Archive of Our Own

It had begun in Purgatory, Dean’s inhibitions washed away in the savage simplicity of the place. He’d give Benny a look before they’d start and the vampire would roll his eyes or make a sarcastic comment as he found a place to sit and wait for them to finish. Then Dean would be off through the trees, Castiel in quick pursuit. On pain of brutal second-death the denizens of that afterlife had soon learned never to interrupt their game.

Now that Castiel’s somehow back on Earth, Dean begins the game anew. This time the hunter sends up his prayer- Come and get me, Cas- while Castiel is sitting and observing the late evening shoppers at a mall in Matola, Mozambique. The angel instantly pinpoints Dean’s location- DMS latitude 36° 16' 14.0520'' N, longitude 121° 48' 45.5040'' W. Temperature 13.3 °C, wind velocity SSW 3 G 5 MPH, time 9:54 am PST- unfurls his wings, and bends space and time. It’s beautiful where Dean is- in simple human terms, just outside of Big Sur, California on a cool, late autumn morning. Dean’s standing in a secluded portion of the redwood forest, surrounded by green foliage and towering trees over a millennium in age. Mere infants compared to the ancient creature that materializes among them wearing the vacated body of a former radio ad salesman in a rumpled suit and trench coat. The location is almost as beautiful as the man who has summoned him there.

Under other circumstances Castiel would greet Dean with tender formality. But this is the game and there is protocol to be followed. As soon as Dean registers Castiel’s arrival he’s dashing away with a gruff shout of “Ten second head start!” Castiel hears him crashing away through the underbrush, boots crunching in the soil, light jacket catching on branches. Dean’s rippling laughter shifts to a baritone giggling, an overgrown kid playing hide-and-seek in the forest.

And he calls you child.

Castiel smiles fondly, feeling the seconds passing around him. Not many get to see Dean stripped down to his core like this, the layers of his guilt and trauma peeled away. Dean’s childhood was full of horror and pain. A replacement parent and spouse, in the non-carnal sense, to a brother and father who began to take him for granted, as humans sometimes do. As even angels sometimes do. A soul weighted by baggage he’d been collecting since the age of four. A soul still so beautiful, even in Hell, in Purgatory, and everywhere in-between. So beautiful, so perfect, so Dean. His lover’s mirth holds a nervous excitement for what will follow when his head start is over.

Let him giggle with anticipation, Castiel proclaims to no one. He’s glad in this moment that he’s severed his connections with Heaven. Glad his siblings can’t hear this. This is his and only his. Let him howl with laughter and shriek with ecstasy and let this whole forest, this whole state, country, planet, universe know that Dean Winchester is fearfully, joyfully cherished.

Human blood flows inside his vessel, fueling his arousal. The sensation is a delicious novelty every time. This wonderful physiological reaction to intimacy that his Father has seen fit to bestow upon His favorite creation. Castiel’s heart pounds and heat fills his body. He hungers for the chase.

Time’s up.

Ready or not, here I come.

*

There aren’t many rules to the game, but one of them is that Castiel isn’t allowed to use his so-called “angel mojo” to gain an unfair advantage. Castiel doesn’t need it to win. His swiftness doesn’t lie solely in his wings. He’s a battlewise soldier, he’s chased down many an opponent in his long life, and none of them had the desire to be caught that Dean has. Castiel always wins this game. Dean doesn’t seem to mind.

Castiel races through the trees, coat billowing behind him like tiny, surrogate wings. He’s found that an unfortunate side effect of his arousal is how difficult it is to run with an erection, but if Dean can do it so can he. Castiel is quickly closing the gap Dean’s head start has bought him and he focuses on tuning out the rest of the forest- the chirp of a Steller’s jay as its glittering blue wings rustle. Dying pine needles falling to the coniferous forest floor-  and then he hears only Dean ahead of him, still laughing softly, the scent of him wafting through the air, overwhelming the angel’s keen senses. He’s aware that Dean could be much stealthier if he so desired, and he’s torn between his own desire for the pursuit to last longer and the immediate need for his prize. “Instant gratification is too slow,” Dean had once joked, back when the apocalypse was in full swing. Castiel understands now what he’d meant.

He sees the faded green jacket Dean had been wearing discarded on the path, flung haphazardly away, and in a heartbeat calculates the trajectory it would have taken from the hunter’s flight. He swerves to follow what he knows to be Dean’s path through the broken underbrush and catches a glimpse of plaid and denim before the hunter dodges behind a thick redwood. Castiel smiles and calls out to his prey, heightening the tension.

“I see you, Dean. You can’t hide from me.”

He hears Dean gasp quietly and the hunter’s footsteps falter slightly. Castiel darts behind the tree that blocks his view and sees Dean’s broad back as he sprints across a small clearing for the cover promised by a cluster of Monterey pines. The clearing is muddy, remnants of the morning dew still clinging to the lush grass. Grey clouds are rolling overhead, shading the area. Castiel shrugs off the trench coat as he steps onto the wet carpet of green. With a burst of extra speed he launches himself at Dean’s retreating form and takes the man down with a flying tackle a yard from the tree line. His arms are wrapped around Dean’s waist, his face pressed into his shoulder blades, and he propels him face-down into the ground. The air is audibly knocked from Dean’s lungs, but he laughs while he gasps for breath and struggles half-heartedly against the angel’s iron grip. Castiel maneuvers himself up Dean’s back, rubbing himself against the man’s prone body, until his head is right by Dean’s.

“I’ve got you now, Dean,” Castiel rumbles with smug authority into the shell of Dean’s ear. “You’re mine.”

“Yeah, you got me, Cas. Guess you’re gonna have your way with me now, huh?”

Dean’s voice rasps with undisguised lust. Castiel closes his eyes and buries his nose in Dean’s damp hair. He drinks in the overpowering scent of Dean  that he had been chasing. Adrenaline and arousal mixed with hints of motor oil, gunpowder, coffee, whiskey, aftershave, soap, and spice. Dean.

“Of course, Dean. I won the game. Now I get to claim my reward.”

“Yes,” Dean groans, denim-clad hips humping against the grass. The movement sends even more blood surging into Castiel’s aching cock. “Please, Cas.”

Dean’s consent is all Castiel needs to hear. He rolls Dean over on his back and sits up, positioning himself on his knees straddling the hunter so their groins press together. Dean is covered in brown mud, adding an earthiness to his scent. Dean pants in desperate need as Castiel urgently lifts up the man’s undershirt and curls his fingers into the waistband of his jeans, ripping them apart like tissue paper. Dean gasps and bucks. Castiel wastes no time disposing similarly of the rest of Dean’s clothing. He twists his torso to pull off Dean’s boots, flinging them away into the treetops. Dean lies naked beneath him and Castiel drinks in the glorious sight with faster-than human perception-  Dean’s wide green eyes, pale skin and freckles. The bulge of his muscles and the small, soft swell of his belly. The light hair leading down to his straining cock and heavy balls- The angel rearranges the molecules of his own muddy clothing until he is as naked as Dean. The man groans again.

“Aw, fuck. Cas.”

More molecules shift and the angel produces lubrication in his right hand. He generously slicks up his cock and lines himself up with Dean, who raises his hips and widens his thighs. Castiel pushes roughly inside and Dean shouts with pleasure, propelling his lower half off the ground to bury the angel even deeper inside him.

“Fuckin’ yes - so good- harder - fuckin’ tear me apart, Cas!”

“No,” Castiel tells him fiercely as he thrusts. “I want you whole. I will make you whole, Dean.”

“Dude, it’s just an expression- god, yes- oh, forget it- ”

Castiel is having trouble thinking about anything that isn’t Dean and mine and yes. He pulls Dean’s torso up into his arms, Dean’s legs wrapping around Castiel’s lower back as the angel spreads his own legs until both sit and rut face-to-face together in the damp grass. Castiel clutches at the taller man’s shoulders as he fucks him, fingers digging possessively into his muddied flesh. He kisses Dean, softly biting at his plump lips before plunging his tongue inside the man’s mouth, sweeping around the inside to meet Dean’s tongue. Castiel can now taste as well as smell the hint of coffee, whiskey, and the sharp, minty remnants of toothpaste. Dean moans, clenching his thighs around Castiel for leverage as he pounds himself down on the angel’s cock. He pulls his mouth away from Castiel’s. “Cas,” he sighs, over and over again, “Cas,” and Castiel responds with Dean’s name. Their own names are the only terms of endearment they will ever need.

Dean’s face twists and he throws his head back, yelling the nickname he’s given his angel into the sky when he comes. Castiel follows him a heartbeat later with an even louder cry. Startled birds trill in consternation and take flight with a rustle of feathers and leaves. The man and the angel collapse against each other, breathing heavily, in the now quiet forest. Castiel can feel the chemical aftermath of his orgasm at work- oxytocin, endorphins, serotonin, phenylethylamine, dopamine- as he softens and slips out of Dean. In this moment Dean is his and he loves him. It’s such an inefficient word for all the factors at work- physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual- but it doesn’t matter. It’s not a word he will say, because Dean is so uncomfortable with the implications and the enormity of that word. It's more of that baggage. Dean doesn’t think he’s worthy of it, to love or to be loved, and Castiel prays that someday he will. For now, he’ll show Dean how much he’s wanted, needed, loved by chasing after him when Dean calls. As long as Dean wants to be caught, wants to be needed, Castiel will be there to do it. 

He whispers the word he’s come to view as synonymous with love. Dean.

He lays Dean gently back in the grass and stretches his body out next to the hunter. Dean presses himself into Castiel, using the angel’s shoulder as a pillow. They stay there in silence, still covered with sweat, mud, and come, for nearly an hour before they rise and the angel cleans and reclothes them. He leaves Dean to his hunt, first asking if the man needs his help, which Dean declines.

“Turns out it was just a bear that wandered a little too far south.”

“Oh.”

Castiel returns to the same spot in Mozambique- DMS latitude 25° 58' 3.6264'' S, longitude 32° 27' 24.8076'' E. Temperature -1.6 °C, wind velocity WNW 5 G 2 MPH, time 8:04 pm CAT - as if the game had never happened. But it did. And he knows it will happen again. So he’ll sit and he’ll wait for the next invitation, whenever it may arrive.

Come and get me, Cas.

Here I come, Dean, ready or not. I will catch you.