annundriel (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
annundriel) wrote2010-04-15 04:54 pm
annundriel) wrote2010-04-15 04:54 pm
Entry tags:
SPN Fic: Walled In, Dean/Castiel (R)
Walled In
Dean/Castiel
R
1080
Spoilers for 5.18.
Castiel feels…frustrated and useless and angry, so very angry.
An alternate take of this scene from the 100th episode. Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
olivelavonne and mclachlan for the feedback. If I could, I'd buy you guys drinks. <3
Castiel feels…frustrated and useless and angry, so very angry. At his brothers for leading them all down this path of pain and destruction, at his Father for standing aside in favor of watching the world He once created tumble to the ground.
At Dean. For showing him that there is always a choice, asking him to risk it all, and then giving up.
It feels like betrayal.
In all of his many years of existence, Castiel has never felt like this, rage boiling through his veins as disappointment roils in the pit of his stomach.
He is homeless without Heaven, lost without God; without Dean, he is…
The sound his fist makes against Dean’s jaw echoes in his ears and through his bones, does nothing more than make him ache with everything he wants to change, and can’t.
He hits Dean again and feels no better.
Dean grunts when Castiel fists his jacket in his hands and shoves him against the wall. “Cas,” escapes in a puff of hot breath from between Dean’s bloody lips. “Cas.”
Castiel can’t listen, he doesn’t want to listen. Listening to Dean Winchester has only gotten him here: angry and grasping in a cluttered alleyway, stuck somewhere between angel and human, not much of either.
But Dean is grasping at his wrists, gasping this shortened version of his name that Castiel doesn’t want to find endearing anymore but that still warms him deep inside when he hears it issued from those lips, stuttering apologies and explanations and words that speak of defeat and reek of fear.
He doesn’t want to listen to Dean, but he hears him anyway, hears him like he’s screaming, like he’s shouting yes at the top of his lungs in the dark.
His fists don’t stop the noise; his mouth does.
Castiel pushes their mouths together and everything else is drowned out by the pulsing of the blood within their veins, the pounding of their hearts fast and throbbing beneath their ribs.
It is blessedly silent in comparison.
But then Dean groans and presses back, fingers tight rings around Castiel’s wrists, biting and nipping, kissing back in no way Castiel has ever known, not when he’s run into human romance, where every touch is soft and every kiss is sweet. Where there is no branding and marking, scratching and biting, mouths marked with blood and skin marred with bruises.
Copper and salt against his tongue, Dean tastes like fear and desperation, loneliness and the weight of the world on his fragile human shoulders.
He’s an animal caught in a trap, chewing at his own foot to be free.
Dean shifts against him, his lips sliding slick and wet against Castiel’s, and Castiel feels Dean hard at his hip, feels his own flesh respond in kind. He pushes a knee between Dean’s thighs, presses Dean harder against the wall until he can almost hear the sound of brick crumbling, and takes everything Dean’s ever had to give him.
Thighs opening, Dean lets him. Invites him. Dean’s hands leave his wrists to scramble beneath Castiel’s coat, his jacket, to find Castiel’s hips and hang on. Fingers finding belt loops, Dean tugs him closer and lets Castiel take, takes what he can in return.
An imperfect push and pull of shadow and light, love and hate, desire and denial, frustration and friendship; every little thing between them building up until Castiel doesn’t know what to do with the emotions caught inside him, new and numerous and unsettling and human, so human.
For this human, this man. For Dean, panting and groaning against him, hands clutching tight. He mouths at Castiel’s skin, leaving traces of his sweat and blood along Castiel’s jaw, his neck, purpling bruises in the shape of his mouth that won’t last as long as those he’s left in places his human eyes will never see.
Castiel’s skin feels too small, too tight, hot and uncomfortable. He urges Dean on—harder—and rubs against Dean, looking for relief. Lips pressed to Dean’s jaw, he leaves his own marks there, teeth and stubble scrapping against skin as Dean ruts against him, searching for his own release.
A temporary reprieve is all Castiel can give him.
He wishes it were enough. Wishes that there was something he could do to convince Dean that yes is never the answer, that there will always be another way. He wants to tell Dean that if anything Zachariah says sounds too good too be true, it definitely is.
That deals should not be made, with devils or demons or angels alike.
Wants to tell him not to do this because if he does, Castiel will have lost everything, everything. He will have lost Heaven and God and Dean and all he will have left are the clothes Jimmy Novak dressed him in and not a single word of comfort or hope to offer Sam.
He can’t say any of it, though, because he knows Dean will not listen. Knows Dean doesn’t think he deserves that, any of that. Dean thinks he deserves to sacrifice himself for the greater good because he doesn’t deserve that good himself.
He is stupid and blind, but Castiel is angry and in love. And fallen, fallen so fast he barely saw the ground before he hit it.
Here he is, in an alley with Dean’s blood on his hands and Dean’s tongue in his mouth, and he doesn’t know what to do except wrap his fingers tighter in the fabric across Dean’s chest, Dean’s heart beating rapidly beneath them, and hang on for as long as he can.
Castiel pushes his hips forward, into the heat pooling between them, and Dean shudders against him, open-mouthed and wanting, pulling great gasping gulps of air into his lungs. His own body throbs in response, muscles tightening and nerves singing, and then he’s slumping forward against the support Dean and the wall behind him offer.
As their bodies slow, regaining equilibrium, the rest of the world rushes back in; traffic on the street, employees at the backs of buildings. Dean’s yes projecting loud and clear for anyone who knows how to read the slump of those shoulders.
“Cas,” Dean says, voice hoarse.
Castiel pulls away to look at him, hands gone flat on Dean’s chest. Dean’s heart thuds beneath his palm. His face looks the worse for wear. Castiel isn’t sorry he hit him.
“Cas,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Castiel says. He is, too.
Dean/Castiel
R
1080
Spoilers for 5.18.
Castiel feels…frustrated and useless and angry, so very angry.
An alternate take of this scene from the 100th episode. Thank you to
olivelavonne and mclachlan for the feedback. If I could, I'd buy you guys drinks. <3Castiel feels…frustrated and useless and angry, so very angry. At his brothers for leading them all down this path of pain and destruction, at his Father for standing aside in favor of watching the world He once created tumble to the ground.
At Dean. For showing him that there is always a choice, asking him to risk it all, and then giving up.
It feels like betrayal.
In all of his many years of existence, Castiel has never felt like this, rage boiling through his veins as disappointment roils in the pit of his stomach.
He is homeless without Heaven, lost without God; without Dean, he is…
The sound his fist makes against Dean’s jaw echoes in his ears and through his bones, does nothing more than make him ache with everything he wants to change, and can’t.
He hits Dean again and feels no better.
Dean grunts when Castiel fists his jacket in his hands and shoves him against the wall. “Cas,” escapes in a puff of hot breath from between Dean’s bloody lips. “Cas.”
Castiel can’t listen, he doesn’t want to listen. Listening to Dean Winchester has only gotten him here: angry and grasping in a cluttered alleyway, stuck somewhere between angel and human, not much of either.
But Dean is grasping at his wrists, gasping this shortened version of his name that Castiel doesn’t want to find endearing anymore but that still warms him deep inside when he hears it issued from those lips, stuttering apologies and explanations and words that speak of defeat and reek of fear.
He doesn’t want to listen to Dean, but he hears him anyway, hears him like he’s screaming, like he’s shouting yes at the top of his lungs in the dark.
His fists don’t stop the noise; his mouth does.
Castiel pushes their mouths together and everything else is drowned out by the pulsing of the blood within their veins, the pounding of their hearts fast and throbbing beneath their ribs.
It is blessedly silent in comparison.
But then Dean groans and presses back, fingers tight rings around Castiel’s wrists, biting and nipping, kissing back in no way Castiel has ever known, not when he’s run into human romance, where every touch is soft and every kiss is sweet. Where there is no branding and marking, scratching and biting, mouths marked with blood and skin marred with bruises.
Copper and salt against his tongue, Dean tastes like fear and desperation, loneliness and the weight of the world on his fragile human shoulders.
He’s an animal caught in a trap, chewing at his own foot to be free.
Dean shifts against him, his lips sliding slick and wet against Castiel’s, and Castiel feels Dean hard at his hip, feels his own flesh respond in kind. He pushes a knee between Dean’s thighs, presses Dean harder against the wall until he can almost hear the sound of brick crumbling, and takes everything Dean’s ever had to give him.
Thighs opening, Dean lets him. Invites him. Dean’s hands leave his wrists to scramble beneath Castiel’s coat, his jacket, to find Castiel’s hips and hang on. Fingers finding belt loops, Dean tugs him closer and lets Castiel take, takes what he can in return.
An imperfect push and pull of shadow and light, love and hate, desire and denial, frustration and friendship; every little thing between them building up until Castiel doesn’t know what to do with the emotions caught inside him, new and numerous and unsettling and human, so human.
For this human, this man. For Dean, panting and groaning against him, hands clutching tight. He mouths at Castiel’s skin, leaving traces of his sweat and blood along Castiel’s jaw, his neck, purpling bruises in the shape of his mouth that won’t last as long as those he’s left in places his human eyes will never see.
Castiel’s skin feels too small, too tight, hot and uncomfortable. He urges Dean on—harder—and rubs against Dean, looking for relief. Lips pressed to Dean’s jaw, he leaves his own marks there, teeth and stubble scrapping against skin as Dean ruts against him, searching for his own release.
A temporary reprieve is all Castiel can give him.
He wishes it were enough. Wishes that there was something he could do to convince Dean that yes is never the answer, that there will always be another way. He wants to tell Dean that if anything Zachariah says sounds too good too be true, it definitely is.
That deals should not be made, with devils or demons or angels alike.
Wants to tell him not to do this because if he does, Castiel will have lost everything, everything. He will have lost Heaven and God and Dean and all he will have left are the clothes Jimmy Novak dressed him in and not a single word of comfort or hope to offer Sam.
He can’t say any of it, though, because he knows Dean will not listen. Knows Dean doesn’t think he deserves that, any of that. Dean thinks he deserves to sacrifice himself for the greater good because he doesn’t deserve that good himself.
He is stupid and blind, but Castiel is angry and in love. And fallen, fallen so fast he barely saw the ground before he hit it.
Here he is, in an alley with Dean’s blood on his hands and Dean’s tongue in his mouth, and he doesn’t know what to do except wrap his fingers tighter in the fabric across Dean’s chest, Dean’s heart beating rapidly beneath them, and hang on for as long as he can.
Castiel pushes his hips forward, into the heat pooling between them, and Dean shudders against him, open-mouthed and wanting, pulling great gasping gulps of air into his lungs. His own body throbs in response, muscles tightening and nerves singing, and then he’s slumping forward against the support Dean and the wall behind him offer.
As their bodies slow, regaining equilibrium, the rest of the world rushes back in; traffic on the street, employees at the backs of buildings. Dean’s yes projecting loud and clear for anyone who knows how to read the slump of those shoulders.
“Cas,” Dean says, voice hoarse.
Castiel pulls away to look at him, hands gone flat on Dean’s chest. Dean’s heart thuds beneath his palm. His face looks the worse for wear. Castiel isn’t sorry he hit him.
“Cas,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Castiel says. He is, too.