trinityofone (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
trinityofone) wrote2009-10-02 06:20 pm
trinityofone) wrote2009-10-02 06:20 pm
Fic: Set Yourself on Fire (Dean/Castiel)
There comes a time in every young fangirl’s life when she has to decide: does she want to write a thoughtful, mature episode review, or does she want to write some porn?
Shockingly, I chose porn.
Title: Set Yourself on Fire
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: BIG ones for 5x04
Length: ~2,300 words
Summary: Dean dreams of what he’s left behind.
Author’s Note: This story would never have come about without![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aesc and many, many enjoyable AIM conversations. So if you like this, credit to her as much as me. (And if you hate it, then I RUINED her brilliant ideas!)
Set Yourself on Fire
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean sat up in bed, breathing heavily. The man perched at the end of the bed, curled into some Kermit-legged yoga pose, grinned at him. The smile made crinkles form at the edges of his eyes, but didn’t warm them. Dean expelled a breath. “You again.”
“Me,” said the Cas who was not Cas. Who should never be Cas. “Again.”
Dean flopped back against the headboard. He glanced over: Sam was asleep in the next bed, but Dean knew he wasn’t really here at all. This was a dream. Another freakin’ dream.
“You think my subconscious is trying to tell me something?” Dean asked. “Like maybe that it hates me?”
“Maybe,” Cas said, rolling his shoulders, too loose-limbed. “Or maybe I’m really here.”
Dean’s back straightened again. “Are you?”
Cas made a face, huge and ridiculous and animated. “Who knows? I haven’t had enough juice for anything like this in years. But then again,” he scratched lazily at the side of his face, “maybe this is just my way of going out with a bang.”
His eyes when he looked to Dean were suddenly serious, but a breath later they were gone again, checking out something Dean couldn’t see somewhere on the ceiling. Dean watched his profile and swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Cas’ lip curled over his teeth and he shook his head. “Wasn’t you, 1.0. Besides, I wasn’t kidding when I said that I liked you.” His eyes lit up. “Maybe that’s why I’m here instead of seeing my life flash before my eyes.” Dean could only watch as his expression shifted yet again, turning somehow sharp. “That’d probably take too long, anyway. I lived a very long life, before I met you.”
Normally, Dean knew, he’d have something snarky he wanted to say to that. But something about this future version of Cas sucked the snark right out of him. He simply watched as Cas scooched up the bed, his shirt loose and untucked, his hair hanging down lankly over his forehead.
“So instead I get to hang out with you.” Cas smiled sloppily. “What are you doing?”
Dean stared down his nose at him. “I’m sleeping, Cas. I’m not doing anything. This is a dream.”
Cas tilted his head to the side and thrust his chin out. “Yeah, duh. Means you can make anything you want happen.” He glanced around the room again. “Is this where you really are right now? Man, I love you, but you really do not have a very good imagination.”
Dean blinked a little, not sure how to respond to that. Dean had been around enough wasted people to know they said all kinds of things, but there was something… He shook it off. Cas was still watching him, twitchy and curious. Expectant.
“Hey, if you’re right, then this is your last hurrah,” Dean said, as flippantly as he could. “You choose.”
Cas’ eyebrow went up, and Dean could almost see the thought bubble above his head: Interesting… “Anything I want?” he asked.
“I’m drawing the line at clowns and midgets,” Dean said, because what did he know, Sam might not be the only one with issues.
Cas let out a low chuckle, lowering his head. “I have missed you, Dean.” He rubbed his hands down his denim-covered thighs, then pulled himself out of his pretzel and onto his knees. “All right,” he said, and began crawling up the bed, pulling himself forward on his curled fists. Dean was clearly not interpreting this properly: he stayed still, shocked into watching until Cas was crouched right in front of him. “How about one last time, then? Gentle. Like it used to be.”
Cas’ face was huge in front of him, stubble and long lashes and something beneath the haze in his eyes that seemed infinitely sad and sincere. Dean had to restrain himself from shoving him off the bed, hurling him across the room. His only other choice was to shy back, and so he did, snarling, “Like it what?”
Cas’ eyes narrowed in confusion, then went wide. His shoulders dropped and he rocked back on his heels, emitting a shaky, stoned laugh. “Ooops. Oh man. I think I have my timeline confused. Sorry, please just—” His fingers made a slashy kill motion across the front of his throat. “Just forget I said anything.”
“Forget—?” Dean snapped.
“Seriously! My bad.” Cas’ shoulders were shaking and his eyes were tearing up a little—from laughter, Dean hoped. “Awk-ward,” Cas pronounced, and gave his loose, open collar a mock-tug.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. “Okay,” Cas said finally. “Now would be a good time for you to—”
Dean woke up.
“Hello, Dean.”
He just barely avoided tumbling out of bed and taking the ugly comforter, the far end of which Castiel was perched upon, with him.
“Jesus Christ, Cas! You scared the crap out of me.”
“You told me to wake you in six hours.” Castiel looked mildly confused, his head tilted to the side, his hair and clothing neat.
Well, comparatively.
Dean pulled himself back into a more dignified position. “Yeah, but not like that. More, you know, gentle—”
He nearly bit his tongue in half. Castiel, probably misinterpreting the strangled sounds Dean was making, scooted closer. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, fine,” Dean said, deliberately looking away, unable to stand the innocence in Castiel’s eyes. “Wake Sam, okay?”
“Already awake, thanks,” came a groan from Sam’s bed. “It’s hard to sleep through all your girly yelping.”
“He’s talking about you,” Dean told Cas, distractedly.
“I’m talking about you, Dean.”
Dean waved his middle finger in Sam’s general direction on the way to the bathroom.
Castiel stayed with them to discuss strategy while Sam and Dean ate their breakfast. Sam tried to interest Cas in the remains of his meal, but Dean waved him away. “No bacon for angels.”
“I don’t think angels keep kosher, Dean.”
“Just leave him alone.” For a second Sam looked hurt. Dean rolled his eyes and relented. “We don’t want to be a bad influence.” He looked to Castiel for confirmation. “Right, Cas?”
“I don’t mind your influence,” Castiel said.
There was nothing Dean wanted to say to that. “We have a job to do. Let’s try to concentrate on that,” he replied, but even when he bent his eyes to Sam’s printouts, he could feel Cas’ eyes on him.
I lived a very long life, before I met you.
Someone banged open the diner’s door and Dean shivered at the sudden breeze.
“You’re still here?” Dean asked, dream-sitting-up in his dream-bed. Little Deano in Slumberland.
Cas shrugged. “Still here.”
“Those are some death throes,” Dean remarked.
Cas’ shoulders bobbed again. “It’s only been a second for me.” His mouth curled into something like a smile. “I remember when I used to wait for hours for you. By the side of the road, in empty motel rooms… Just stand there and wait, like a statue, a little wind-up angel. At your say-so.”
The wooden headboard was firm against Dean’s back. “You hate me.”
Cas flashed his teeth. “I wish I hated you,” he said, shaking his head. “But that’s not ever going to happen.”
Dean swallowed heavily. “Cas…” He waited until he was sure he had his full attention, until Cas was looking him in the eye. This Cas didn’t stare at him all the time, Dean realized. He had no problems with personal space. “What I said last time.” He spoke on a sharp exhale: “I meant it. I mean it. Anything you want.”
Cas’ gaze held. “It’s your dream, Dean.”
Dean nodded. “Anything,” he promised.
When he glanced over at the bed next to them, Sam was no longer in it. They were alone.
“That’s the idea,” Cas said. He was crawling up the bed again, though this time Dean could not be mistaken in his meaning, or take his eyes off the arch of his slim back. “Reality is how you perceive it, Dean.”
“Okay, rule number one, no hippie bullshit.” He reached out and gripped Cas some place he recognized, the firm curve of his shoulder. “That’s not you, Cas.”
Cas’ lip curled. “And you know me so well,” he said.
His words were sharp, even as his hands moved softly, rolling the covers down Dean’s body, not quite touching him, but leaving Dean exposed. “But I know you, Dean.”
His gaze swept possessively down Dean’s body as his hands continued to move—before stopping abruptly just below Dean’s thighs. Dean watched as Cas blinked. “All right, I take it back.”
Dean flushed as he became aware of just what fabric was clinging to him. Damn subconscious. “I swear I didn’t mean to do that.”
Cas chuckled. He touched Dean finally, hands cool against Dean’s suddenly sweaty thighs. “Don’t worry. I’m open to anything. And I don’t care for labels.”
He lowered his head and pressed his mouth to Dean through the fabric, making Dean’s dick twitch and then strain against the damp satin. Cas was humming, happily, and it took Dean, who was by this point rather distracted, a moment before he got it—of course. Moody Blues. Dean huffed out a pathetic excuse for a laugh. “This is so fucked up.”
Cas licked along the length of Dean’s satin-covered dick and Dean squirmed. “You’re dreaming and I’m dying. Of course it’s fucked up.” He gave Dean’s upper thigh a slap. “Come on. Turn over.”
With dreamlike obedience, Dean complied. “God, Cas,” he asked, sticking his ass in the air, “how did this happen?”
“This?” Cas asked. He gripped Dean’s hips firmly, coaxing him into position. “You mean us?” More dampness through the satin, and then the fabric was pushing inward, guided by the firm probings of Cas’ tongue. Dean let out a sharp cry and buried his face in the pillow. “Dunno. One thing led to another,” Cas said philosophically, which didn’t really explain his satin-coated tongue licking into Dean’s ass, or his free hand sweeping up Dean’s back and playing with the bumps of Dean’s spine like a virtuoso let loose on his favorite instrument.
“No,” Dean panted. “Not this. I meant—” And it was important, what Dean meant, what he needed to ask Cas: How did I let this happen to you? But it was hard to concentrate when Cas was kneading his skin and stretching wide the leghole of the panties, insinuating his fingers into the crack of Dean’s ass like they belonged there.
“Wanna conjure up some lube?” Cas asked, and a second later he said, “Thanks,” though Dean would swear he hadn’t done anything, hadn’t conjured any damn thing, and this dream or whatever it was was clearly so far out of Dean’s control. He certainly wasn’t the one behind the idea of Cas’ thick cock pushing the satiny fabric aside, rubbing against it and insides of Dean’s buttocks, soft and hard warring with each other as Cas held him steady and thrust inside. One long slow push, and Dean felt his legs give way. He was almost flat on his belly, with Cas’ hand the only thing holding him up. And wasn’t it helpful, finding the head of Dean’s dick poking out from the satin panties and giving it a flick, a nudge, a little stroke, and Dean heard himself emit some sort of helpless keening noise as Cas jackknifed his hips and pounded into him, rubbing the satin into Dean’s skin with his thumbs and whispering sweet stoned nothings against the curve of his spine.
“You call this gentle?” Dean managed to grind out, before losing his traitorous voice again in a trail of incoherent words: “Oh. Oh, god, Cas. Fuck. Yeah, okay. Fuck. Fuck me. Yes.”
He came hard, arching off the bed and then going pleasantly limp as Cas finished with him. Cas helped roll him over. “Oh, god,” Dean said, seeing again the truth of Cas with his mussed, scraggly hair, his scratchy growth of beard. Go get washed up for the orgy. “I should’ve made you use a rubber.”
Cas grinned, then lowered his head and licked up the trail of come that was leaking down the inside of Dean’s thigh. “Dream,” he said, sounding happy even as he sighed. “One of the benefits of this not being real.”
“Right,” Dean said, letting his shoulders relax. He fingered the scrap of ruined pink fabric, and it dissolved to nothing beneath his fingertips. “This is all in my head.”
“Or in mine,” said Cas. “One last petite mort before the big one.” He pressed a close-mouthed kiss to the patch of skin where his tongue had just been. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Dean looked over toward the little kitchenette, to the chair where Cas, his Cas, had been sitting before Dean had gone to sleep. When shall I return?
I don’t know, come back in five or six hours. Maybe bring some coffee while you’re at it.
“Trust me,” he said now, burying the words in a tight chuckle. “I’m not doing you any favors.”
“Dean.” Cas’ hand was on his cheek. He wasn’t pushy, but still Dean turned to look at him. His expression was surprisingly sober, his mouth firm. “I want you to know. If I could do it all over again, I’d—”
“Good morning, Dean.”
Dean opened his eyes. His cheek felt warm, as if there had just been fingers pressed against it, gentle. Castiel stood beside him, the long blue line of his tie hanging down.
Dean’s fingers twitched, then curled into fists. From the other side of the room he could smell the bitter aroma of freshly-brewed coffee.
NOTES:
1. I almost titled this “Nights in Pink Satin.” So, uh. BE GRATEFUL.
2. And, uh, yeah. Angst ate my porn again. Damn Winchesters! Every time.
3.aesc and I have added “pwning Zachariah” to our interests lists and feel you should do the same. Because it never gets old.
Shockingly, I chose porn.
Title: Set Yourself on Fire
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: BIG ones for 5x04
Length: ~2,300 words
Summary: Dean dreams of what he’s left behind.
Author’s Note: This story would never have come about without
aesc and many, many enjoyable AIM conversations. So if you like this, credit to her as much as me. (And if you hate it, then I RUINED her brilliant ideas!)Set Yourself on Fire
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean sat up in bed, breathing heavily. The man perched at the end of the bed, curled into some Kermit-legged yoga pose, grinned at him. The smile made crinkles form at the edges of his eyes, but didn’t warm them. Dean expelled a breath. “You again.”
“Me,” said the Cas who was not Cas. Who should never be Cas. “Again.”
Dean flopped back against the headboard. He glanced over: Sam was asleep in the next bed, but Dean knew he wasn’t really here at all. This was a dream. Another freakin’ dream.
“You think my subconscious is trying to tell me something?” Dean asked. “Like maybe that it hates me?”
“Maybe,” Cas said, rolling his shoulders, too loose-limbed. “Or maybe I’m really here.”
Dean’s back straightened again. “Are you?”
Cas made a face, huge and ridiculous and animated. “Who knows? I haven’t had enough juice for anything like this in years. But then again,” he scratched lazily at the side of his face, “maybe this is just my way of going out with a bang.”
His eyes when he looked to Dean were suddenly serious, but a breath later they were gone again, checking out something Dean couldn’t see somewhere on the ceiling. Dean watched his profile and swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Cas’ lip curled over his teeth and he shook his head. “Wasn’t you, 1.0. Besides, I wasn’t kidding when I said that I liked you.” His eyes lit up. “Maybe that’s why I’m here instead of seeing my life flash before my eyes.” Dean could only watch as his expression shifted yet again, turning somehow sharp. “That’d probably take too long, anyway. I lived a very long life, before I met you.”
Normally, Dean knew, he’d have something snarky he wanted to say to that. But something about this future version of Cas sucked the snark right out of him. He simply watched as Cas scooched up the bed, his shirt loose and untucked, his hair hanging down lankly over his forehead.
“So instead I get to hang out with you.” Cas smiled sloppily. “What are you doing?”
Dean stared down his nose at him. “I’m sleeping, Cas. I’m not doing anything. This is a dream.”
Cas tilted his head to the side and thrust his chin out. “Yeah, duh. Means you can make anything you want happen.” He glanced around the room again. “Is this where you really are right now? Man, I love you, but you really do not have a very good imagination.”
Dean blinked a little, not sure how to respond to that. Dean had been around enough wasted people to know they said all kinds of things, but there was something… He shook it off. Cas was still watching him, twitchy and curious. Expectant.
“Hey, if you’re right, then this is your last hurrah,” Dean said, as flippantly as he could. “You choose.”
Cas’ eyebrow went up, and Dean could almost see the thought bubble above his head: Interesting… “Anything I want?” he asked.
“I’m drawing the line at clowns and midgets,” Dean said, because what did he know, Sam might not be the only one with issues.
Cas let out a low chuckle, lowering his head. “I have missed you, Dean.” He rubbed his hands down his denim-covered thighs, then pulled himself out of his pretzel and onto his knees. “All right,” he said, and began crawling up the bed, pulling himself forward on his curled fists. Dean was clearly not interpreting this properly: he stayed still, shocked into watching until Cas was crouched right in front of him. “How about one last time, then? Gentle. Like it used to be.”
Cas’ face was huge in front of him, stubble and long lashes and something beneath the haze in his eyes that seemed infinitely sad and sincere. Dean had to restrain himself from shoving him off the bed, hurling him across the room. His only other choice was to shy back, and so he did, snarling, “Like it what?”
Cas’ eyes narrowed in confusion, then went wide. His shoulders dropped and he rocked back on his heels, emitting a shaky, stoned laugh. “Ooops. Oh man. I think I have my timeline confused. Sorry, please just—” His fingers made a slashy kill motion across the front of his throat. “Just forget I said anything.”
“Forget—?” Dean snapped.
“Seriously! My bad.” Cas’ shoulders were shaking and his eyes were tearing up a little—from laughter, Dean hoped. “Awk-ward,” Cas pronounced, and gave his loose, open collar a mock-tug.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. “Okay,” Cas said finally. “Now would be a good time for you to—”
Dean woke up.
“Hello, Dean.”
He just barely avoided tumbling out of bed and taking the ugly comforter, the far end of which Castiel was perched upon, with him.
“Jesus Christ, Cas! You scared the crap out of me.”
“You told me to wake you in six hours.” Castiel looked mildly confused, his head tilted to the side, his hair and clothing neat.
Well, comparatively.
Dean pulled himself back into a more dignified position. “Yeah, but not like that. More, you know, gentle—”
He nearly bit his tongue in half. Castiel, probably misinterpreting the strangled sounds Dean was making, scooted closer. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, fine,” Dean said, deliberately looking away, unable to stand the innocence in Castiel’s eyes. “Wake Sam, okay?”
“Already awake, thanks,” came a groan from Sam’s bed. “It’s hard to sleep through all your girly yelping.”
“He’s talking about you,” Dean told Cas, distractedly.
“I’m talking about you, Dean.”
Dean waved his middle finger in Sam’s general direction on the way to the bathroom.
Castiel stayed with them to discuss strategy while Sam and Dean ate their breakfast. Sam tried to interest Cas in the remains of his meal, but Dean waved him away. “No bacon for angels.”
“I don’t think angels keep kosher, Dean.”
“Just leave him alone.” For a second Sam looked hurt. Dean rolled his eyes and relented. “We don’t want to be a bad influence.” He looked to Castiel for confirmation. “Right, Cas?”
“I don’t mind your influence,” Castiel said.
There was nothing Dean wanted to say to that. “We have a job to do. Let’s try to concentrate on that,” he replied, but even when he bent his eyes to Sam’s printouts, he could feel Cas’ eyes on him.
I lived a very long life, before I met you.
Someone banged open the diner’s door and Dean shivered at the sudden breeze.
“You’re still here?” Dean asked, dream-sitting-up in his dream-bed. Little Deano in Slumberland.
Cas shrugged. “Still here.”
“Those are some death throes,” Dean remarked.
Cas’ shoulders bobbed again. “It’s only been a second for me.” His mouth curled into something like a smile. “I remember when I used to wait for hours for you. By the side of the road, in empty motel rooms… Just stand there and wait, like a statue, a little wind-up angel. At your say-so.”
The wooden headboard was firm against Dean’s back. “You hate me.”
Cas flashed his teeth. “I wish I hated you,” he said, shaking his head. “But that’s not ever going to happen.”
Dean swallowed heavily. “Cas…” He waited until he was sure he had his full attention, until Cas was looking him in the eye. This Cas didn’t stare at him all the time, Dean realized. He had no problems with personal space. “What I said last time.” He spoke on a sharp exhale: “I meant it. I mean it. Anything you want.”
Cas’ gaze held. “It’s your dream, Dean.”
Dean nodded. “Anything,” he promised.
When he glanced over at the bed next to them, Sam was no longer in it. They were alone.
“That’s the idea,” Cas said. He was crawling up the bed again, though this time Dean could not be mistaken in his meaning, or take his eyes off the arch of his slim back. “Reality is how you perceive it, Dean.”
“Okay, rule number one, no hippie bullshit.” He reached out and gripped Cas some place he recognized, the firm curve of his shoulder. “That’s not you, Cas.”
Cas’ lip curled. “And you know me so well,” he said.
His words were sharp, even as his hands moved softly, rolling the covers down Dean’s body, not quite touching him, but leaving Dean exposed. “But I know you, Dean.”
His gaze swept possessively down Dean’s body as his hands continued to move—before stopping abruptly just below Dean’s thighs. Dean watched as Cas blinked. “All right, I take it back.”
Dean flushed as he became aware of just what fabric was clinging to him. Damn subconscious. “I swear I didn’t mean to do that.”
Cas chuckled. He touched Dean finally, hands cool against Dean’s suddenly sweaty thighs. “Don’t worry. I’m open to anything. And I don’t care for labels.”
He lowered his head and pressed his mouth to Dean through the fabric, making Dean’s dick twitch and then strain against the damp satin. Cas was humming, happily, and it took Dean, who was by this point rather distracted, a moment before he got it—of course. Moody Blues. Dean huffed out a pathetic excuse for a laugh. “This is so fucked up.”
Cas licked along the length of Dean’s satin-covered dick and Dean squirmed. “You’re dreaming and I’m dying. Of course it’s fucked up.” He gave Dean’s upper thigh a slap. “Come on. Turn over.”
With dreamlike obedience, Dean complied. “God, Cas,” he asked, sticking his ass in the air, “how did this happen?”
“This?” Cas asked. He gripped Dean’s hips firmly, coaxing him into position. “You mean us?” More dampness through the satin, and then the fabric was pushing inward, guided by the firm probings of Cas’ tongue. Dean let out a sharp cry and buried his face in the pillow. “Dunno. One thing led to another,” Cas said philosophically, which didn’t really explain his satin-coated tongue licking into Dean’s ass, or his free hand sweeping up Dean’s back and playing with the bumps of Dean’s spine like a virtuoso let loose on his favorite instrument.
“No,” Dean panted. “Not this. I meant—” And it was important, what Dean meant, what he needed to ask Cas: How did I let this happen to you? But it was hard to concentrate when Cas was kneading his skin and stretching wide the leghole of the panties, insinuating his fingers into the crack of Dean’s ass like they belonged there.
“Wanna conjure up some lube?” Cas asked, and a second later he said, “Thanks,” though Dean would swear he hadn’t done anything, hadn’t conjured any damn thing, and this dream or whatever it was was clearly so far out of Dean’s control. He certainly wasn’t the one behind the idea of Cas’ thick cock pushing the satiny fabric aside, rubbing against it and insides of Dean’s buttocks, soft and hard warring with each other as Cas held him steady and thrust inside. One long slow push, and Dean felt his legs give way. He was almost flat on his belly, with Cas’ hand the only thing holding him up. And wasn’t it helpful, finding the head of Dean’s dick poking out from the satin panties and giving it a flick, a nudge, a little stroke, and Dean heard himself emit some sort of helpless keening noise as Cas jackknifed his hips and pounded into him, rubbing the satin into Dean’s skin with his thumbs and whispering sweet stoned nothings against the curve of his spine.
“You call this gentle?” Dean managed to grind out, before losing his traitorous voice again in a trail of incoherent words: “Oh. Oh, god, Cas. Fuck. Yeah, okay. Fuck. Fuck me. Yes.”
He came hard, arching off the bed and then going pleasantly limp as Cas finished with him. Cas helped roll him over. “Oh, god,” Dean said, seeing again the truth of Cas with his mussed, scraggly hair, his scratchy growth of beard. Go get washed up for the orgy. “I should’ve made you use a rubber.”
Cas grinned, then lowered his head and licked up the trail of come that was leaking down the inside of Dean’s thigh. “Dream,” he said, sounding happy even as he sighed. “One of the benefits of this not being real.”
“Right,” Dean said, letting his shoulders relax. He fingered the scrap of ruined pink fabric, and it dissolved to nothing beneath his fingertips. “This is all in my head.”
“Or in mine,” said Cas. “One last petite mort before the big one.” He pressed a close-mouthed kiss to the patch of skin where his tongue had just been. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Dean looked over toward the little kitchenette, to the chair where Cas, his Cas, had been sitting before Dean had gone to sleep. When shall I return?
I don’t know, come back in five or six hours. Maybe bring some coffee while you’re at it.
“Trust me,” he said now, burying the words in a tight chuckle. “I’m not doing you any favors.”
“Dean.” Cas’ hand was on his cheek. He wasn’t pushy, but still Dean turned to look at him. His expression was surprisingly sober, his mouth firm. “I want you to know. If I could do it all over again, I’d—”
“Good morning, Dean.”
Dean opened his eyes. His cheek felt warm, as if there had just been fingers pressed against it, gentle. Castiel stood beside him, the long blue line of his tie hanging down.
Dean’s fingers twitched, then curled into fists. From the other side of the room he could smell the bitter aroma of freshly-brewed coffee.
NOTES:
1. I almost titled this “Nights in Pink Satin.” So, uh. BE GRATEFUL.
2. And, uh, yeah. Angst ate my porn again. Damn Winchesters! Every time.
3.
aesc and I have added “pwning Zachariah” to our interests lists and feel you should do the same. Because it never gets old.![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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