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annundrielLibation Dean/Castiel. R. 1000 words. Vague allusion to 6.03. Prompts: cut, knife, blood. Cas never asks, he just takes.
Many thanks for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cautionzombies for giving this a read and helping me iron this out.
Dean stands at the end of the table, watching Cas grind herbs in a bowl next to a silver knife and a ceramic jar. Leaning across the space, Dean picks up the jar and sniffs carefully at the opening. It doesn’t smell like anything and Dean sets it down, frowning at Cas.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” he asks.
Cas glances up at him, pestle still moving. He looks back down. “Yes.”
Dean hooks his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “You sure? Because last time—”
Cas is suddenly a lot closer than he was before, his fingers tight around Dean’s wrist. “It will work,” he says, voice firm, and then the knife is in Cas’ hand and he cuts across Dean’s palm, bright red blood welling up in its wake.
Hissing in pain, Dean tries to pull his hand away, but Cas’ grip is tight. “What the hell, Cas?”
Ignoring him, Cas pulls Dean’s hand over the bowl and they both watch as blood drips into the mix. Cas lets him go after a moment.
“You know,” Dean says, crooking his elbow and holding his hand up. “Next time you could ask.”
Cas blinks at him. “Would you say yes?”
“Maybe.” Dean shrugs. “At least then I’d have some warning. That fucking hurt.”
Rolling his eyes, Cas reaches for Dean’s hand again. Dean pulls it back slightly, but Cas sighs and reaches further, warm fingers squeezing Dean’s wrist. “You whine too much, Dean.”
Dean opens his mouth to protest because, really, that’s just not fair, but that train of thought derails when Cas lifts Dean’s hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to the bloody palm.
The first thought in Dean’s head is ew, gross! He wants to pull away, wants to jerk out of Cas’ grasp, but then Cas’ tongue runs along the cut from one edge to the other and the sting on Dean’s palm disappears, replaced with something different. His palm tingles and his skin feels too hot, his jeans too tight.
Cas watches him over the line of his fingers, his eyes dark and blue and deep, unreadable, and Dean’s speechless. There’s not a single word in his head that doesn’t revolve around Cas; Cas’ eyes locked on his, Cas’ fingers fitted around his wrist, Cas’ cheek warm and stubbled beneath his fingers. Cas’ lips and tongue hot against his palm. It’s more than Dean can handle.
Dean jerks his hand away. He must catch Cas off-guard because Cas lets him go this time, blinking at him in surprise for a half-second before Dean’s covering that reddened mouth with his own.
Cas tastes like blood, like Dean’s blood. It’s sharp and copper-bright on Cas’ lips, on his tongue, and Dean groans, pushing closer.
Pushing back, Cas clutches at him, hands finding Dean’s hips, mouth opening wide beneath Dean’s, letting Dean in without question or hesitation.
Dean kisses Cas like he’s dying and this is his last chance, his only chance. He fists one hand in Cas’ trench coat, crumpling the lapel beneath his fingers. The other he presses against Cas’ face, not remembering the cut on his palm until a fresh thrill of pain zings through him and the renewed smell of blood fills the air.
Hissing against Cas’ mouth, Dean pulls away, taking his hand with him. Cas stops him though, fingers wrapping around Dean’s wrist, holding him in place as Cas turns toward his hand to run the flat of his tongue up Dean’s bleeding palm.
“Fuck,” Dean groans, shuddering against him, his knees going weak. His hand tightens on Cas’ coat as Cas’ teeth scrape gently over the line on his palm. “Cas, fuck. I want—”
Cas’ mouth is hard on his, forceful. It tastes of blood and Dean and, buried underneath it all, something Dean thinks might just be Cas. Dean’s chest tightens; he’d like to know for sure.
Cas propels them forward, pushing Dean until his back’s against the wall, pinning him there effortlessly with his mouth and hands and hips, thighs slipping easily between Dean’s own.
Dean gasps against him, trapped. There’s no place else he’d rather be, though, not with Cas hard and wanting against him, his body revealing things Dean tried not to think about because he didn’t think this would ever be on the table.
It is now. All of it laid bare as he clings to Cas, as Cas clutches at him, their hips grinding together as tongues glide and teeth catch. Dean has a moment to think, fuck, this would be so much better naked, when Cas bites at his lip, splitting it, blood spilling into their mouths, and Dean comes with a cry that’s muffled by Cas’ insistent lips.
Cas doesn’t let up, doesn’t let go. He’s unrelenting in his focus as he sucks and licks and kisses, and Dean can’t wait to get him in bed, can’t wait to see what that focus is like when there’s nothing left between them at all, real or imaginary.
Wrapping a leg around Cas’ calf, Dean drags him closer, encouraging him. It doesn’t take long for Cas to follow him over, hips jerking, Dean’s name coming in broken little pants against Dean’s bloodied, kiss-bruised lips.
They stay against the wall, catching their breaths, breathing each other in. When Cas pulls away, his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright and Dean wants very much to keep Cas at his side. He wishes he knew how to ask.
Instead, Dean swallows and says, “You’re going to have to start the spell over now, aren’t you.”
“It would be best to start fresh, yes.”
“Which means—” Dean licks his lips and tastes blood, watches Cas’ eyes follow the path of his tongue. “Which means you’re going to need more blood.”
Cas’ eyes flicker upwards. “Yes.”
“You going to ask this time?”
“Dean,” Cas begins, sighing, “would you—”
It doesn’t really matter; Dean’s not going to refuse him.
Many thanks for
cautionzombies for giving this a read and helping me iron this out.Dean stands at the end of the table, watching Cas grind herbs in a bowl next to a silver knife and a ceramic jar. Leaning across the space, Dean picks up the jar and sniffs carefully at the opening. It doesn’t smell like anything and Dean sets it down, frowning at Cas.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” he asks.
Cas glances up at him, pestle still moving. He looks back down. “Yes.”
Dean hooks his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “You sure? Because last time—”
Cas is suddenly a lot closer than he was before, his fingers tight around Dean’s wrist. “It will work,” he says, voice firm, and then the knife is in Cas’ hand and he cuts across Dean’s palm, bright red blood welling up in its wake.
Hissing in pain, Dean tries to pull his hand away, but Cas’ grip is tight. “What the hell, Cas?”
Ignoring him, Cas pulls Dean’s hand over the bowl and they both watch as blood drips into the mix. Cas lets him go after a moment.
“You know,” Dean says, crooking his elbow and holding his hand up. “Next time you could ask.”
Cas blinks at him. “Would you say yes?”
“Maybe.” Dean shrugs. “At least then I’d have some warning. That fucking hurt.”
Rolling his eyes, Cas reaches for Dean’s hand again. Dean pulls it back slightly, but Cas sighs and reaches further, warm fingers squeezing Dean’s wrist. “You whine too much, Dean.”
Dean opens his mouth to protest because, really, that’s just not fair, but that train of thought derails when Cas lifts Dean’s hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to the bloody palm.
The first thought in Dean’s head is ew, gross! He wants to pull away, wants to jerk out of Cas’ grasp, but then Cas’ tongue runs along the cut from one edge to the other and the sting on Dean’s palm disappears, replaced with something different. His palm tingles and his skin feels too hot, his jeans too tight.
Cas watches him over the line of his fingers, his eyes dark and blue and deep, unreadable, and Dean’s speechless. There’s not a single word in his head that doesn’t revolve around Cas; Cas’ eyes locked on his, Cas’ fingers fitted around his wrist, Cas’ cheek warm and stubbled beneath his fingers. Cas’ lips and tongue hot against his palm. It’s more than Dean can handle.
Dean jerks his hand away. He must catch Cas off-guard because Cas lets him go this time, blinking at him in surprise for a half-second before Dean’s covering that reddened mouth with his own.
Cas tastes like blood, like Dean’s blood. It’s sharp and copper-bright on Cas’ lips, on his tongue, and Dean groans, pushing closer.
Pushing back, Cas clutches at him, hands finding Dean’s hips, mouth opening wide beneath Dean’s, letting Dean in without question or hesitation.
Dean kisses Cas like he’s dying and this is his last chance, his only chance. He fists one hand in Cas’ trench coat, crumpling the lapel beneath his fingers. The other he presses against Cas’ face, not remembering the cut on his palm until a fresh thrill of pain zings through him and the renewed smell of blood fills the air.
Hissing against Cas’ mouth, Dean pulls away, taking his hand with him. Cas stops him though, fingers wrapping around Dean’s wrist, holding him in place as Cas turns toward his hand to run the flat of his tongue up Dean’s bleeding palm.
“Fuck,” Dean groans, shuddering against him, his knees going weak. His hand tightens on Cas’ coat as Cas’ teeth scrape gently over the line on his palm. “Cas, fuck. I want—”
Cas’ mouth is hard on his, forceful. It tastes of blood and Dean and, buried underneath it all, something Dean thinks might just be Cas. Dean’s chest tightens; he’d like to know for sure.
Cas propels them forward, pushing Dean until his back’s against the wall, pinning him there effortlessly with his mouth and hands and hips, thighs slipping easily between Dean’s own.
Dean gasps against him, trapped. There’s no place else he’d rather be, though, not with Cas hard and wanting against him, his body revealing things Dean tried not to think about because he didn’t think this would ever be on the table.
It is now. All of it laid bare as he clings to Cas, as Cas clutches at him, their hips grinding together as tongues glide and teeth catch. Dean has a moment to think, fuck, this would be so much better naked, when Cas bites at his lip, splitting it, blood spilling into their mouths, and Dean comes with a cry that’s muffled by Cas’ insistent lips.
Cas doesn’t let up, doesn’t let go. He’s unrelenting in his focus as he sucks and licks and kisses, and Dean can’t wait to get him in bed, can’t wait to see what that focus is like when there’s nothing left between them at all, real or imaginary.
Wrapping a leg around Cas’ calf, Dean drags him closer, encouraging him. It doesn’t take long for Cas to follow him over, hips jerking, Dean’s name coming in broken little pants against Dean’s bloodied, kiss-bruised lips.
They stay against the wall, catching their breaths, breathing each other in. When Cas pulls away, his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright and Dean wants very much to keep Cas at his side. He wishes he knew how to ask.
Instead, Dean swallows and says, “You’re going to have to start the spell over now, aren’t you.”
“It would be best to start fresh, yes.”
“Which means—” Dean licks his lips and tastes blood, watches Cas’ eyes follow the path of his tongue. “Which means you’re going to need more blood.”
Cas’ eyes flicker upwards. “Yes.”
“You going to ask this time?”
“Dean,” Cas begins, sighing, “would you—”
It doesn’t really matter; Dean’s not going to refuse him.
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Date: 2011-02-10 01:46 am (UTC)