Archive of Our Own

Because such a short time ago, Ellen and Jo were here. Drinking and laughing and god, Dean should have—Cas should have—they’re not gone, can’t be gone, and he can’t think straight.

Dean sucks at the bottle neck, because he’s pretty sure if he does this enough more beer will magically sprout up from empty depths. It doesn’t, and he slams the bottle down on the counter. Kitchen counter. This is the kitchen, the kitchen where Castiel first truly invaded his life, his dreams, he’d been standing here, but not here. A dream-here. Fresh from Hell and believing, starting to believe, that maybe, maybe there was something out there that was good. That he mattered, just for a moment.

Cas had terrified him then.

He doesn't think anything could make him feel that way now, because he's lost, he's lost, he doesn't know what else he can lose because they're all going to die.

So when the angel steps up next to him, starts to say something, and Dean’s not terrified anymore—it only makes sense, somewhere in his brain, to grab the front of the trench coat and pull him forward, to stop whatever he was going to say with his tongue and his teeth because that was the last beer and this is how he copes. He can feel the angel tense, surprise, but he lets Dean walk him backwards, pin his hips to the counter, work on his mouth, his chin, his neck. Slowly tilt them until they fold, tile countertop mostly holding their weight.

It doesn’t actually mean anything as Castiel lets him in, but Dean wants to forget. He wants to make Cas forget, just with their bodies, because that’s the simplest form of magic. He wants—and, there. He circles his hips again, and Cas arches up under him, mouth falling open.

And he takes a breath, like he’s going to say something, but Dean shuts that down with a tug on the belt and yes, he’s hard, they both are, aching for it. So Dean pulls the angel’s cock out, gets a gasp for his efforts, and he wants more of those as he grinds them together, fists them both at the same time, and God, Cas, yes. The angel is looking at him, and Bobby’s counter is too small for this, but it doesn’t matter because it is just them and there are no sounds when they come. Just widened eyes and tightening hands.

And then it’s over, and the Colt, their only option, didn’t kill Lucifer, Death is raised, Ellen will never snipe at Dean again, never smile, Bobby will never walk, Jo will never beat Dean up and Dean’s legs give way. But he still holds onto Cas, ends up crouched on the floor. Cum on his hands, on his arms, body tense with restrained tears, and he rests his forehead against the angel’s knee.

A moment later, a hand finds its way into his hair. Strokes gently, and it’s not okay how much comfort is in that touch.

Cas seems to have figured out that they’re not supposed to talk.

They don’t talk about it. They just let the world fall to pieces around them, months trudging past until Castiel’s fist is in Dean’s face and all he wants is to die. But he can’t, because his friend’s words are echoing too loud in his ears.

I gave everything for you. Punch, kick, whatever.

And this is what you give me?

Everything hurts, and Dean wants to be angry, he really does, but Castiel is angry enough for the both of them and he can’t really do that anymore anyway. Anger is something he used to have. Left when that big lot of nothing opened up.

So you could surrender to them?

Dean flinches as his head hits another wall. Bits of words bouncing around, and around, even though Castiel stopped talking long ago.

Surrender to them.

Punch.

Surrender to.

Flinching as he hits another wall, gravity dragging him down too slowly.

Surrender.

They don’t kiss. This isn’t a time for kissing. Just Cas tearing at Dean’s pants, and fuck, that was double stitched denim and the tearing stings, but Cas is crowding him again, pins his hands to his sides while blue eyes assess the situation, and then he’s shoving his fingers into Dean’s mouth. Nearly cracking his jaw open with the force. And now he has one hand freed, but he doesn’t move it, because he didn’t expect this at all and he doesn’t know what to do even though his body seems to be reacting. And how sick is it that Cas can beat him up and he’s okay with it, likes it. So much anger. And fuck, because Castiel’s fingers are in his ass now, and it hurts, but there’s a hard fury in Castiel’s eyes. He wants it to hurt, and fuck, maybe Dean does too because he’s pushing back against them, harder faster, more, Cas, more, and he hasn’t let anyone do this to him in years. But it’s not a question of letting, because he doesn’t have a choice, and fuck, somewhere in the pain it feels so damn good.

Cas shifts him a little, presses him harder against the wall. Twists his fingers, and Dean is just starting to wonder if anyone can see them (see him getting finger-fucked in an alleyway and liking it) when he forgets, because his toes are curling and his insides fold in on themselves and Jesus, fucking, Christ.

There’s nothing left in the world but sensation. The rough bricks in his back, Castiel’s hand burning a hole in his chest to match the one on his arm, and his fingers. Fingers exploring, touching, sending pings of pleasure through him every few seconds.

Cas doesn’t fuck him, but Dean wants him to. He isn’t sure which is worse—that he comes untouched, just from Cas’s expression and fingers, or how fast he does it.

When the angel pulls away, Dean falls again to his knees. He thinks for a moment that Castiel is going to pull his head forward, fuck his mouth, but instead the angel takes one cum splattered finger and drags it down Dean’s neck.

He doesn’t say anything, but the message comes across, loud and clear.

Mine.

Then there are two fingers on his forehead, and nothing.

They don’t talk about it. All those times Castiel is desperate, burning with anger and pain. When he pushes Dean against the wall with no preamble or questions or is this okay. Inconstant kisses—harsh, demanding, or slow, depending on the minute. The second.

And every time, Dean opens up under him. He spreads his legs, bares his neck, lets Cas use his mouth—invitations that the angel takes.

He has no right to withhold anything.

He compensates in the morning. Demanding that Cas get his ass down to earth, pushing and pushing and belittling and pushing some more.

But they both know.

Know that he’ll pay later, with quiet gasps and twisted moans. That that’s the only reason he doesn’t get another bouncing-off-walls treatment. Dean will play the puppet, he’ll treat Cas like a servant.

But they’ll make it up to each other here.

Dean tilts his hips up. Tries to get Cas’s cock deeper, deeper. He can take it, he knows. Knows from all the times he’s let Cas fuck him, all the times he’s begged him to. Not out loud, never out loud, because they’re not supposed to talk about it. But the angel knows him, can read his looks and his body language (Dean can’t ask, of course, but he can push and prod and they’ll always, always end up here.) End with his hole stretched wide, an angel above him, or below, the sound of skin on skin and unspoken prayers to absent gods.

Castiel’s eyes glint and then he’s taken Dean’s hips and jerked him closer. He’s balls deep, and it hurts, But Dean deserves that. He sinks his teeth into Cas’s neck, and the angel shudders, keens, but he deserves that, too, as he digs in a Hunter’s body for salvation.

Dean can make nothing better. He should talk, respond to the words that are tearing him apart inside— I’m afraid I might kill myself—and he opens his mouth. Tries to find a response.

But there are no words.

There never are, with them.

Instead he crosses the Rubicon between their two beds, and kisses Castiel on the forehead. Cas tilts his head back, finding lips—Dean sits so that they’re on the same level. Lets his arms wrap around the other’s back, hold him, hold him because this is Cas here and now and all those months in Purgatory and before and this is Cas and Dean isn’t letting him go. Not again.

There are tears behind Cas’s eyes, but not coming through, when Dean pulls away.

They’ve never kissed this gently before.

Still, they don’t speak.