hugglewolf (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hugglewolf) wrote2010-05-16 12:11 am
hugglewolf) wrote2010-05-16 12:11 am
Kink Bingo Fics! All adult
My first KB fics! (hopefully just scraping in under the wire).
SPN, Just a little-big push
Castiel managed to raise his head, though even that took effort. The altar was cold against his bare skin, the stone scratching roughly at his back. Whatever force was holding him in place, it was relentless. Summoning every inch of his Grace, he strained against it, but it was futile.
He reached out, sending a cry for help to his brethren. To Uriel, to Raphael, to Michael. They would come for him and then they would find whoever had created this trap and deal with them for daring to ensnare one of the Host.
The door to the room opened, and Castiel was able to turn his head enough to see Dean approach, shotgun in one hand, bolt cutters in the other.
“Cas? Cas, you okay?”
Castiel shook his head. “I can’t get up,” he growled. “Where are my brothers?”
Dean put the bolt cutters down. “They can’t get in here – Uriel showed up and zapped me here. They’re outside. When they said you were restrained, I thought they meant....” He nodded towards the bolt cutters. “Cas, what do I need to do?”
Castiel focused on what he could see of his surroundings. The room had been bare when he’d arrived, searching for a seal. The next thing he knew, he was lying bare on a stone altar, with only a blanket over his lower half to cover his nakedness. The walls were black, without mark or sigil, and the ceiling was much the same.
“I don’t know,” he said, and wondered if he would be trapped there forever or until whoever had imprisoned him arrived to complete their plans. “Can you feel anything over me?”
Dean reached out a cautious hand, and lightly skimmed Castiel’s skin. “You feel warm,” he said. “But you mean like...a force field or something? No, nothing. What is it?”
Castiel threw his weight and his Grace against the invisible force pinning him, grunting as it began to hurt. He could not stay here like this.
“Hey, hey, take it easy!” Dean pressed a hand to his chest, trying to calm him. “Cas, you’ll only hurt yourself. Come on, dude, chill!”
Under Dean’s touch, Castiel stilled. He shouldn’t have been this helpless, this easy to catch and restrain, but at least he wasn’t alone. “Dean, if you remain here, and whoever did this appears....”
A feminine chuckle made Dean spin around, shotgun raised. He shifted so he was between Castiel and the woman who’d appeared in the doorway. She was short, overweight. Long, curly red hair was pulled up into a bobble, and she was wearing a summer dress and white pumps.
“Speak of the devil,” she smirked. “Well, sort of. Ah, ah, ah, Dean, let’s not be hasty, here.” She waggled a finger at Dean as his finger closed on the trigger.
“Hasty sounds fine to me,” he retorted. “Let Cas go and maybe you get to go back to being a happy little demon.”
She smiled. “I’m perfectly happy. If you shoot me, Castiel will be trapped like that forever. See, I know how to free him. All it’ll take is a little sacrifice on your part.”
“Surprise, surprise. What do you want?”
“Dean,” Castiel warned. Whatever this abomination required, he wouldn’t let Dean deal with it to save him.
“There’s a seal here – right in this room. I need your help to break it. All you have to do is fuck your feathered friend there. He gets to come, you get to come, I get to break a seal and my stock goes up in Hell. Everybody wins.”
Dean glanced back at Cas, his face taut, then glared at the demon. “Everybody, huh.”
She put a hand to the side of her mouth, like they were in a room full of people and she was revealing a dark secret. “Come on, Dean. I’ve been watching you all for weeks. Anybody can see you’ve wanted to hit that since he hauled you topside.”
Castiel stilled as Dean raised the shotgun again. “Tell you what,” he snapped. “You let Cas go, right now, and we can all walk away from this.”
The demon backed towards the door. “Suit yourself, Dean. I hope you’ll stick around. Castiel’s going to get very lonely otherwise, because he’ll never leave this room.”
Dean pulled the trigger, and the woman slammed back into the wall. Black smoke poured out of her and Dean grinned a little. “New bullets,” he said, as he turned fully to face Cas. “Look, was she telling the truth?”
Castiel narrowed his eyes as he sought to read Dean. He could feel Dean steeling himself to keep him out, and he decided not to push. “Perhaps you are the one to answer such a question.”
“Cas....” Dean looked away. Finally, he slipped the shotgun into a strap that stretched over his shoulders under his jacket. It swayed against his side as he approached the altar and rested his hands on it. “If this is the only way to free you....”
“If there is even a chance of breaking a seal, then we cannot. I would rather remain here, Dean.”
Dean brushed Castiel’s hair back from his forehead. “Rather than break a seal. Not rather than let me sleep with you.”
Now it was Castiel’s turn to avoid his charge’s stare. Angels were made to love the humans in their care, but not like this. He couldn’t deny that he had found himself edging closer to this since he had taken Dean back in time to see his parents. He had felt guilty at exposing Dean to that pain, though it had been necessary, and had felt an echo of it in his heart.
Whether Dean had inadvertently started the Apocalypse or not, he had fought to save many people and was still fighting.
“I have thought of you,” Castiel admitted. “But my freedom is not worth endangering the world.”
“And we need you. I need you. Cas, who’s going to help us if you’re trapped here? There’s no way I’m just walking out of this place and leaving you here helpless and alone. It’s not happening.”
He leaned in, and kissed Cas before the angel could reply. Leaning back, lips swollen, Dean asked, “Will you let me? Please say yes, Cas. Please don’t make me do this without you.”
Castiel didn’t trust his voice. He nodded, jerkily, and closed his eyes as Dean’s hand closed around his shaft. Dean’s hand was rough, impatient, shaking. Not the way Castiel supposed the human had thought of their ‘first time’. Castiel hadn’t thought of such a thing at all, sure that even what he was feeling towards Dean was bad enough without imagining it going any further.
He gasped as Dean increased his pace, unsure of the sensation building within him, rough and different, a tight line of tension that stretched through his entire body. Then it dissolved, fast and sudden, and Dean was whispering to him, “That’s it, Cas, that’s it, just let go for me.”
Cas lay there, panting, and reached out to cup Dean’s face. He could, he realised. He could move again. There was a crack of thunder overhead, and Castiel shivered as he realised the seal had been broken. Temper claimed him, and he thumped his fist into the stone of the altar.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. There’s other seals to fight for. There’s only one you.” Dean helped him sit up, supporting him when he swayed a little. He shook the blanket out, and draped it around Cas then pulled him into his arms.
“Dean,” Castiel protested, as the human turned towards the door with him. “I don’t need to be carried.”
“Right,” Dean said. “And that isn’t you trembling like you’ve got 500 volts running through you. Humour me.”
Castiel glared at him, but he knew Dean was as stubborn as he was himself. He relented with a sigh, and didn’t fight when Dean kissed him as he stepped out into the hall. “You’re staying with me and Sam, tonight,” the hunter said.
Castiel nodded. “I’d like that.”
Outside, Uriel shot looks of damnation at Dean when he saw his brother being carried but when he stepped forward to take Castiel, Cas shook his head. “I’m fine, Uriel. But I will stay tonight with Dean and Sam. Tell Zachariah we lost another seal.”
If Uriel wanted to know how that had happened, he didn’t ask. He was gone with the flutter of wings, and Castiel had strength enough to touch Dean’s forehead and take them both to the motel where they would be staying the night.
FRINGE: You got to feel to be true
It has to be a dream.
Peter knows this. He knows this because even though he’s his father’s son, he knows there is no other rational explanation. Unlike Walter, he won’t grasp at every idea that floats through his consciousness and seek to give it basis and merit. A spade’s a spade and something that can’t possibly be happening....
But there’s something about the way the first Astrid slinks up his body that makes him think screw rationality despite himself. Her eyes are full of a mischief that just isn’t there in his waking moments, and when her thigh brushes his dick, he almost jerks off the bed.
Olivia – or one of them – has that covered. Her hands are fastened about his wrists, holding them above his head, and she’s stronger than she looks. He’s always known that, but this Olivia – not his Olivia – is more fiery, and he doesn’t doubt that she can keep him there as long as she wants.
His Olivia is kneeling between his thighs, slipping a slick finger inside him. He groans at the ache as she probes and pushes, not hard enough to cause him serious pain but making him feel it all the same. He tries to close his legs – this is new and too much and he still feels wrong – but someone else grips his knees and holds them apart.
Astrid number two. He watches her lick the side of Olivia’s neck, feels heat rush through him when she slumps back against Astrid, eyes half lidded with pleasure, but still manages to put a second figure in him and starts to stretch him.
“You don’t have to fight it, Peter,” the first Astrid says. She lowers herself steadily down onto him, and gives a little squeeze that threatens to send him tumbling over the edge. “We all came here for you. Let us give you this.”
He can’t reply because Olivia two leans over and kisses him. It’s hard, forceful, and he parts his lips under her determination. Her tongue flicks inside his mouth, tangling with his own, and he tries to follow her when she breaks away.
“Uh, uh,” she smirks at him. “We’ll set the pace, Peter. Just enjoy it.”
Astrid one is riding him like she does it for a living, varying her rhythm just enough that he doesn’t know how he’s holding on. Between all of them, he’s shaking apart, and he sobs as they strip him totally of his control, leaving him panting and struggling.
“Please,” he gasps. “Please.” It’s been too long, he’s not let himself be touched like this – hell, he’s never let himself be touched like this.
He comes, body arching up, senses lost to the high of it, as Olivia kisses him again.
It has to be a dream.
SPN: Lifelike and posable
So, if someone is ever going to compile a list of the top 100 bad ideas ever – and they could probably just call it ‘Dean Winchester, This is Your Life’ – then this? This would be pretty damn much right at the top.
He’s tried walking out of the room, but whatever mojo is at work here he can’t get the door to open. He’s tried smashing through the window with a chair – yes, he is that desperate, because his self control is wearing real thin – but it just bounced back and nearly whacked him in the face.
He knows they’re watching because he heard them laughing at that.
Now he’s pacing back and forth, rubbing his hands against his jeans, trying to get rid of the slimy sweat on his skin. Skin. Trying not to think about skin, about what it’s like to touch. What he’s imagined it would be like to touch Castiel.
Who right now is lying passed out on the bed, as drunk as it’s possible to be and still have a pulse.
Damn fucking whoever did this to them.
Dean goes to the sink, turns on the cold tap, and shoves his head right under it. Part of it – ok, most of it - is his fault, he knows. Sam’s at Bobby’s, they had just cleaned out a poltergeist, and Dean was feeling rough. He did what he’s doing too often this past year, turned to beer. Beer became shots and they became more shots and he dragged Castiel right down there with him.
He hates himself for that right now because when Zachariah played Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, Dean had never thought he’d be the one setting Cas on that path.
But right now? Right now he’s stone cold sober, because the additives in the booze at that place are something to fucking believe. He’s sober, Cas isn’t, and unless Dean gets out of that room he’s going to do something he will not ever forgive himself for.
The water doesn’t do anything. Except make him wet. He turns off the tap, shakes his head like a dog, and advances on the bed.
Cas groans in his sleep and that sound goes places it shouldn’t. Dean works loose the tie, undoes the shirt and pushes it and the coats aside. Castiel’s skin is pale, unmarked. Dean thinks briefly about the handprint on his shoulder. He wishes it would hurt, like sometimes he imagines it does. When Cas is nearing, or angry or if he’s hurt or in trouble.
It might snap him out of this, but right now Cas doesn’t even realise that he is in trouble.
Dean leans down to press a kiss to the unresponsive mouth. He doesn’t know if he’s more grateful that Cas is too out of it to try and push him away, or more hopeful that he would. Either way, he’s doing this, and doing it while Cas is awake and aware and trying to fight?
Cas may be an angel but Dean has a feeling whatever those bastards dosed him with, it’s got the angel trumped.
He licks and nibbles his way doing Castiel’s chest, stroking fingers over hot skin, wishing that maybe he could get a look at Castiel’s wings. Not the shadows, though they were awesome enough. The real thing. He wants to fuck Cas while his wings are out, spread over the bed, maybe around them. He wants to stroke the feathers, see if Cas likes that.
He wonders if they’re soft and fluffy, or sharp and tense. The way he’d always imagined an eagle’s wings to be, ready to launch into the air like the predator it is.
He undoes Castiel’s pants, works them down his legs and off. Shoes are still on, but they’re not in the way so he doesn’t care. He adjusts Castiel’s legs, pushing them up. That’s when he stops, takes a breath. Whatever’s working on him is like blood rushing in his ears, but through it all there’s a voice.
Castiel’s voice.
You don’t think you deserve to be saved.
And yet Cas has saved him. Again, and again, and again. He’s gone against his family, for Dean. Taken on archangels for Dean. Put himself in harm’s way, lost most of his grace, killed his brothers and all for Dean.
And this is what Dean’s given him in return – hurt, despair, the full Winchester Life Makeover. And now he’s about to tie it all up in a pretty little bow and fuck him. While he’s unconscious.
Rape him.
No.
Dean climbs off the bed. “No!” he yells. “Fuck you, you bitches. I’m going to get us out of here, and then I’m coming back to cut your goddamn heads off!”
It feels like a thunderstorm breaks suddenly in the room. Dean feels a burst of energy rush through him, and then Castiel is suddenly sitting up. He looks wide awake, not like he’s virtually drank his blood volume in alcohol.
“Dean?”
Dean runs to the door and tries it. It opens.
“Shit, let’s move before they change their mind.” He goes back to the bed, and pulls Castiel to his feet. He grabs his duffle bag with one hand, and hauls the angel out of the room by the wrist, terrified the door will shut with him outside and Cas trapped within.
In the car park, the Impala is sitting where he’d left her.
There’s no one else around, and all Dean can do is look up at the night sky, making sure there’s nothing there. Nothing lingering.
“Dean,” Castiel insists, and Dean turns around. “What happened?”
Dean stares at Cas. He’s dressed again. He reaches up and feels the collar of his jacket. It’s dry. So’s his hair.
“I...I think I just had a bad dream, Cas. Let’s go stay somewhere else tonight, okay?”
Castiel stares at him like humans are the strangest thing ever, but he gets in the car.
Dean follows, unable to ignore the tinkling laughter as he turns the key in the ignition and drives away.
SPN: Worth Saying
“Will you just...look, Castiel, this will be a lot easier if you just hold still!” Sam winced at the frustration bleeding into his voice, but this was about as difficult as he’d expected.
He was kneeling in the tub with Castiel, boxers clinging like a second skin, rubbing detergent into the angel’s wings. Fuck Dean and his stupid practical jokes. Hey, Cas is nearly human now – let’s show him how to prank somebody. Properly. It’ll take his mind off his woes.
Dean seemed to forget that his pranks had a way of going spectacularly awry. Sam wasn’t going to forget the trip to the ER to get his hand unglued from that beer bottle. That had held them up on a hunt. Not mention left him with achy stiff fingers for a couple of days.
This was so beyond that, he could barely resist the urge to stomp downstairs and thump Dean in the face.
Castiel sighed, but Sam could tell he was uncomfortable. He stretched the right wing out a little further, and Sam echoed his dismay. The stains were worse than he’d thought. Several of the lower feathers were blue altogether, covered with the dye. What the hell had Dean been thinking?
He rubbed a handful of soap over the worst parts, glad to see the colour was lifting albeit slowly. Castiel slumped a little, and Sam raised up a little to support him. He slid an arm around the angel’s waist. “Hey. Hey, Cas, you alright?”
“No,” Castiel said. “This will take several hours to put right. I’m uncomfortable, I’m wet and my wings hurt. I do not see why Dean finds this so amusing.”
Sam grimaced. “Because he’s a dick. It’s nothing personal. Look, if it helps any, he only pranks the people he cares about. Ask him to tell you about the time he put those foaming at the mouth tablets in Bobby’s beer. He usually realises too late when he’s gone too far.” Not that he’d ever admit it.
He moved up the wing, cleaning each feather as best he could, and then had Castiel spread out his other wing. Sam wondered how long Castiel would still have wings for. Given that even the sight of any part of Cas’s true form should have caused blindness, it wasn’t a good sign that Sam could actually touch them without any ill effect, never mind see them.
Maybe that was more the cause of Castiel’s despondency than Dean’s stupid sense of humour. Every day he seemed to slip a little further towards humanity, and Sam was not looking forward to seeing the angel finally fall all the way. Especially not when he knew that they, the Winchesters, were responsible.
He couldn’t help it, then. He reached forward, and pressed an awkward kiss to Castiel’s temple.
Castiel twisted around in the tub, almost knocking Sam over with a wing. “Sam?”
Sam could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “Uh...sorry, I don’t even know why I did that. Just...Cas, you know we’re gonna take care of you, right?”
Castiel gave him a faint smile, the kind parents gave when they’re humouring children for saying something sweet but silly. The kind family might when they know they’re hearing a promise that just can’t be kept.
“I mean it,” Sam said. “Cas, we’re not gonna cut you lose.”
“Of course not, Sam,” Cas said, and flexed his left wing, a subtle hint that it was still stained.
Sam went back to cleaning it, ignoring the burn of tears. Of course Castiel wouldn’t believe him. They were all making sacrifices, but Castiel was paying the biggest price. And he got the least thanks because Dean was so focused on the Apocalypse, so out of touch with his feelings he couldn’t bring himself to actually let the Angel know that he mattered.
Sam carefully folded Castiel’s wings away, took hold of his shoulders, and turned him around in the tub. He kissed him on the forehead and then put his arms around him. “I know we haven’t done much to make you believe it, but we’re in this together. You matter as much as any of us, Cas, and whatever happens we are going to watch out for you.”
It took a few moments, but Cas hugged him back. “I believe that you’ll try,” he said.
Sam couldn’t bring himself to let go.
BROTHERS & SISTERS: Another way to get by
It’s like he said to Kevin. Alcohol leads to drugs. People lead to alcohol.
Everything leads to people.
So maybe the job at the hotel was not the best idea. Just like the waiter job at the restaurant. People snap their fingers and he brings them water or fresh cutlery. A car pulls up and he gets the luggage out of the trunk, hauls it up the stairs and into the lift behind the businessman who fails to notice him even when he hands over a tip.
People suck.
But it’s like he’s joined some kind of invisible minority, trudging along behind and below everyone else. He has no physical presence unless it’s to do something, to move something, to provide something that somebody else needs.
That’s what anchors him and drags him under at the same time unless he’s desperate to breathe and desperate to shuck it off and that can only lead him to one place.
Unless.
He knows the laundry room on four is rarely used at this time. When the next shift of chambermaids come on at seven, he’ll have to make sure he’s gone by then. But right now....
He slips down against the door, and rolls up his sleeve. He rubs iodine over his forearm, ignoring the sting, and opens the dressing. He rests it on his lap as he opens the blade on his army knife, testing it by running a thumb along the edge. He always keeps it sharp, but he likes to check anyway.
The first line of red is like someone opening a pressure valve, and he could just slump into oblivion from that alone. But one isn’t enough, and it’s only after the third careful cut that he feels like he has it back under control.
He puts the knife aside, then presses the dressing over his forearm. He tugs his sleeve back down, confident the dressing will make sure there’s no telltale trickle or stain. He cleans the blade, shuts it and put sit back in his pocket.
Once his breathing is back to normal, he gets up, puts his rubbish in the bin and heads back to the foyer. With any luck, that’ll hold him for a while.
If it’s a quiet night.
SPN, Just a little-big push
Castiel managed to raise his head, though even that took effort. The altar was cold against his bare skin, the stone scratching roughly at his back. Whatever force was holding him in place, it was relentless. Summoning every inch of his Grace, he strained against it, but it was futile.
He reached out, sending a cry for help to his brethren. To Uriel, to Raphael, to Michael. They would come for him and then they would find whoever had created this trap and deal with them for daring to ensnare one of the Host.
The door to the room opened, and Castiel was able to turn his head enough to see Dean approach, shotgun in one hand, bolt cutters in the other.
“Cas? Cas, you okay?”
Castiel shook his head. “I can’t get up,” he growled. “Where are my brothers?”
Dean put the bolt cutters down. “They can’t get in here – Uriel showed up and zapped me here. They’re outside. When they said you were restrained, I thought they meant....” He nodded towards the bolt cutters. “Cas, what do I need to do?”
Castiel focused on what he could see of his surroundings. The room had been bare when he’d arrived, searching for a seal. The next thing he knew, he was lying bare on a stone altar, with only a blanket over his lower half to cover his nakedness. The walls were black, without mark or sigil, and the ceiling was much the same.
“I don’t know,” he said, and wondered if he would be trapped there forever or until whoever had imprisoned him arrived to complete their plans. “Can you feel anything over me?”
Dean reached out a cautious hand, and lightly skimmed Castiel’s skin. “You feel warm,” he said. “But you mean like...a force field or something? No, nothing. What is it?”
Castiel threw his weight and his Grace against the invisible force pinning him, grunting as it began to hurt. He could not stay here like this.
“Hey, hey, take it easy!” Dean pressed a hand to his chest, trying to calm him. “Cas, you’ll only hurt yourself. Come on, dude, chill!”
Under Dean’s touch, Castiel stilled. He shouldn’t have been this helpless, this easy to catch and restrain, but at least he wasn’t alone. “Dean, if you remain here, and whoever did this appears....”
A feminine chuckle made Dean spin around, shotgun raised. He shifted so he was between Castiel and the woman who’d appeared in the doorway. She was short, overweight. Long, curly red hair was pulled up into a bobble, and she was wearing a summer dress and white pumps.
“Speak of the devil,” she smirked. “Well, sort of. Ah, ah, ah, Dean, let’s not be hasty, here.” She waggled a finger at Dean as his finger closed on the trigger.
“Hasty sounds fine to me,” he retorted. “Let Cas go and maybe you get to go back to being a happy little demon.”
She smiled. “I’m perfectly happy. If you shoot me, Castiel will be trapped like that forever. See, I know how to free him. All it’ll take is a little sacrifice on your part.”
“Surprise, surprise. What do you want?”
“Dean,” Castiel warned. Whatever this abomination required, he wouldn’t let Dean deal with it to save him.
“There’s a seal here – right in this room. I need your help to break it. All you have to do is fuck your feathered friend there. He gets to come, you get to come, I get to break a seal and my stock goes up in Hell. Everybody wins.”
Dean glanced back at Cas, his face taut, then glared at the demon. “Everybody, huh.”
She put a hand to the side of her mouth, like they were in a room full of people and she was revealing a dark secret. “Come on, Dean. I’ve been watching you all for weeks. Anybody can see you’ve wanted to hit that since he hauled you topside.”
Castiel stilled as Dean raised the shotgun again. “Tell you what,” he snapped. “You let Cas go, right now, and we can all walk away from this.”
The demon backed towards the door. “Suit yourself, Dean. I hope you’ll stick around. Castiel’s going to get very lonely otherwise, because he’ll never leave this room.”
Dean pulled the trigger, and the woman slammed back into the wall. Black smoke poured out of her and Dean grinned a little. “New bullets,” he said, as he turned fully to face Cas. “Look, was she telling the truth?”
Castiel narrowed his eyes as he sought to read Dean. He could feel Dean steeling himself to keep him out, and he decided not to push. “Perhaps you are the one to answer such a question.”
“Cas....” Dean looked away. Finally, he slipped the shotgun into a strap that stretched over his shoulders under his jacket. It swayed against his side as he approached the altar and rested his hands on it. “If this is the only way to free you....”
“If there is even a chance of breaking a seal, then we cannot. I would rather remain here, Dean.”
Dean brushed Castiel’s hair back from his forehead. “Rather than break a seal. Not rather than let me sleep with you.”
Now it was Castiel’s turn to avoid his charge’s stare. Angels were made to love the humans in their care, but not like this. He couldn’t deny that he had found himself edging closer to this since he had taken Dean back in time to see his parents. He had felt guilty at exposing Dean to that pain, though it had been necessary, and had felt an echo of it in his heart.
Whether Dean had inadvertently started the Apocalypse or not, he had fought to save many people and was still fighting.
“I have thought of you,” Castiel admitted. “But my freedom is not worth endangering the world.”
“And we need you. I need you. Cas, who’s going to help us if you’re trapped here? There’s no way I’m just walking out of this place and leaving you here helpless and alone. It’s not happening.”
He leaned in, and kissed Cas before the angel could reply. Leaning back, lips swollen, Dean asked, “Will you let me? Please say yes, Cas. Please don’t make me do this without you.”
Castiel didn’t trust his voice. He nodded, jerkily, and closed his eyes as Dean’s hand closed around his shaft. Dean’s hand was rough, impatient, shaking. Not the way Castiel supposed the human had thought of their ‘first time’. Castiel hadn’t thought of such a thing at all, sure that even what he was feeling towards Dean was bad enough without imagining it going any further.
He gasped as Dean increased his pace, unsure of the sensation building within him, rough and different, a tight line of tension that stretched through his entire body. Then it dissolved, fast and sudden, and Dean was whispering to him, “That’s it, Cas, that’s it, just let go for me.”
Cas lay there, panting, and reached out to cup Dean’s face. He could, he realised. He could move again. There was a crack of thunder overhead, and Castiel shivered as he realised the seal had been broken. Temper claimed him, and he thumped his fist into the stone of the altar.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. There’s other seals to fight for. There’s only one you.” Dean helped him sit up, supporting him when he swayed a little. He shook the blanket out, and draped it around Cas then pulled him into his arms.
“Dean,” Castiel protested, as the human turned towards the door with him. “I don’t need to be carried.”
“Right,” Dean said. “And that isn’t you trembling like you’ve got 500 volts running through you. Humour me.”
Castiel glared at him, but he knew Dean was as stubborn as he was himself. He relented with a sigh, and didn’t fight when Dean kissed him as he stepped out into the hall. “You’re staying with me and Sam, tonight,” the hunter said.
Castiel nodded. “I’d like that.”
Outside, Uriel shot looks of damnation at Dean when he saw his brother being carried but when he stepped forward to take Castiel, Cas shook his head. “I’m fine, Uriel. But I will stay tonight with Dean and Sam. Tell Zachariah we lost another seal.”
If Uriel wanted to know how that had happened, he didn’t ask. He was gone with the flutter of wings, and Castiel had strength enough to touch Dean’s forehead and take them both to the motel where they would be staying the night.
FRINGE: You got to feel to be true
It has to be a dream.
Peter knows this. He knows this because even though he’s his father’s son, he knows there is no other rational explanation. Unlike Walter, he won’t grasp at every idea that floats through his consciousness and seek to give it basis and merit. A spade’s a spade and something that can’t possibly be happening....
But there’s something about the way the first Astrid slinks up his body that makes him think screw rationality despite himself. Her eyes are full of a mischief that just isn’t there in his waking moments, and when her thigh brushes his dick, he almost jerks off the bed.
Olivia – or one of them – has that covered. Her hands are fastened about his wrists, holding them above his head, and she’s stronger than she looks. He’s always known that, but this Olivia – not his Olivia – is more fiery, and he doesn’t doubt that she can keep him there as long as she wants.
His Olivia is kneeling between his thighs, slipping a slick finger inside him. He groans at the ache as she probes and pushes, not hard enough to cause him serious pain but making him feel it all the same. He tries to close his legs – this is new and too much and he still feels wrong – but someone else grips his knees and holds them apart.
Astrid number two. He watches her lick the side of Olivia’s neck, feels heat rush through him when she slumps back against Astrid, eyes half lidded with pleasure, but still manages to put a second figure in him and starts to stretch him.
“You don’t have to fight it, Peter,” the first Astrid says. She lowers herself steadily down onto him, and gives a little squeeze that threatens to send him tumbling over the edge. “We all came here for you. Let us give you this.”
He can’t reply because Olivia two leans over and kisses him. It’s hard, forceful, and he parts his lips under her determination. Her tongue flicks inside his mouth, tangling with his own, and he tries to follow her when she breaks away.
“Uh, uh,” she smirks at him. “We’ll set the pace, Peter. Just enjoy it.”
Astrid one is riding him like she does it for a living, varying her rhythm just enough that he doesn’t know how he’s holding on. Between all of them, he’s shaking apart, and he sobs as they strip him totally of his control, leaving him panting and struggling.
“Please,” he gasps. “Please.” It’s been too long, he’s not let himself be touched like this – hell, he’s never let himself be touched like this.
He comes, body arching up, senses lost to the high of it, as Olivia kisses him again.
It has to be a dream.
SPN: Lifelike and posable
So, if someone is ever going to compile a list of the top 100 bad ideas ever – and they could probably just call it ‘Dean Winchester, This is Your Life’ – then this? This would be pretty damn much right at the top.
He’s tried walking out of the room, but whatever mojo is at work here he can’t get the door to open. He’s tried smashing through the window with a chair – yes, he is that desperate, because his self control is wearing real thin – but it just bounced back and nearly whacked him in the face.
He knows they’re watching because he heard them laughing at that.
Now he’s pacing back and forth, rubbing his hands against his jeans, trying to get rid of the slimy sweat on his skin. Skin. Trying not to think about skin, about what it’s like to touch. What he’s imagined it would be like to touch Castiel.
Who right now is lying passed out on the bed, as drunk as it’s possible to be and still have a pulse.
Damn fucking whoever did this to them.
Dean goes to the sink, turns on the cold tap, and shoves his head right under it. Part of it – ok, most of it - is his fault, he knows. Sam’s at Bobby’s, they had just cleaned out a poltergeist, and Dean was feeling rough. He did what he’s doing too often this past year, turned to beer. Beer became shots and they became more shots and he dragged Castiel right down there with him.
He hates himself for that right now because when Zachariah played Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, Dean had never thought he’d be the one setting Cas on that path.
But right now? Right now he’s stone cold sober, because the additives in the booze at that place are something to fucking believe. He’s sober, Cas isn’t, and unless Dean gets out of that room he’s going to do something he will not ever forgive himself for.
The water doesn’t do anything. Except make him wet. He turns off the tap, shakes his head like a dog, and advances on the bed.
Cas groans in his sleep and that sound goes places it shouldn’t. Dean works loose the tie, undoes the shirt and pushes it and the coats aside. Castiel’s skin is pale, unmarked. Dean thinks briefly about the handprint on his shoulder. He wishes it would hurt, like sometimes he imagines it does. When Cas is nearing, or angry or if he’s hurt or in trouble.
It might snap him out of this, but right now Cas doesn’t even realise that he is in trouble.
Dean leans down to press a kiss to the unresponsive mouth. He doesn’t know if he’s more grateful that Cas is too out of it to try and push him away, or more hopeful that he would. Either way, he’s doing this, and doing it while Cas is awake and aware and trying to fight?
Cas may be an angel but Dean has a feeling whatever those bastards dosed him with, it’s got the angel trumped.
He licks and nibbles his way doing Castiel’s chest, stroking fingers over hot skin, wishing that maybe he could get a look at Castiel’s wings. Not the shadows, though they were awesome enough. The real thing. He wants to fuck Cas while his wings are out, spread over the bed, maybe around them. He wants to stroke the feathers, see if Cas likes that.
He wonders if they’re soft and fluffy, or sharp and tense. The way he’d always imagined an eagle’s wings to be, ready to launch into the air like the predator it is.
He undoes Castiel’s pants, works them down his legs and off. Shoes are still on, but they’re not in the way so he doesn’t care. He adjusts Castiel’s legs, pushing them up. That’s when he stops, takes a breath. Whatever’s working on him is like blood rushing in his ears, but through it all there’s a voice.
Castiel’s voice.
You don’t think you deserve to be saved.
And yet Cas has saved him. Again, and again, and again. He’s gone against his family, for Dean. Taken on archangels for Dean. Put himself in harm’s way, lost most of his grace, killed his brothers and all for Dean.
And this is what Dean’s given him in return – hurt, despair, the full Winchester Life Makeover. And now he’s about to tie it all up in a pretty little bow and fuck him. While he’s unconscious.
Rape him.
No.
Dean climbs off the bed. “No!” he yells. “Fuck you, you bitches. I’m going to get us out of here, and then I’m coming back to cut your goddamn heads off!”
It feels like a thunderstorm breaks suddenly in the room. Dean feels a burst of energy rush through him, and then Castiel is suddenly sitting up. He looks wide awake, not like he’s virtually drank his blood volume in alcohol.
“Dean?”
Dean runs to the door and tries it. It opens.
“Shit, let’s move before they change their mind.” He goes back to the bed, and pulls Castiel to his feet. He grabs his duffle bag with one hand, and hauls the angel out of the room by the wrist, terrified the door will shut with him outside and Cas trapped within.
In the car park, the Impala is sitting where he’d left her.
There’s no one else around, and all Dean can do is look up at the night sky, making sure there’s nothing there. Nothing lingering.
“Dean,” Castiel insists, and Dean turns around. “What happened?”
Dean stares at Cas. He’s dressed again. He reaches up and feels the collar of his jacket. It’s dry. So’s his hair.
“I...I think I just had a bad dream, Cas. Let’s go stay somewhere else tonight, okay?”
Castiel stares at him like humans are the strangest thing ever, but he gets in the car.
Dean follows, unable to ignore the tinkling laughter as he turns the key in the ignition and drives away.
SPN: Worth Saying
“Will you just...look, Castiel, this will be a lot easier if you just hold still!” Sam winced at the frustration bleeding into his voice, but this was about as difficult as he’d expected.
He was kneeling in the tub with Castiel, boxers clinging like a second skin, rubbing detergent into the angel’s wings. Fuck Dean and his stupid practical jokes. Hey, Cas is nearly human now – let’s show him how to prank somebody. Properly. It’ll take his mind off his woes.
Dean seemed to forget that his pranks had a way of going spectacularly awry. Sam wasn’t going to forget the trip to the ER to get his hand unglued from that beer bottle. That had held them up on a hunt. Not mention left him with achy stiff fingers for a couple of days.
This was so beyond that, he could barely resist the urge to stomp downstairs and thump Dean in the face.
Castiel sighed, but Sam could tell he was uncomfortable. He stretched the right wing out a little further, and Sam echoed his dismay. The stains were worse than he’d thought. Several of the lower feathers were blue altogether, covered with the dye. What the hell had Dean been thinking?
He rubbed a handful of soap over the worst parts, glad to see the colour was lifting albeit slowly. Castiel slumped a little, and Sam raised up a little to support him. He slid an arm around the angel’s waist. “Hey. Hey, Cas, you alright?”
“No,” Castiel said. “This will take several hours to put right. I’m uncomfortable, I’m wet and my wings hurt. I do not see why Dean finds this so amusing.”
Sam grimaced. “Because he’s a dick. It’s nothing personal. Look, if it helps any, he only pranks the people he cares about. Ask him to tell you about the time he put those foaming at the mouth tablets in Bobby’s beer. He usually realises too late when he’s gone too far.” Not that he’d ever admit it.
He moved up the wing, cleaning each feather as best he could, and then had Castiel spread out his other wing. Sam wondered how long Castiel would still have wings for. Given that even the sight of any part of Cas’s true form should have caused blindness, it wasn’t a good sign that Sam could actually touch them without any ill effect, never mind see them.
Maybe that was more the cause of Castiel’s despondency than Dean’s stupid sense of humour. Every day he seemed to slip a little further towards humanity, and Sam was not looking forward to seeing the angel finally fall all the way. Especially not when he knew that they, the Winchesters, were responsible.
He couldn’t help it, then. He reached forward, and pressed an awkward kiss to Castiel’s temple.
Castiel twisted around in the tub, almost knocking Sam over with a wing. “Sam?”
Sam could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “Uh...sorry, I don’t even know why I did that. Just...Cas, you know we’re gonna take care of you, right?”
Castiel gave him a faint smile, the kind parents gave when they’re humouring children for saying something sweet but silly. The kind family might when they know they’re hearing a promise that just can’t be kept.
“I mean it,” Sam said. “Cas, we’re not gonna cut you lose.”
“Of course not, Sam,” Cas said, and flexed his left wing, a subtle hint that it was still stained.
Sam went back to cleaning it, ignoring the burn of tears. Of course Castiel wouldn’t believe him. They were all making sacrifices, but Castiel was paying the biggest price. And he got the least thanks because Dean was so focused on the Apocalypse, so out of touch with his feelings he couldn’t bring himself to actually let the Angel know that he mattered.
Sam carefully folded Castiel’s wings away, took hold of his shoulders, and turned him around in the tub. He kissed him on the forehead and then put his arms around him. “I know we haven’t done much to make you believe it, but we’re in this together. You matter as much as any of us, Cas, and whatever happens we are going to watch out for you.”
It took a few moments, but Cas hugged him back. “I believe that you’ll try,” he said.
Sam couldn’t bring himself to let go.
BROTHERS & SISTERS: Another way to get by
It’s like he said to Kevin. Alcohol leads to drugs. People lead to alcohol.
Everything leads to people.
So maybe the job at the hotel was not the best idea. Just like the waiter job at the restaurant. People snap their fingers and he brings them water or fresh cutlery. A car pulls up and he gets the luggage out of the trunk, hauls it up the stairs and into the lift behind the businessman who fails to notice him even when he hands over a tip.
People suck.
But it’s like he’s joined some kind of invisible minority, trudging along behind and below everyone else. He has no physical presence unless it’s to do something, to move something, to provide something that somebody else needs.
That’s what anchors him and drags him under at the same time unless he’s desperate to breathe and desperate to shuck it off and that can only lead him to one place.
Unless.
He knows the laundry room on four is rarely used at this time. When the next shift of chambermaids come on at seven, he’ll have to make sure he’s gone by then. But right now....
He slips down against the door, and rolls up his sleeve. He rubs iodine over his forearm, ignoring the sting, and opens the dressing. He rests it on his lap as he opens the blade on his army knife, testing it by running a thumb along the edge. He always keeps it sharp, but he likes to check anyway.
The first line of red is like someone opening a pressure valve, and he could just slump into oblivion from that alone. But one isn’t enough, and it’s only after the third careful cut that he feels like he has it back under control.
He puts the knife aside, then presses the dressing over his forearm. He tugs his sleeve back down, confident the dressing will make sure there’s no telltale trickle or stain. He cleans the blade, shuts it and put sit back in his pocket.
Once his breathing is back to normal, he gets up, puts his rubbish in the bin and heads back to the foyer. With any luck, that’ll hold him for a while.
If it’s a quiet night.