I just sort of wrote this on the fly with a bunch of people on hunteur's wall, so this is dedicated to Marie. I spruced it up a bit and gave it a title. <3
Dean let out a deep breath and held himself still where he waited on the bed on all fours. Cas was behind him and he knew he couldn’t break the rules and sneak a peek, but oh how he wanted to.
“Have you prepared yourself like I asked, Dean?” Cas inquired with a lilting husk in his voice. It made Dean shiver and nearly wrung a little whimper out of him.
A hand stroked down his flank and Dean wanted to moan. “Good boy.”
The first time I saw Mary she asked for a dime for the jukebox. When I turned around to see who’d asked, her clear, clever eyes took me by surprise and I couldn’t manage one intelligent word as I fumbled, riffling through my pockets looking for a coin. She accepted it with a sweet smile and a low “thanks, mister”, but oh how that smile had an edge - playful, adventurous - and I was gone right then. What sort of adventures could we have had, had the circumstances been different?
Trying to hold onto Cas was like gathering water in a sieve: it invariably slipped away. And yet there was always the tiniest bit clinging to the wire mesh, a lingering suggestion of a desire fulfilled.
Half the time Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to keep trying. The other half of the time he tried not to think about it.
It reminded him of the skies over the 38th. The silverfish wings of his Sabre would sluice through the air and on hot, perfect days when the clouds were fluffy he’d wonder what it would be like if he could stick a hand out the window. How would those clouds feel if he could let them run through his fingers? He knew the real answer, of course. Clouds were simply floating specks of water that would part around his skin in frigid curtains. He wouldn’t feel a thing but the cold of absence. The illusion was all you got.
But fuck what an illusion. The thick morning light gilded Cas’ features in copper, and in these serene moments everything could be perfect. When Dean could watch the gentle rise and fall of Cas’ chest and pick the browning flowers from his hair they were normal. Together. The view from the near side of the glass sang siren songs.
But reality was far less attractive. He and Cas were no good for each other. They were destructive in the worst way, destructive like the quiet sabotage of water. A drop felt refreshing and so you’d welcome another. It wasn’t until drop after drop had worn the stone of your skin into featureless unrecognizability that you could ever admit there might have been a problem. Even if you’d felt the wearing down all along.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Neither of them wanted to stop the wearing down, neither of them wanted to stop trying to gather the water up. Neither wanted to stop letting the few drops they had from carving holes into them one drip at a time.
The highlights of Cas’ hair caught the light like sun through bourbon and Dean traced them with hungry fingers. These were the moments when Cas was his and his alone.
But Cas was slipping through his sieve in puffs of smoke, in the slickness of chlorophyll-smeared fingertips against flushed skin. He felt the end tangible thing. It was only a matter of time before they destroyed each other, raining silverfish scales onto the battlefield below like so many unlucky planes in a hot, foreign land.
A little John/Mary mix that tracks their love story.
The Pharaohs - Neko Case
The Sea and the Rhythm - Iron & Wine
Glass - Bats for Lashes
Are You Hurting the One You Love? - Florence & the Machine
Closer - Kings of Leon
Howl - Florence & the Machine
A Good Man Is Hard to Find - Sufjan Stevens
Embers - Maggie Rogers
Dark Paradise - Lana Del Ray
You, Appearing - M83
Iconography - Max Richter
Scenic World - Beirut
It was perfect. Every note held for its full measure, every pause, every breath, every move orchestrated with exacting care. The only problem was the heathen of a composer – Winchester, was his name. The toad would sit at the back of Castiel’s rehearsal hall and call out snide “suggestions” that were utterly preposterous, serving only to muddle articulations and dirty the streamlined soundscape Castiel strove to create. The music was just on the right side of mediocre anyway; he wouldn’t even be conducting it if he had his druthers, and from the way the orchestra was responding they’d rather not be playing it either.
It… wasn’t right. Sure the technique was flawless, but that was the problem. There was only sound, no music. Despite the precise dynamics, the piece felt flat and Dean wanted to stab someone. This conductor, Novak, was impossible; he blatantly ignored Dean’s every attempt to breathe some life back into his own piece. Normally he wouldn’t babysit like this, but this concerto was his largest debut in the last three years and he was convinced this stick-in-the-mud would turn it into a soundtrack to sleep by.
Cas, despite all expectations, is a pretty good chef. Maybe not quite as good as Dean, but he sure beats Sam’s burnt husks of meals by a mile.The former angel seems to enjoy cooking and baking as much as he enjoys anything, so Dean encourages him to experiment, try out new things. After 30 years eating road-food, he’s got a stomach of iron; it can’t hurt to let the guy get a little creative. It’s only when Dean walks in on him making some complicated dish (something Indian, by the smell of it) that he understands. Cas isn’t just cooking, but he’s cooking with a recipe.
The other man is hunched over the counter, hands flat against the mottled granite, arms splayed wide, as he squints down at a slip of paper. Dean continues to watch as Cas moves to painstakingly measure out a teaspoon of what looks like coriander, carefully using a small butter knife to tap the edges of the spoon and shear off the excess. He repeats the process twice more and that’s when Dean gets it.
Cas’ food is good because he follows the recipe to the letter. Everything is measured out perfectly, timed to the second, assembled with exacting care. Dean’s chest tightens as he realizes that that is exactly why Cas likes being the in kitchen so much; recipes are instructions, orders, and if you follow them diligently enough, you achieve victory. Granted a souffle that rises properly isn’t much as far as victories go, but after the disastrous results of Cas’ last stint as a free-agent it’s unsurprising he would retreat into structure and direction.
Bela’s fire-engine red nails cut half-moons into Dean’s hips as she slammed her own into the back of his thighs. It wasn’t exactly what Dean had had in mind when she’d suggested they…run out their adrenaline together, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember how he’d ended up on his hands and knees under Bela when she tilted her hips just like that.
She was just as demanding a bedmate as she was with a pistol, and Dean couldn’t help a few unrestrained yelps as she bottomed out, hard. His skin tingled with each smart thrust, but he wasn’t quite there. A hand snuck around and began to pull on his cock, giving it firm strokes in time with the snaps of her hips. The fingers of Bela’s other hand scraped through his hair; all of a sudden they tightened and tugged sharply and painfully, yanking his head back. She lowered her plump, crimson lips to his ear.
"Are you going to come for me, baby? Come with my cock inside your slutty hole? Come on, Winchester, come for me."
The stern order, coupled with the pleasure tinged with pain she slammed into his body had him spurting onto the sheets below. His fingers twisted in the sheets as he shook apart and his knees gave out. Bela slowly pulled out of him, stroking down his spine, chasing away the cold sweat there.
"Good boy. You make a fine picture, fucked out like this. We should have done this a long time ago." She gave his buttock a smack and he felt her slide off the bed. "Let’s do this again."
"Spread yourself for me, Dean. Let me see you," Castiel murmurs low and resonant, sending the buzzing consonants into the shell of Dean’s ear. God, that voice - that honeyed baritone humming in his ear - makes him want to get on his knees and do anything to be a good boy. Anything to hear warm praise fall from those sinful lips and thrum through his blood like whiskey on a summer evening. The tingles that skitter down his spine were that same intoxication, but the reward was so much greater.
Prompt from an anon: “I need bottom!Dean. I don’t care how, I just really need Cas topping the shit out of Dean. Fisting, cockrings, fucking machines, Slave!Dean, I don’t care, I just need top!Cas”
Your wish is my command!
Summary: Castiel has a new piece of equipment to try out, one that works Dean open wide for bigger things to come.
Kinks and warnings: non-con, slavery, slave!Dean, heavy bondage, cockrings, ring gags, fucking machines, fisting, top!Cas, bottom!Dean, dom!Cas, sub!Dean
He shifted back and forth on his knees, settling the joints into the soft leather pads. He’d woken up like this, but that was nothing new. Dean’s master enjoyed disorienting him; the food and water was sometimes laced with drugs that zonked him so far out he lost time and he’d come to in a variety of humiliatingly creative situations. The worst by far had been the small stage in a sea of men who had all been more than willing and able to take their turns using him as he was spread out on a platform for their pleasure. They’d had toys and tools at their disposal, and they’d been so rough with him his master had let him sleep the entirety of the following day.
Compared to that nightmare, the framework into which he was locked, the fat plug holding his hole open, and the ring gag in his mouth were a small blessing. Now, he was on his hands and knees. His chest was held up by a pillowed platform while his arms and legs came down to the top of what appeared to be a table. Metal bands circled his thighs, waist, torso, holding his chest down to the cushion, while his wrists and ankles were fastened to the table with padded shackles, legs splayed wide. Immobile and accessible. Dean pulled a bit at his bonds, but he didn’t waste too much energy on it. He knew it wouldn’t do him any good. If this was where Castiel wanted him, this was where he would be.
The Fire - Imogen Heap
Foreground (Instrumental) - Grizzly Bear
Sleeping Land (Part I) - Richard Knox & Frédéric D. Oberland
Our Last Days As Children - Explosions in the Sky
Behind the Barn - Andrew Bird
Ekki Múkk - Sigur Rós
Redford (for Yia-Yia and Pappou) - Sufjan Stevens
An Ending (Ascent) - Brian Eno
A chill rolled off the glass, but that was all right by Dean. The view was too beautiful for a little cold to send him away, and besides – nothing could dispel the lingering warmth permeating his bones. It was a heat born of the safety and comfort between their sheets and it seemed to shroud him all the time these days. It was there always.
Clear moonlight rippled and played across the pristine snow, dousing it with an aquamarine that shimmered here and there. Such serenity was what had spurred him to come here in the first place; he was coming to realize it was something else entirely that made him stay.
He heard Cas shifting in the bed behind him, heard him take in a deep lungful of the musty, cool air. Dean heard this, but jumped a bit when a low voice called out to him, soft and gritty with sleep. “Dean?”
He spun around. Castiel squinted over at him, swaddled in down with waves of icy light wrapping themselves around him in the distorted shape of windowpanes. Dean inhaled sharply; the overwhelming sense of right he felt seeing Cas like this, muzzy from dreams in a bed Dean himself had helped him warm, suddenly struck him mute. He turned toward the window again and it took him several swallows to recover. A shrug. “Couldn’t sleep. I was just looking at the moon.” Sheets rustled and slid over each other. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a minute,” he soothed, still watching the quiet tranquility of the snow from their window as small flakes began to float down sporadically. He didn’t want Cas to get up on his account.
Thick fingers slid shells home firmly, with expertise. Each little thoonk niggled in the back of Dean’s head, ringing for a second and spurring him closer and closer to opening his mouth to break the comfortable yet purposeful silence. Henriksen saved him the trouble.
“Shotgun shells full of salt,” he sighed as he tossed a cartridge into the air and caught it.
“Whatever works,” Dean replied, muscle memory taking over as round after round shimmied down the twin barrels.
“Fighting off monsters with condiments.” Dean spared him a glance. Well damn. There was a sense of humor beneath all that gruff fed bluster. And the man knew how to handle a gun. That in of itself was enough to earn Dean’s respect; if he had to guess how many law enforcement goons who didn’t know a butt from a muzzle he’d out-smarted in his life, it’d probably number in the low hundreds. Dean took the opening and teased him about all the other creatures that were out there; they chuckled and sank into a startlingly easy sort of companionship.
He felt… like Henriksen’s equal. It was a feeling Dean wasn’t used to because the people that gave him any sort of respect could be counted on one hand. But if the sense of humor and the skill weren’t enough, Victor Henriksen had swallowed his pride, admitted he was wrong, and had thankfully listened to him and Sam. The number of times law enforcement had done that was just plain low. This man who’d tracked him and Sam across the country like an expert huntsman was smart enough to see the writing on the wall and damn if that wasn’t a miracle in and of itself.
And then he started talking. About himself, his job, his disappointments. Dean listened to a lot of people tell their stories every day, but they were usually just keepers of a piece of the puzzle. It was his job to collect them and put them all together – with a healthy serving of ass-kicking, of course.
Victor, though… Victor was different. He was outside all that, a feather falling slow and constant in a hailstorm of chaos, death, and blood. While the cases and people Dean interviewed soon slipped from his mind, here was Victor stringing them all together and making sense of them. Stitching his and Sam’s lives out in red thread on a paper map.
So when Henriksen talked about his job, Dean listened. Actually listened and heard. And it resonated; Dean held that same deep-seated disappointment at how he threw years of his life at the unseen evils of the world and the fact of the matter was that they lost more people than they saved. Hell, they’d probably all be dead before the day was done – just add it to his tab.
But Victor was blunt, and that’s the way Dean liked it. No time wasted on niceties. It was time they didn’t have, never had. It was a directness that deserved to be reciprocated so Dean leveled with him: they were probably not getting out of here alive. But they could go down swinging and Dean knew just from looking at him that Henriksen was the type to appreciate that kind of sensibility.
“Plus, you got nothing to go home to but your brother.” Dean felt a soft, tired snort come up from the bottom of his lungs. Nothing that wasn’t true.
“Yeah,” he conceded, still loading his ammo. To his surprise, he found himself returning the unspoken question: “What about you, you rocking the white picket fence?” He never took an interest in things like this. Who cared? If they managed to get out of this scrape half-intact, he and Sam would go into hiding again, scurrying like cockroaches. It’s not like he and Victor could be friends.
“Nah. Empty apartment, string of angry ex-wives; I’m right where you are.” They held eyes for a moment and Dean huffed out a chuckle and Henriksen’s eyes light up with humor as he laughed. A heavy coating of knowing camaraderie spread through Dean’s trunk and for a fleeting second he let himself imagine what it would be like to have a real friend. He spent that second watching Henriksen’s lips form the words and in that time noticed how soft they looked. Soft like a woman’s and plush enough to cushion him from resentment they themselves knew all too well. The breath in his lungs hissed out through his nose in one go and he snapped himself out of it. Man, the weird things imminent death brought to the fore of the mind.
She couldn’t buy boxes fast enough. Sandra was positive she’s never gone through tissues this quickly in her entire life. Then again, she’d never gone through a divorce before either.
It would have been so much easier if he’d cheated.
At least that way she could point at the infidelity and say “this is the end”. Rip off the bandage and heal. As it was, as she came to learn more, everything he’d done was only what he had thought was right, however misguided. But the lying…if he couldn’t trust her, even with their own daughter, how could she trust him? She simply couldn’t abide the lying; it wasn’t acceptable. Wasn’t it? He’d nearly killed her. But the look in his eyes as she’d told him it was over was almost as painful. Almost.
She reached for another tissue as her chest clenched painfully in the way she’d come to know, come to associate with life these days. As a set of sobs threatened to wrack her body, she felt something cold and wet nudging at her ankle. Sniffling, she couldn’t help but give a watery smile. Mr. Muggles didn’t resist when she scooped him up, burying her tear-stained face in his neck. He whined and licked her face as she chuckled. Drawing in a deep breath, she found some strength in his downy fluff as she smoothed the fur away from his face. No, she knew she was still in love with Noah Bennet, but she knew her life would balance out.
The scariest thing was that there was no reason for it. In dreams, her heart pounded in fear and she’d woken up in a cold sweat. But now when she looked at this man, this stranger, a supernatural flush of peace came over her. With his look, her chest unclenched from the coil she hadn’t even realized it’d been in her whole life. Her heart thought she was safe, even when her brain knew she couldn’t trust him. This “Peter” had kind eyes and a warm smile, but she just couldn’t reconcile that with the terror that had inhabited her dreams for months. Not yet.
Mulder pumped his long legs, easily eclipsing his partner even though she’d had a head start. Honestly, he did enough running that whoever had thought FBI agents should wear loafers should be committed. He watched the suspect’s beige trenchcoat dart around a corner. Shifting his weight preemptively, Mulder began to take the corner as well. All of a sudden, he was on the ground with the shoulder of his jacket blossoming red. Distantly, he heard Scully cry his name and everything became a blur as he watched the redhead run towards him.
Sometimes being tall was a decided disadvantage.