moonlettuce | Fic: Carved by Another's Hand, Hellblazer/SPN, John Constantine/Castiel

So, I had stuff I could have been doing. Instead I wrote Constantine/Castiel fic for the porn battle.

Title: Carved by Another's Hand
Author: Claire
Fandom: Hellblazer/SPN
Pairing: John Constantine/Castiel, Dean/Castiel implications
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,457
Summary: In which John has something an angel wants...
Notes: Written for the porn battle. Which is, to say, it's surprisingly unporny...

The thing with London, John thinks, is that it's his sodding city. His manic taxi drivers, his drunk students pissing in Trafalgar Square at two in the morning, and his back street pubs with peeling wallpaper and warm beer. And although Liverpool's his childhood, sharp and hard and always willing to rip him a new arsehole every time he visits, London's the place he keeps coming back to. Which is why, when some wanker of a demon decides to take a fucking great metaphysical chunk out of the place, John's not best impressed.

Course, while said wanker might claim he's the grand duke of hell and right hand to Lucifer, it all boils down to the same thing. Bastard could be bog polisher to the Queen for all John cares, he's still a shit-nosed dick who's trying to fuck up John's city. Problem is, he's a shit-nosed dick who's been warded against everything John's thrown at him so far.

There are still other options, but he's getting closer to territory he doesn't want to step into again, not without a fuck load of booze and a get out of jail free card to counteract the one-way ticket to the loony bin that'll be waiting for him on the other side. And besides, he's got a feeling Chas'll just tell him to fuck off if John rings him again. He had enough trouble with the seven pints of pig's blood and the hooker, so christ knows what he'd say to trying to find a newborn puppy and a virgin at 3:00am on a Saturday. Actually, John's pretty sure what he'll say; pretty sure the words fuck and off would feature heavily.

"There is another way."

It shows how tired John is that it takes the voice for him to realise there's someone there with him, takes a beat for him to realise what's there with him.

"What the fuck do you want?" Because having an angel show up unannounced has never been a good thing.

"I need your help." The angel's looking at him with wide eyes, blue and bright. The trench coat he's wearing is crumpled, the stains on the front look like blood, and John has to stop his eyes from flicking over to his couch. He has to stop them from flicking to where his own trench and jacket are lying, thrown there when he came in, hands full of whiskey and silver and belladonna, and kicking the door closed behind him.

"Well, you're shit out of luck then, mate." Because John's been running on empty for the past two weeks just trying to keep London from imploding. He's barely got enough fucking energy to help himself, never mind some fucking angel who turns up looking like he's just rolled out of bed.

The angel steps forward, crouching next to the sigil traced onto the wooden floor. "The Seals have been broken."

Well, fuck.

Because that changes things; changes a fuck load of things. And it means that the bastard he's dealing with might actually be what he claims to be.

"Okay, I'm listenin'--"

The angel looks at him, head tilted slightly and still crouching. "I need the Scroll of Constantis."

Which isn't entirely surprising, if the Seals really have broken. "You plannin' on killing the devil?" Because that's what the Scroll told; heavy, blood magic, guaranteed to drive a bloke insane. Then again, if you were desperate enough to use the ritual laid out on the Scroll, odds are you're fucking mad anyway. John had nicked it back in '83 from some tosser who hadn't even realised what it was. Death. Insanity. A way to tilt the cosmic balance between Good and Evil once and for all.

It was currently wedged under one of the legs of John's kitchen table to stop it from wobbling.

The angel didn't reply.

"And say I do have it. What do I get in return?"

"Knowledge that you have finally atoned. For Liverpool, for London, for Newcastle. For Astra, for Ellie, for Kit."

Only, John's already atoned for all of that. Atoned for it with every fucking day of his life. And a guilt trip down memory lane isn't about to help him now. "Try again."

The angel's gaze slides to the sigil, careful and deliberate. "This isn't strong enough to trap Amduscias. Not yet. You need to bind it with innocence."

"I fucking know that--" It's not like he's some fucking amateur here. Not like he just fucking woke up one day and decided to do some finger painting on the floor and try to trap himself a demon for shits and giggles. This tosser was tearing up John's city and it was up to John to stop it. To stop Amduscias, apparently, even though John still thinks Wanker's a better name for him. He knows he needs to bind the sigil with innocence. Which leads him straight back to the puppy and the virgin that Chas is never going to agree to.

The angel ignores the outburst as he stands, gracefully stepping around the sigil and closing the distance between them until he's inches from John. "There is more than one way to sacrifice innocence, John Constantine. I offer you mine, freely given, in return for the Scroll."

It takes John a minute to work out what the angel's implying, but then again, it's hardly every day that an angel turns up in his sitting room offering to shag on the floor.

"You must really want that Scroll," John comments.

The angel nods. "It would be," he pauses slightly, "advantageous to our position."

Which is handy, because getting this trap up and working would be advantageous to John's position, as well. Didn't hurt that the angel wasn't hard on his eyes and that John hadn't had the pleasure of anything but his right hand in weeks.

"Okay," he says. "One scroll in exchange for one virgin. Unless I'm gettin' two out of the deal?"

"This vessel has a child, but my purity is intact."

One out of two, then, just as he'd figured. Not as good as it could have been, but at least the sacrifice was coming from the angel and not from the bloke he was wearing; not that he'd thought it would be.

The angel steps back at John's nod, shrugging out of his trench coat and letting it fall where he stands. "Where would you me like to--"

"Hang on, mate--" John interrupts. "First thing's first, okay. It would be nice to know exactly who I'm about to shag. Because I'm all for not sticking my dick up your arse until I know your name." John's traditional like that.

The angel flushes slightly, like it hadn't even occurred to him. And John's never seen an angel embarrassed before. "My name is Castiel."

Not one of the higher angels, if John remembers correctly. But still strong enough to give the sigil enough power to send Fuckaduck back to the pit. Still strong enough to be exactly what John needs and then some.

"Sit," John says, pointing to the couch, battered and worn and with at least three dubious stains on that John can't remember putting there.

He ignores the unmade bed as he heads into the bedroom, the sheets are crumpled and they probably should have been changed a couple of weeks ago, but he's been a bit busy trying to stop London from burning in a burst of hellfire to even think about crap like tidying up. And thank fuck he pretty much lives off the Chinese takeaway from down the street because at least he hasn't had to think about washing dishes.

The half-used tube of KY John pulls out of bedside cabinet is slightly sticky from where he'd just thrown it in there a couple of nights ago. The condom the drawer also yields is just past its use-by date, a remnant from the last time John was actually getting laid regularly. But, fuck, the one advantage to fucking a virginal angel has to be the lack STDs, right. And it's not as if John's about to knock him up.

"Right then--" John's voice trails off as he walks back into the sitting room and sees Castiel, stark-bollock naked on the couch with his clothes folded neatly beside him.

"I thought it would save time," Castiel says, and fuck, out of all the angels to land in his lap tonight he had to pull the short straw and get a fucking earnest one.

But, if there's anything John's learned in his surprisingly longer-than-expected life, it's how to go with the flow. "Here," he says, dropping the condom and KY for Castiel to catch.

His own clothes end up in a messy pile on the floor, a direct contrast to the sharply folded clean lines of Castiel's. Course, since John's planning on using the couch for other things, it's only a few seconds before Castiel's clothes join his on the floor, making room for John to kneel on the threadbare cushions.

The angel's skin is warm as John rests a hand against his shoulder, pushing him down to lie on his back. And the couch is far too fucking small for two grown men to lie there anything like comfortably, but he hadn't exactly been thinking of this situation when he'd scammed it out of Chas's place when Renee had been talking about getting a new suite.

Castiel is silent as John takes the KY, opening the tube and squirting some out, looking at John steadily as John moves one of his legs, opening the angel up to the fingers moving towards his arse.

"You realise this is unnecessary and that I can take you without preparation," Castiel says, as John's fingers skirt the entrance to his body.

"Probably," John agrees, his fingers still moving, dipping inside Castiel slightly. He doesn't tell Castiel that this isn't for him. John's never like the feeling of arse-fucking someone without lube, always felt like his dick was going to get pinched off. And since this is probably the only chance he's ever going to have of fucking an angel, he's going to make sure he fucking well enjoys it.

It's not like he's stretching him much, just enough to slick the lube around and make sure John's going to be able to fuck him without feeling like his nuts are in a vice. And this is the part he's always loved about fucking other blokes, the tight heat around his fingers as he pushes inside. It's the bit that makes his dick sit up and take notice. It helps that Castiel's attractive, a fuck-load better than the last bloke he shagged, drunk and careless and fucking him in a back lane behind a pub, surrounded by the smell of stale piss and fags.

John wipes the excess lubricant on the couch, figuring one more stain isn't going to matter in the grand scheme of things. The small foil packet he takes from Castiel rips easily, falling to the floor as John fishes the condom out and rolls it down over his cock.

Castiel shifts as John moves, thighs falling further apart, as John guides his dick to Castiel's body.

John can't help but groan as he slides inside, his cock surrounded by hot and tight and fucking perfect. He can feel the power from the sigil start to beat at the base of his skull and this, this would be enough, but it's not. His hips move of their own accord, skin slapping against skin and Castiel's still soft under him and that won't do at fucking all.

Castiel starts as John wraps his fingers around his cock, like he's not expecting it, like he's not expecting anything but to lie and there and be used.

"You don't need to--"

John knows he doesn't, but no one's ever accused John Constantine of being a selfish fucker (at least not when it comes to sex), and he's not about to have an angel fuck off back to Heaven and sing to everyone that John just got his rocks off and fucking rolled over. And John's good at this, at taking people apart with his hands and his lips and his body, so he just smirks when Castiel arches beneath him, cock hardening in John's fingers. He just smirks as Castiel groans, pushing into John's touch as he discovers something bright and shiny and new.

It doesn't take long to get Castiel on the edge, writhing and wanton as he's impaled over and over, and it's not enough and too soon and too much as he clenches around John, milking his cock. And John can feel it in his stomach, feel his balls tightening as he comes, Castiel pulling John after him, as John empties himself into the condom. Castiel is still shuddering, tiny aftershocks as his cock twitches in John's grip, his come coating John's fingers, as a half-hitched gasp carries a name into the air.

John rests his forehead against Castiel's chest as his dick slips out of Castiel's body, soft and sated and feeling pretty fucking smug for having just shagged an angel. He fumbles slightly as he peels the condom off, dropping it over the arm of the couch and pretty sure that the noise it makes as it hits the floor means he's just missed the bin.

Castiel shifts under him, and John rolls over to let him stand, keeping his eyes closed as he rests his head against the couch.

"Scroll's in the kitchen," John says.

He's not expecting the lips that press against his forehead, not expecting the quiet, "Thank you," low and wrecked. And John knows he's the first to hear the angel like this, the same way he knows he's not going to be the last, not if the Dean that fell from Castiel's lips as he came means anything.

There's a faint gust of air around him and Castiel's gone when John opens his eyes, out of John's flat and leaving him with a slightly listing table and sigil on the floor that's pulsing white hot and angry.

"Right then, you fucker," John mutters as he slides off the couch, not bothering with his clothes. Castiel's come is still slicked across his fingers and he smears it down one of the chalk lines, grinning as the power flares around him, strengthened by temptation and want and sin all wrapped up in an angel's need. "Time to get the fuck out of my city."