Fic: Dust in the Wind, SPN
Jun. 7th, 2009 10:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonlettuceTitle: Dust in the Wind
Author: Claire
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Summary: It happens on a Thursday...
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kink_bingo, for the Scars / Scarification square. The title comes from the Kansas song of the same name. Er, for a kink_bingo fic, this is actually bizarrely unkinky...
It happens on a Thursday, a fact that Dean kinda thinks is the other angels giving them a not-so-subtle fuck you. Cas is naked and shaking when they finally find him and they almost have to drag him to the Impala. Dean wraps him in a blanket that's too old and slightly worn and stolen from a motel somewhere along route 46, while Sam clears the backseat. The day-old burger wrappers that have been thrown there showing the only concession to food since Anna's appearance started them on a two day trip to where they are now, tired and dirty and holding an angel between them because he can't hold himself.
They don't stop on the way back to Bobby's, Sam and Dean trading off on the driving as the Impala speeds along the road at least ten over the limit as motel after motel fades into the distance behind them.
Dean keeps the music soft as Sam sleeps in the passenger seat, head against the window and neck at an angle that's going to have him bitching when he wakes up. He should have woken Sam up over an hour to take over the driving, but the road's empty, Steve Walsh is singing about a drop of water in an endless sea and Dean's not about to sleep any time soon, not when they're this close to Bobby's and every time he closes his eyes he sees blood and fire and feathers.
Cas hasn't come to properly for the entire trip, soft whimpering coming from the bundled up figure in the back the only indication that he's still alive. They'd managed to get him into some clothes before they got him into the back, a pair of Dean's jeans hanging off his hips like they were about to fall and one of Sam's tees all but swamping him. Dean thinks he would have teased him at any other time, with soft comments about Castiel playing dress-up.
But not this time.
Not when it took the two of them to dress him, Sam holding Cas up as Dean dragged the jeans over his legs, skin clammy and trembling, with gooseflesh all over. Not when Dean eased the tee over Cas's head, fingers brushing the vertical scars down his back, rough under his fingertips.
Dean can't get the scars out of his mind. He knows what they mean. Scar tissue, thick and harsh and still surrounded with flecks of red, screaming out exactly what Cas gave up.
Wings. Cas had fucking wings. And although Dean knew, it's different to knowing. He had wings. And now he has Dean. Some fucking trade off.
"A fair one."
The voice is quiet, wrecked, and Dean's not expecting it. Not expecting to meet Cas's gaze in the mirror, blue heavy and muted.
"Cas--"
Because what can he say? What can he possibly fucking say to make this better.
"This wasn't your doing, Dean. I made my choice."
A choice he wouldn't have had to make if Dean hadn't fucking asked him, if Dean had kept his hands to himself.
The noise Cas makes is halfway between a laugh and a choked sob, and Dean doesn't know which one he'd prefer right now. "I disobeyed, Dean, but it was my choice. Mine."
The rest of the drive back to Bobby's is in silence.
Sam, predictably, bitches when they reach the salvage yard, hand rubbing at the back of his neck and telling Dean he should have woken him up 300 miles ago.
The you looked like you needed your beauty sleep, princess is thrown easily over Dean's shoulder as he opens the Impala door, hand reaching to help Cas out. But Cas doesn't take it, just pulls himself out of the car, knuckles turning white as his fingers grip the door. And Dean wants to help, thinks he should. Thinks Cas is about to pitch over face first into Bobby's yard, but he doesn't. Doesn't pitch over, doesn't do anything but take slow, measured steps until he's facing Bobby, still half wrapped in the blanket and letters in faded white declaring Stanford across his chest.
Bobby's gruff spare room's made up meets Cas and Dean doesn't know what he's going to say. Doesn't know if he's going to say anything until he nods, the thank you low as he walks into the house and leaves Bobby looking at Dean to explain what happened.
Only Dean's still not sure. Cas is an angel but he's not; can still hear Dean, but has thick gouges down his back that scream out Heaven's displeasure. Not so much fallen as clipped, a butterfly pinned to a board when it's still alive.
"I need a beer," he says. And a shower. And some sleep. But mainly, he just really fucking needs a beer.
Bobby just nods, moving slightly to the side to let Dean past him and into the house.
"What the hell happened, son?" Bobby asks, him and Sam following Dean into the kitchen.
"I don't know, Bobby," Dean answers, the beer he's just taken out of the fridge cold in his hand as condensation runs over his fingers. And he's never going to find out, not when he's down here, fucking hiding. "Damn it--"
The beer's still unopened when Dean leaves it on the table, feeling Sam and Bobby's gazes on him as he walks out of the kitchen.
The second steps from the top still creaks when anyone stands on it, and the sound sends Dean back to his childhood, when he practised shooting in the yard and his Dad and Bobby traded off on showing him how to fix the junkers. Back when Sam always had his nose in a book, even then, and home meant whiskey and gun oil all wrapped in his father's scent. Back when the fate of the world didn't rest on the shoulders of someone who's pretty sure he's going to fuck it all up spectacularly.
"Cas?"
The door swings open without sound and Dean half expects to find Cas asleep, not staring out of the window, Sam's tee discarded and jeans perilously low on his hips.
"I can still hear them," Cas says softly. "Behold, for Castiel is punished--"
And what the fuck can Dean say to that? Sorry you got your wings ripped off, but hey, it's not all bad, right? Jesus.
Stepping further into the room, Dean closes the door behind him, the soft click of the latch echoing through the silence. A hundred things are running through his head as Dean covers the distance between him and Cas in a few steps. I'm sorry and I'm here and Want me to summon some angels and beat the fuck out of them?
"I don't think that would help at this point," Cas murmurs, and Dean can hear the although the offer's appreciated on the end, even if Cas doesn't actually say it.
"Might make you feel better," Dean comments, tone lighter than he feels, because it would sure as fuck make him feel better, even if it did jack-shit for Cas.
He's close enough to see the Cas's back properly now, the sun coming in through the window highlighting the uneven flesh of scars that look far older than they should.
Cas turns to look at him. "Heaven is not without-- compassion." Word tinged with the bitterness Dean thinks is Cas's right.
"So, what, they healed the scars?" And Christ, if this is Heaven's idea of compassion, Dean may be fighting for wrong fucking side here. At least with the demons you know what you're getting.
Cas doesn't answer as he turns back to the window and Dean wonders if he can see God in a pile of rusting cars. Letting the silence envelop him, Dean takes the final step towards Cas, hand reaching out to rest in the small of Cas's back for a moment, warm and solid. He presses closer, arms wrapping around Cas and dropping a kiss on Cas's shoulder, jerking back when Cas shudders and cursing himself for a fucking idiot, because Cas has just lost his wings and Dean thought it was a fucking peachy idea to press against the scars.
"Fuck, sorry--"
But Cas cuts off the concern, the worry that Dean's hurt him.
"No, it's-- Please--"
He twists his head, looking at Dean with wide eyes, bright and blown and only a thin ring of blue showing and oh--
Wrapping a hand around Cas's hip, Dean moves forward again, pressing a kiss to the nearest scar, grinning as Cas's hand finds his and squeezes.
"Sensitive, huh?"
"I think--" Cas breaks off with Dean's second kiss. "Nerve endings--" he manages.
And Dean gets it, fucking gets it. The bastards took his wings, but left everything else. Left it all, so Cas could still fucking feel. So every time someone touched, he'd remember what he lost. Fuckers.
"Dean, please--"
But Dean's not going to let them have this, not going to let them have anything but the fucking contempt they deserve. Because the only thing Cas is going to remember is the brush of Dean's lips against his skin and the feel of Dean's hand around his cock.
Dean snaps open the jeans, denim sliding off Cas's hips with little effort, as he wraps his fingers around the cock already hardening under his touch. He drops another kiss onto Cas's shoulder, and then another, kissing his way across Cas's back as he jacks him slowly.
"Dean, oh, Dean--"
Cas's grip on Dean's hand tightens as Dean licks a stripe across one of the scars, trembling under the touch of Dean's tongue. Dean grins, blowing across the wet strip of saliva as his hand quickens its pace on Cas's cock. And Cas is writhing, fucking writhing, in his arms as Dean mouths the scars, alternating between the two of them and more careful with his teeth than he ever has been when he's had a cock in his mouth.
"C'mon, Cas--" Words spoken against Cas's skin, against the ridges of flesh that mark Cas. That mark him as beautiful and defiant and marred and Dean's. "Give it up--"
And Cas does. Fucking convulses in Dean's grip as he comes, sharp and perfect, over Dean's fingers.
There's tremors and harsh breath as Cas slumps back against Dean, almost inaudible gasp running through him as the scars touch Dean's tee.
"I really wanna fuck you," Dean says, hand moving from Cas's softened cock to rest against his stomach.
"That can be arranged," Cas replies, eyes lighter than Dean's seen them since a field in the middle of Assfuck, Nowhere.
Dean smirks and he'd be walking to the bed right now if Cas wasn't tugging him back, wasn't leaning close to murmur in his ear, voice quiet and careful and sure.
"My choice, Dean," Cas says, breath ghosting over Dean's skin, "was always you."
And this time, as Cas leads them both to the bed, Dean finds he actually believes it.
Author: Claire
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Summary: It happens on a Thursday...
Notes: Written for
kink_bingo, for the Scars / Scarification square. The title comes from the Kansas song of the same name. Er, for a kink_bingo fic, this is actually bizarrely unkinky...It happens on a Thursday, a fact that Dean kinda thinks is the other angels giving them a not-so-subtle fuck you. Cas is naked and shaking when they finally find him and they almost have to drag him to the Impala. Dean wraps him in a blanket that's too old and slightly worn and stolen from a motel somewhere along route 46, while Sam clears the backseat. The day-old burger wrappers that have been thrown there showing the only concession to food since Anna's appearance started them on a two day trip to where they are now, tired and dirty and holding an angel between them because he can't hold himself.
They don't stop on the way back to Bobby's, Sam and Dean trading off on the driving as the Impala speeds along the road at least ten over the limit as motel after motel fades into the distance behind them.
Dean keeps the music soft as Sam sleeps in the passenger seat, head against the window and neck at an angle that's going to have him bitching when he wakes up. He should have woken Sam up over an hour to take over the driving, but the road's empty, Steve Walsh is singing about a drop of water in an endless sea and Dean's not about to sleep any time soon, not when they're this close to Bobby's and every time he closes his eyes he sees blood and fire and feathers.
Cas hasn't come to properly for the entire trip, soft whimpering coming from the bundled up figure in the back the only indication that he's still alive. They'd managed to get him into some clothes before they got him into the back, a pair of Dean's jeans hanging off his hips like they were about to fall and one of Sam's tees all but swamping him. Dean thinks he would have teased him at any other time, with soft comments about Castiel playing dress-up.
But not this time.
Not when it took the two of them to dress him, Sam holding Cas up as Dean dragged the jeans over his legs, skin clammy and trembling, with gooseflesh all over. Not when Dean eased the tee over Cas's head, fingers brushing the vertical scars down his back, rough under his fingertips.
Dean can't get the scars out of his mind. He knows what they mean. Scar tissue, thick and harsh and still surrounded with flecks of red, screaming out exactly what Cas gave up.
Wings. Cas had fucking wings. And although Dean knew, it's different to knowing. He had wings. And now he has Dean. Some fucking trade off.
"A fair one."
The voice is quiet, wrecked, and Dean's not expecting it. Not expecting to meet Cas's gaze in the mirror, blue heavy and muted.
"Cas--"
Because what can he say? What can he possibly fucking say to make this better.
"This wasn't your doing, Dean. I made my choice."
A choice he wouldn't have had to make if Dean hadn't fucking asked him, if Dean had kept his hands to himself.
The noise Cas makes is halfway between a laugh and a choked sob, and Dean doesn't know which one he'd prefer right now. "I disobeyed, Dean, but it was my choice. Mine."
The rest of the drive back to Bobby's is in silence.
Sam, predictably, bitches when they reach the salvage yard, hand rubbing at the back of his neck and telling Dean he should have woken him up 300 miles ago.
The you looked like you needed your beauty sleep, princess is thrown easily over Dean's shoulder as he opens the Impala door, hand reaching to help Cas out. But Cas doesn't take it, just pulls himself out of the car, knuckles turning white as his fingers grip the door. And Dean wants to help, thinks he should. Thinks Cas is about to pitch over face first into Bobby's yard, but he doesn't. Doesn't pitch over, doesn't do anything but take slow, measured steps until he's facing Bobby, still half wrapped in the blanket and letters in faded white declaring Stanford across his chest.
Bobby's gruff spare room's made up meets Cas and Dean doesn't know what he's going to say. Doesn't know if he's going to say anything until he nods, the thank you low as he walks into the house and leaves Bobby looking at Dean to explain what happened.
Only Dean's still not sure. Cas is an angel but he's not; can still hear Dean, but has thick gouges down his back that scream out Heaven's displeasure. Not so much fallen as clipped, a butterfly pinned to a board when it's still alive.
"I need a beer," he says. And a shower. And some sleep. But mainly, he just really fucking needs a beer.
Bobby just nods, moving slightly to the side to let Dean past him and into the house.
"What the hell happened, son?" Bobby asks, him and Sam following Dean into the kitchen.
"I don't know, Bobby," Dean answers, the beer he's just taken out of the fridge cold in his hand as condensation runs over his fingers. And he's never going to find out, not when he's down here, fucking hiding. "Damn it--"
The beer's still unopened when Dean leaves it on the table, feeling Sam and Bobby's gazes on him as he walks out of the kitchen.
The second steps from the top still creaks when anyone stands on it, and the sound sends Dean back to his childhood, when he practised shooting in the yard and his Dad and Bobby traded off on showing him how to fix the junkers. Back when Sam always had his nose in a book, even then, and home meant whiskey and gun oil all wrapped in his father's scent. Back when the fate of the world didn't rest on the shoulders of someone who's pretty sure he's going to fuck it all up spectacularly.
"Cas?"
The door swings open without sound and Dean half expects to find Cas asleep, not staring out of the window, Sam's tee discarded and jeans perilously low on his hips.
"I can still hear them," Cas says softly. "Behold, for Castiel is punished--"
And what the fuck can Dean say to that? Sorry you got your wings ripped off, but hey, it's not all bad, right? Jesus.
Stepping further into the room, Dean closes the door behind him, the soft click of the latch echoing through the silence. A hundred things are running through his head as Dean covers the distance between him and Cas in a few steps. I'm sorry and I'm here and Want me to summon some angels and beat the fuck out of them?
"I don't think that would help at this point," Cas murmurs, and Dean can hear the although the offer's appreciated on the end, even if Cas doesn't actually say it.
"Might make you feel better," Dean comments, tone lighter than he feels, because it would sure as fuck make him feel better, even if it did jack-shit for Cas.
He's close enough to see the Cas's back properly now, the sun coming in through the window highlighting the uneven flesh of scars that look far older than they should.
Cas turns to look at him. "Heaven is not without-- compassion." Word tinged with the bitterness Dean thinks is Cas's right.
"So, what, they healed the scars?" And Christ, if this is Heaven's idea of compassion, Dean may be fighting for wrong fucking side here. At least with the demons you know what you're getting.
Cas doesn't answer as he turns back to the window and Dean wonders if he can see God in a pile of rusting cars. Letting the silence envelop him, Dean takes the final step towards Cas, hand reaching out to rest in the small of Cas's back for a moment, warm and solid. He presses closer, arms wrapping around Cas and dropping a kiss on Cas's shoulder, jerking back when Cas shudders and cursing himself for a fucking idiot, because Cas has just lost his wings and Dean thought it was a fucking peachy idea to press against the scars.
"Fuck, sorry--"
But Cas cuts off the concern, the worry that Dean's hurt him.
"No, it's-- Please--"
He twists his head, looking at Dean with wide eyes, bright and blown and only a thin ring of blue showing and oh--
Wrapping a hand around Cas's hip, Dean moves forward again, pressing a kiss to the nearest scar, grinning as Cas's hand finds his and squeezes.
"Sensitive, huh?"
"I think--" Cas breaks off with Dean's second kiss. "Nerve endings--" he manages.
And Dean gets it, fucking gets it. The bastards took his wings, but left everything else. Left it all, so Cas could still fucking feel. So every time someone touched, he'd remember what he lost. Fuckers.
"Dean, please--"
But Dean's not going to let them have this, not going to let them have anything but the fucking contempt they deserve. Because the only thing Cas is going to remember is the brush of Dean's lips against his skin and the feel of Dean's hand around his cock.
Dean snaps open the jeans, denim sliding off Cas's hips with little effort, as he wraps his fingers around the cock already hardening under his touch. He drops another kiss onto Cas's shoulder, and then another, kissing his way across Cas's back as he jacks him slowly.
"Dean, oh, Dean--"
Cas's grip on Dean's hand tightens as Dean licks a stripe across one of the scars, trembling under the touch of Dean's tongue. Dean grins, blowing across the wet strip of saliva as his hand quickens its pace on Cas's cock. And Cas is writhing, fucking writhing, in his arms as Dean mouths the scars, alternating between the two of them and more careful with his teeth than he ever has been when he's had a cock in his mouth.
"C'mon, Cas--" Words spoken against Cas's skin, against the ridges of flesh that mark Cas. That mark him as beautiful and defiant and marred and Dean's. "Give it up--"
And Cas does. Fucking convulses in Dean's grip as he comes, sharp and perfect, over Dean's fingers.
There's tremors and harsh breath as Cas slumps back against Dean, almost inaudible gasp running through him as the scars touch Dean's tee.
"I really wanna fuck you," Dean says, hand moving from Cas's softened cock to rest against his stomach.
"That can be arranged," Cas replies, eyes lighter than Dean's seen them since a field in the middle of Assfuck, Nowhere.
Dean smirks and he'd be walking to the bed right now if Cas wasn't tugging him back, wasn't leaning close to murmur in his ear, voice quiet and careful and sure.
"My choice, Dean," Cas says, breath ghosting over Dean's skin, "was always you."
And this time, as Cas leads them both to the bed, Dean finds he actually believes it.
