.
His coat: should we do this?
His tie: what if Dean doesn’t want this?
His jacket: what if Dean doesn’t enjoy it?
His shirt: what if I don’t enjoy it?
Does any of it matter?
Dean was admiring Castiel’s skin, the tones and bumps and bruises of his body, shining with sweat. Dean’s hands pressed flat against Castiel’s chest.
“You’re so hot,” he said, and then laughed at himself, “Well I meant temperature-wise, but--”
“Dean,” Castiel breathed, and Dean’s words fell dead on his lips.
Dean’s eyes were weighted, and Castiel struggled to keep them. He bucked his hips up into Dean’s, wordless, pleadingly. He’d been aching for so long, he needs Dean now, as soon as possible. When he was a fledgling, his heats were him being restless, his grace changing and fluttering, opening up for the potential of a mate. To go years upon years of angels speaking of bonding with a mate, how the second heat, the bonding would be so much more intense, Castiel couldn’t imagine how it would be.
And to have that heightened by the spell-- Castiel was falling apart. Feeling a mass of emotions-- human emotions, angelic desire, it was overwhelming.
Dean was unbuckling Castiel’s belt, pulling it through the loops and tossing it aside. Next came his pants and his boxers; away with uncertainty.
“Oh, God,” Dean breathed.
Castiel felt Dean’s hands drag down his thighs. He shook with need, spreading his legs wider and tossing his gaze to the wall. Part of him felt humiliated to be so exposed. Part of him felt alive; part of him loved it; part of him felt wanted, felt worshiped.
Dean’s hand closed around Castiel’s hard cock, and stroked him. Castiel cried out at the sudden release of endorphins, the relief that came with it and the desire that followed.
“Dean,” Castiel said, “ Please .”
Dean’s eyes flicked up as if he were shocked, and Castiel couldn’t imagine why. If Dean were to be honest with himself, he had a few late-night fantasies that went exactly like this: Castiel needy and pleading, legs wide and eyes shut and voice pretty. He’d never been more turned on in his life. Cas was beautiful in front of him.
Dean leaned down and took the head of Castiel’s dick into his mouth, and Castiel bucked his hips upward, inexperienced and clumsy. The heat was spreading, crawling up his spine, and he was starting to lose his self control.
“Dean,” Castiel breathed, “I really need you to fuck me. Now,” and then as if by afterthought, he said, “Please.”
Dean spread his cheeks, running a finger between them and at his asshole. Castiel shivered in anticipation. He pushed himself back onto Dean’s dry finger in a silent plea to hurry up.
He nodded distractedly, “I need--”
Castiel fabricated a bottle of lube as if from thin air, and threw it at Dean’s chest.
“You don’t have to be gentle. I’m not human. This is a vessel. You can’t hurt me.”
Castiel’s words were short, punched out as his head fell back on the mattress. His chest heaved up and down with anxiety and with desire. Everything about the moment felt hot and heavy, full of intent that would change the way Castiel looked at Dean entirely. For now when he drove, drumming his hands on the steering wheel, Castiel would imagine those fingers on his skin. When he gripped a blade, Castiel would imagine his hand on his cock, and his lips, covering the skin of his nipple.
Castiel let out a soft moan as Dean prodded his fingers at Castiel’s hole. He told Dean not to be gentle, why was he being so tentative? The heat was taking over Castiel’s senses, and he pushed Dean over, breathing hot and heavy over his face.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, ” he whispered, rutting against Dean’s crotch, “Dean , I need it.”
“ Shit ,” Dean cursed, grabbing hold of Cas by the hips to steady him. “Yeah, yeah , I gotta--”
Dean fumbles to unzip his jeans and pull his cock out, stroking it a few times to relieve the pressure. He recklessly poured lube into the palm of his hand, coating his fingers liberally, and wasting no time thrusting two into Cas’ hole.
“ Oh! ” Cas gasped, pushing down against them, “Thank you, Dean.”
Dean wanted to laugh, Cas was so fucking polite , but he was in no position for humor with his fingers up Cas’ ass, having the angel so desperate and pleading for more.
“Mm, y’like that, Cas?” Dean found the words spilling from his lips without his permission. “Y’like it when I finger you? Like my hands, my body on yours? You beggin’ for more?”
“Yes! Dean, please.”
Dean wasn’t one for talking during sex. Quick in, quick out, satisfy your partner, and leave no strings attached-- but that wasn’t an option when it came to Castiel. No strings attached was laughable , because here they were: fucking on cheap, white sheets with strings so tangled and tied up around their limbs they could hardly move.
He lifted his hips, and the strings fell apart, tugging at the knots.
“Well, angel, you ask so nice like that, can’t see why I can’t give you what you want.”
They were flipped over again. Castiel’s breaths were coming out in long, heavy sighs. His eyes were hazy and clouded with lust and desire, skin prickling with the magic of the spell and the heat.
“Dean,” Cas mumbled, his eyes speaking words Castiel couldn’t find it in him to voice. “Please.”
“Of course.”
And that was it; Dean sunk down into the heat; Cas’ mouth fell open, and Dean in some kind of disoriented thought, thrust his fingers between Cas’ lips. He watched as Castiel greedily sucked on them, pushing back with his hips to match Dean’s thrusts. Castiel’s eyes glowed a white, blueish light, but only for a moment before Castiel closed his eyes and opened them again, grace pushed back into the vessel.
Dean pulled his hands from Castiel’s mouth in favor of entangling them in the angel’s hair. He pulled roughly as he thrust in again, deep and deliberate. Castiel cried out, voice like a tightly wound music box and the music was a symphony composed of Dean, Dean, Dean .
Then, for the third time that night, they flipped again. Castiel pushed Dean off and onto his back, straddling him again and sinking down.
“Not enough,” Castiel whispered, bracing one hand on Dean’s chest and the other on the bed as he started to ride Dean’s cock.
His strength was inhumane, Dean acknowledged as he remembered what exactly he was currently fucking because it’s got to deserve more than forty years in Hell for fucking an angel of the Lord. But Dean could worry about that later because at the moment he was breathless, hands gripping Cas’ hips as he watched him sink down on his cock again and again.
The glowing light was back, not that Dean payed much attention to it for obvious reasons, but he started to feel a pull at his chest. It pricked, it was hot, it was fucking good . He bucked his hips upward, and the sensation got more intense. It felt as if an entire ocean was pulling in and out of his chest, the rip you feel standing on the sea shore as the water beckons you back and forth.
Dean was lost at sea.
“Cas,” he said his name like a benediction, “Fuck, fuck .”
The heat spiraled through his chest where Cas’ fingertips touched him; it was centered there. And just when the feeling got almost too severe to bear, it erupted in a hot spike of power, and a bright light lit the room.
They came.
Cas cried out. His fingers contracted and scratched Dean’s chest. Dean gasped, falling lax into the mattress, and then Castiel followed him; his head fell to the left of Dean’s.
For a moment, or more than a moment, they didn’t move, didn’t speak. They breathed together, breathed as if through the same lungs.
The fire in Dean’s chest did not fade.
“Cas,” Dean croaked. “Cas, look a’ me.”
Castiel licked his lips, and brought his eyes to Dean’s. His vessel did not feel hot. He didn’t look crazed. He looked normal. He looked like Cas.
“Are you okay?” he said softly, “Did it work?”
Castiel watched Dean’s lips form the words. He nodded.
“I--” Castiel stopped. “I’m sorry.”
“What?” Dean asked incredulously, “What for?”
Castiel put his hand flat against Dean’s chest, there was a spike of heat.
Castiel’s face was blank as he answered, “I bonded with you. Completely.”
Dean studied his face.
“Well, what the fuck does that mean?”
“It means,” Castiel started loudly, impatiently, but then he softened. “It means that we had a profound bond. We’ve completed it, and are now permanently joined. Your soul and my grace. You did not consent to that.”
Dean wanted to laugh, wanted to yell, didn’t know what he wanted to do. He wasn’t particularly upset, but he didn’t understand why Castiel acted as if it were a cross to bear.
“So we’re angel-married?” Dean clarified.
Castiel looked as if could smile, but didn’t allow himself. “You could call it that, yes.”
They fell into silence.
“I could take it back,” Castiel whispered, “I- I could sever the tie.”
Dean’s chest ached just thinking about it.
There was a beat, or two, or three. It seemed like words were overrated, and silence was the new way to converse.
“It would be painful, but I could do it. If you wanted me to.”
“Like hell,” Dean bit. “I finally get my hands on you, I ain’t ever letting go of that.”
He brought Castiel into his arms, and Castiel face pressed into Dean’s bare chest. The feeling was back. It was hot and bright and hopeful, tugging like snapping a rubber band.
Dean scoffed again, just at the thought of it, “Like hell I’d ever let you go again.”