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beautysurvives · 1 month ago

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*not done with this, may or may not finish it, wanted to post anyway*

a little (nsfw) destiel fic set immediately after the events of 10x14 The Executioner’s Song

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Cas doesn’t have to knock. He knows that.

Dean knows that too.

About two years ago, when they thought he was gonna move in, for a second, before Gadreel — before Dean — made that impossible, he’d allowed himself to fantasize about having a boyfriend who’s there when he comes home. Falls asleep in his bed in the middle of the day and stays there. Content to wait. Hold down the fort while he’s away.

For the first time, Cas actually wanted to stay. As a matter of fact, he had to. He was persona non grata among his family once again. All the hope of going back, being welcomed with open arms, slowly dying.

And, like all the other angels, his wings were gone. He couldn’t just fly away anymore.

But Dean liked to think it was more than that. More than just needing a place to stay. More than having nowhere else to go. More than losing his wings.

Cas had finally become human, and he wanted to stay.

He calls his name through the closed door — closed, not locked — and Dean says, “Yeah,” trying, the same way he did earlier in the kitchen with Sam, to conjure up some life.

But it comes out even more hopeless. Shaky, weak. His chances of fooling Cas are somehow even lower without Sam in the room.

With Sam, at least, it feels possible to pretend, despite how well he knows him — or thinks he knows him, sometimes. They at least have the courtesy to ignore each other’s falling apart until it becomes too much. Stay nestled in their usual roles for as long as they both can.

But Cas has his angel thing, his sixth sense that can see past any of Dean’s bullshit. See into his soul. Plunge through his skin — right through his skull — with just his eyes.

And then he’s also got that thing about his personality that won’t let him leave well enough alone. That’s how he knew about the mark in the first place. Dean had tried his best to avoid it, but all he’d really done was delay the inevitable. All he had to do was get one good look, and he was bound to, sooner or later.

Dean watches him walk in — see, Cas didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t have to, and he knew it. The knock was just a pretense, acknowledging the existence of boundaries, because he understands now that human beings have those.

But opening the door, walking in, it says what Cas always says. Su casa, mi casa.

Your body, my body.

That’s just how Heaven is. How Heaven raised him. He can’t be blamed.

There used to be a time when Dean was grateful for the familiarity.

Cas clears his throat awkwardly. A habit Dean thinks he picked up, maybe, from his recent time spent as a man, experiencing phlegm. No grace in him to burn it away. All those muscles he’d barely ever used. Barely knew were there. Suddenly activating.

“I can heal your injuries, if you want.”

Dean laughs before nodding. “Yeah, okay.” It’s still effortless, to laugh at Cas’s squint and head tilt combo, the way, for all his divine insight, he remains so befuddled — so easily distracted — by social interactions. Dean doesn’t have to try hard to deceive him as long as he can confuse him.

But right now, Cas seems completely focused on his task, advancing on the gash near Dean’s eyebrow with determination. He brushes a finger over it, and Dean feels his grace rushing in — but only so far. Only this one spot.

He intends to take his time. Split Dean into sections. Do him one by one.

When Dean opens his eyes, he sees a second of uncertainty. Not knowing where to go next. What part of Dean to touch.

What does it mean that he chose me over Crowley?

Dean had always intended to kiss him; he was simply biding his time. Now just makes sense, because Cas is between his legs, just barely pressing him back into the edge of the desk, one hand resting on his hip, the other hovering near his bruised jaw.

Dean kisses him, and Cas closes his eyes, seeming just as sure about this as he is (of course, Dean can never really tell, with Cas). Fingers ghosting along his jaw. Letting Dean lick his way into his mouth, push away his trenchcoat to run his hands along his sides. He can hear the soft ringing of Cas’s grace before he feels its warmth in his bones, filling the side of his face with light.

Dean pulls him close, and the mark wants him to tear his clothes off, throw him against the wall, bite his neck so hard—

“Sorry.” He pulls back, only as much as the desk and the wall and Cas’s hands allow.

Cas quickly looks away. Back to healing, like nothing ever happened. “You don’t have to apologize.”

He moves on to Dean’s screaming, nearly dislocated shoulder, hand hovering dangerously close to the imprint of his palm — now just a constellation of faded, moon shaped scars that most of Dean’s hookups ignore.

“I know that the mark can make you do things you don’t necessarily want to do.”

Like what? Running off with Crowley?

Making the first move, instead of waiting for you to do something like I always do?

“But you’re doing a great job at fighting it. I admire you, Dean.” He says it the way he once said, I don’t envy your position.

The mark wants Dean to kill him.

But maybe, for tonight, it’ll settle for fucking him senseless.

Cas closes his eyes, displeasure written on his face. Like there’s something not quite right about the injury, something that can better be addressed by sliding Dean’s flannel further down, slipping his hand under his t-shirt, taking Dean’s whole shoulder and gripping tight before he turns the light on again. Dean bites back a gasp, wanting nothing more than to give in entirely, open the floodgates of his soul and feel Castiel’s restored grace running through his whole body.

Getting fucked senseless might be just as good.

He buries his face in Cas’s chest and lets out a small back of the throat whine. Presses his lips into the linen that always smells like the last time Jimmy Novak was in it. Detergent and sweat and fear and blood. He takes the breast pocket between his teeth as Cas squeezes tighter, and the grace feels almost uncomfortably hot, and then perfectly cool. Feels like if being set on fire was a good thing.

Feels like a part of him returning — like his body slowly reaching dynamic equilibrium, things falling into place with ease.

Like coming home.

He must seem like a wild animal to him. A panting, salivating, hot mess. Bleeding knuckles and broken fingers. Something less evolved.

All the times they fucked or messed around, it was never like this. Dean liked — likes to be clean, and he liked to treat Cas — all powerful angel Cas, who made Crowley his bitch and turned himself into God — gently. Easily broken Cas. Angel statuette, Cas.

Dean liked uncreating him, watching him regress from something made of marble to soft wet clay. From heaven’s soldier to something like a man. He liked to think they’d have time to work their way up to the kind of wild, ruthless sex he’d had with Emma’s mom, when he was trying to move on. Or with Crowley.

“Sorry,” Dean says again, just as the light leaves Cas’s hand. He pulls away, and Dean finds his shoulder is moveable again, even better than before.

“Why do you keep saying that?”

Dean sighs and closes his eyes, cringing. But he has to say it anyway, no matter how pathetic. “Just — uh. I’m sure you don’t wanna have to touch me… like this.”

He opens his eyes to check — and Good, he thinks. It hurt the way it was designed to.

“Dean-” He sighs, looking down. Neither of them willing to face the thing head on.

But Cas surprises him, taking him by the arm. The mark sings under his palm, burning with a different kind of pain than the rest of his yet-to-be-healed body. An unbearable kind of pain. It never stops. It begs to be able to stop.

He doesn’t have to say it. If I could heal this with my grace, I would.

Dean says, “I know, Cas. I know.”

Cas lifts his chin and kisses him again in a way that quickly becomes voracious. It’s possible he thinks this is the only way Dean wants to be kissed now. The only reason Dean would want to be kissed by him.

Dean can taste the wrath of Heaven on his tongue. Then he can taste the grace. Like everything with Cas, it’s familiar. Although, technically, even this belongs to someone else. And now Dean’s soul is marred by someone else’s touch, his latest resurrection owed to a different force. Both of them a mutating patchwork of borrowed things. Less and less like who they were when they first met.

Still, this reminds Dean of being reborn.

It pains him to ask, between kissing and healing, “You don’t have anywhere to be tonight do you?” He knows the answer is no — Cas isn’t interested in anything anymore besides getting rid of the mark — but he’s remembering the last time he had him alone in this room. What he means is, There’s no one waiting for you, right?

No “females” outside, riding shotgun in Cas’s crappy pimp mobile.

He feels a flare of jealousy — an inferno really — at the memory of Hannah and the way she looked at him. His whole cult of angelic Cas-worshippers, at his beck and call, before his loyalty to Dean frightened them away.

Metatron’s rotating cast of suicide bombers, including Tessa — the first monster that Dean almost gave his life to, years before he knew what it was to have someone to live for — before someone like Cas appeared, who’d decided that his survival wasn’t contingent on Dean’s death. Who would’ve died before letting anything touch him. Who would put him first — before Sam. Before the world. Even before Heaven.

The whole cult episode reminded him just how common it was to kneel and pray to Castiel. How common he was — they all were. Weak to his persuasion. Not just humans. Not just demons. Other angels — even reapers. Sheep, to him. God’s Chosen.

At the time, when the mark was still fresh and its effects still unexpected, the moment brought back every ugly thing that had passed between them. Everything Dean had already forgiven. All of the worst things about loving Cas.

“No,” the angel says calmly. “The only place I need to be is here… As long as this is where you want me.”

Hope in his eyes. It would be so easy to snuff it out.

If what Cain said is true, there will come a day when Dean won’t hesitate.

“You already know I want you here.”

He proves it. Cas lets him for a moment, then he pulls away.

“You’re still hurt.”

“So you’re saying you don’t-”

“I’m saying, let me finish what I’m doing. Then you can — ravish me to your heart’s desire.”

Dean laughs. “Fine.”

While Cas works on his knee, Dean looks at his own half-bare arms, flannel bunching at his elbows where Cas pushed it down. He clears his throat loudly. “Do you need me to take off my clothes?”

He adds a “Doctor?” for good measure, purring the word in Cas’s ear.

At first he smiles, and then there’s a brief flash of pain — thinking, again, about what he can’t heal. But the look becomes determination.

“Yes, that would be helpful. Thank you.”

“I should be the one thanking you,” Dean says as he lets it fall. Cas’s eyes rake over him — lingering for maybe a second on the mark, but then the rest of him too. His skin, speckled with little bruises. Cuts and abrasions. The tightness of his t-shirt, which hides even more than it reveals.

“Well… this is just a routine checkup, so there’s really no need.”

Dean sighs so quiet that Cas doesn’t catch it. You’re supposed to be, like, saving my life or something, he moans internally. But he decides to just roll with the weak improvisation, at the same time that Cas says, “You can keep this on for now,” taking his time to look up from Dean’s chest, just enough to meet his eyes.

It still gives him goosebumps, being checked out like that.

Big difference between him and Crowley — Crowley made Dean feel wanted, yeah. Sexy even. But Cas makes him feel beautiful.

This time when Cas kisses him, it’s better. Soft, not full of fire. But like a first kiss between strangers who are only just discovering how much they like each other.

Dean answers with his eyes closed, half out of character. “Well you’re not supposed to do that.”

“I apologize,” he says, becoming shy. “I don’t know what came over me… I suppose I uh, I find it difficult to focus on doing my job properly in the presence of someone I find so… alluring.” His eyes flutter open just as Cas leans back. “But you’re right. That was completely unprofessional, and it won’t happen again. You’re owed the same high level of care as all my other patients… Of course I understand if you’d prefer to be seen by someone else.”

Dean swallows the lump in his throat, straightening his back and gripping the desk with one hand, running the other through his hair. Here’s a chance to add some texture to the story. “Uuhm, well, honestly, Doctor — even though I can and probably should report this behavior to your bosses, I think I’m willing to look past this little slip, because…” He bites his lip while he thinks of something workable and not too cliche, leaning into the nervous patient thing, maybe in over his head but still determined to get what he came for. “Well, even though this is just a routine check up, I’ve heard about… how good you are at taking care of people. I guess I wanted at least one chance to see for myself how you’d, uh, handle a case like me.”

Cas blinks. “A case like you…? From what I saw on your chart, you don’t have any pre-existing conditions — is there something bothering you, mis-”

“Maybe you can figure out what it is.”

Cas nods. “Maybe we should continue the examination.”

“Uh-huh. You said keep on the shirt, right? So pants and shoes.” Cas steps back to let him swing his leg up onto the desk, watches him lift the leg of his jeans and unlace his leather boots.

He kicks that one off and does the other, and when he’s done Cas says, “Very good. While you were removing your shoes, I noticed that you had some difficulty bending your limbs.” He takes his spot again, between Dean legs, laying a hand on each thigh. “Are you experiencing any pain — or swelling? Are your pants unusually tight?”

“…Yeah actually. Can you-”

Cas looks him in the eye as he undoes his belt, takes it by the silver buckle and pulls it free, lays it aside and within reach. He tugs the button roughly before he unfastens it, but unzipping the fly is so gentle, quick and precise Dean’s not even sure when it’s done. “Lift your butt off the table so I can pull down your pants.” Dean is quick to obey, watching as Cas kneels down, bringing them to Dean’s ankles, then taking his feet and guiding them out one at a time.

He stays there, observing his legs with furrowed brows. “Well, the source of the swelling is… very apparent, but you’ve got a lot of scrapes and bruises on your legs. You must be very clumsy.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean agrees. “The clumsiest.”

“That’s unfortunate. You don’t deserve to get hurt so often. What do you do for work?”

He cycles through a handful of easy responses. Cocktail waitress, stripper, prostitute. Construction worker, lion tamer, stuntman. “Uh… I’m a body double. Like in movies. One of those guys who gets set on fire or falls off a motorcycle or, uh, shows his ass when the actor doesn’t want to. Last movie I did — bondage stuff.”

“I see. Well, if you’re interested, I can give you something now to address these scars. It’s an experimental method of treatment. And I promise it has nothing to do with… what happened earlier, or my personal feelings. But it does require me to use my mouth.”

Dean’s eyebrows fly so high they might as well grow wings of their own. He coughs to cover up choking. “Okay… I trust you. Do…” Deep breath. “Whatever you think is best.”

Cas says nothing, barely nods, shifting so that he’s on his knees. Dean stiffens reflexively as he leans close, warming his thigh with his even, barely-there breaths.

Dean gasps as the breath travels down to his shin. Cas lowers his sock, and Dean watches his mouth glow from within.

He just barely presses these soft bright lips to Dean’s tender skin, healing the sprain underneath. And then slowly trailing his healing kisses up. Excruciatingly slow.

Torn calf muscle, scraped knee. He puts a hand around the back of it to steady himself, and Dean wraps his other leg around him on instinct. “Fuck — sorry,” he says, but Cas is too busy to give him a response. Too focused on doing his job. By the time he reaches the inner thigh, Dean is trembling, hissing, “Cascascas — stop.” He waves a hand in his face to get his attention, then lets it fall limply onto the desk.

“You gotta slow down. You’re kinda driving me nuts.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.” And his prideful little smirk isn’t helping, especially not while he’s wearing Dean’s leg like a sash. “I thought this was an efficient way to achieve our shared goals.”

“Yeah. Maybe a little too efficient.”

“You mean you want this to take long?” Dean nods — duh. “That’s good. So do I.”

Goddammit…

“Okay… then you better get the Hell up… and maybe don’t talk as much.”

“I thought you wanted me to be more communicative.”

He rolls his eyes openly. Cas really isn’t making this any easier.

“That was last time.” Cas was human then — Dean thought he should probably be trained — and they were in the backseat of Baby, a few blocks away from the Gas n Sip.

He tries not to think about it.

He has to look away as Cas slowly rises to his feet, and he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut as soon as the hand around his leg tightens, and the other grabs his thigh to hoist Cas’s body up the rest of the way.

Oh my God, Dean mouths. It’s been too long, and he wants Cas too much. Even the mark can’t erase that constant longing. The mark just makes it hurt.

Cas heals his other leg without telling him. This one is almost like a slap in the face. The kind that wakes you up. Sends a jolt through his whole body.

“If your problem right now, Dean, is that you’re too attracted to me, I’m really not sure how we can fix it. Should we tone it down with the doctor stuff? Or… maybe you should just not look at me? I don’t know.”

“Didn’t I say don’t talk?” he nearly begs.

Cas goes quiet, looking down at Dean’s burden, straining to be freed. “You know,” he says, taking pleasure in his own disobedience, meeting Dean’s eyes with an intense gaze, something teasing underneath, “we could just bring you to orgasm now. I’m sure I could help you become erect again relatively quickly.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to be quiet — a pause that only lasts about half as long as Cas’s before he says, “Yeah okay.”

He’s about 75% sure that Cas has worked some magic to make the minutes feel like hours — if they were minutes at all. All he knows is that time doesn’t exist. All there is is Cas’s middle finger still inside him. Still with its rhythmic pulse. The thumb of his other hand gently coaxing out the last of a never-ending orgasm, so intense there’s an element of pain that reminds Dean of being shocked. Muscles tensing. Holding his breath.

His command, when he decides that it’s over — when he knows that Dean is too calm, too soft and content to do much, other than what he’s told — other than whatever will make Cas happy — when he’s certain that the mark hasn’t taken that from him yet — “Why don’t you remove your shirt and wait for me on the bed.”

He lets him go, weak and tingling. Wobbly deer legs take him just far enough to safely collapse.

For a while Cas comes in and out of view — Dean assumes he’s cleaning up their mess, and maybe fixing the laptop that they knocked to the floor — but he leans down to tug on Dean’s shirt.

“Dean. I asked you to take this off.”

“Shit, sorry, my bad,” he says as he pulls it up over his head and tosses it away. He lays down on his belly and closes his eyes. He could fall asleep here, like this, knowing that Cas is close and busy.

The mark wants Dean to kill him, but he can hardly hear it over the ringing in his ears. Church bells.

“Are you healing me again?”

Cas gives an affirmative grunt, and Dean starts rolling his eyes, but it feels too nice, and Cas predicts the thing that makes it even better, swinging a leg over to trap Dean under him.

His fingers trace down his back, following the arrow of his spine.

“When I first met you, you had so many scars here,” he says unexpectedly.

Dean frowns — when they first met, he was as unblemished as a newborn. Then he realizes that Cas is talking about Hell, or his grave. Dean’s corpse, or whatever he was before Cas saved him. Something out of The Walking Dead. “I’d never seen a human being who had suffered so many assaults.”

Dean’s not sure why he laughs. “Bullshit.”

“Well I mean… up close. I'd spent a lot of time — watching humanity. But…” It’s no longer about healing; he’s rubbing up and down his back absentmindedly, coveting the pleasing sound Dean makes when he finds his way to the back of his head, takes a fistful of hair and gives it a gentle tug. Ruffles his hair and smooths it down, and in the process pushing the side of his face down into the bed, softly kneading the aching muscles at the base of his skull.

“My first vessel… she’d never gotten hurt before, physically. Not even so much as a broken arm.

“She was her father’s prized possession. But when the family fell on hard times, he was willing to sell her into a marriage with a man who he called his friend. So she turned to God for help.

“And when He didn’t answer, she considered joining a convent. She was about to, before I…”

“Got her killed?”

“No, I… After our final mission together, I reported back to Anna, alone. I said that I had been ambushed and lost my vessel in the process…”

“… You told her to run, didn’t you?”

He chuckles quietly. “For years, I was convinced that Anna knew. Just… waiting for the punishment I was certain I had earned. But it never came…” Cas shrugs.

“Or maybe it did. I mean, for all I know, they reprogrammed me right after, and allowed me to believe I was… improving on my own.”

Improving on my own.

Dean remembers the Castiel that raised him from perdition. Tried to talk to him twice — but for some reason, Dean wasn’t one of those special people who could hear what he had to say.

They all — Dean, Sam, Bobby, Pamela — forced Cas to appear, and burned Pamela’s eyes out in the process. Of course, Dean is more to blame for that than anyone.

He wonders now, not for the first time, if Cas could’ve left Jimmy and his family out of it — if only Dean hadn’t been so desperate to see him. To know who and what he was and why he wanted Dean bad enough to defy nature. To prove it to himself.

If Dean had just left well enough alone — if he wasn’t always so fucking needy — would Cas have ever knocked on the Novaks’ door? Would he have chosen some other vessel — some other family from a list of alternates? Would he have returned to the battlefield at all?

“Are you falling asleep?” Cas asks him.

“Well no need to sound so hopeful.”

“No — it’s not — I just mean… It’s a good sign, for you to be feeling tired. It means you’re still functioning normally.”

“Yeah,” he answers shakily. “It is good, isn’t it?”

“But,” Dean adds a moment later, “I don’t wanna be one of those guys who only cares about himself.”

“You could never be.”

He turns onto his back, laughing and groaning at the same time. “I mean, what about you, Cas?”

He waggles his brows suggestively, and Cas laughs and hides his face. It’s the most human he’s ever looked.

When he meets his gaze his eyes are heavy with lust, the humor slowly fading. “I understand what you’re saying… But your condition-”

“I wanna feel normal as long as I can, Cas.” God. It makes him sound terminal.

In a way, he is.

“And if normal looks like getting dicked down by an angel who kinda sucks at roleplay, I think I can live with that.”

“… I don’t suck.”

“Yeah you do. Little bit. Come on, admit it.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I will not.”

#destiel #destiel fic #destiel smut #spn fic #spn 10x14 #moc!dean

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