Fic: "Carry On Up This Broken Tide: Chapter Five, Pt. 2" [NC-17, Dean/Cas]

« previous entry | next entry »
Aug. 12th, 2011 | 08:36 pm

TITLE: “Carry On Up This Broken Tide: Chapter Five, Pt. 2”
AUTHOR: [ profile] nanoochka
ARTIST: [ profile] daggomus_prime
PAIRINGS: Dean/Castiel, mentions of Dean/Lisa and Sam/Jess
WARNINGS: AU, depictions of psychological illness (ie. nervous breakdowns, anxiety), dubcon, mild D/s themes, infidelity, mentions of drug use and past drug abuse.

Carry On Up This Broken Tide by [ profile] nanoochka


Sam is locked away in his study by the time I get home. He’s either writing or jerking off, two things he’s always done with the door closed, but I’ve got no desire to interrupt him in either case. I settle for some aimless channel surfing instead, both impressed and repulsed by the ungodly large television and accompanying surround sound. It’s bigger and flatter than the one he had last time, and I can just picture Ben going crazy over it, since like most kids his age there seems to be a direct link between his brain and his XBox.

     Thinking about Ben sucks the mindless enjoyment from the activity, though, reminds me of how badly I want to be there to curl his small body into mine. Not just to make all the pain and confusion go away, but to thank him for being so awesome that he took the news of my being gay on the chin, like a champ. No one could think that’s easy, finding out everything you knew about a parent is wrong; coming out to Ben did to my brain what the Vulcans did to Romulus, and if his world is only slightly less shattered right now, it’s a friggin’ miracle.

     What I don’t expect is the sense of freedom that comes with it, like a weight’s been lifted off my shoulders after years doing the Atlas routine. For that alone, I could latch on to him and not let go. One aspect of parenthood no one ever warmed me about is how seriously addictive it is to hug your kid: I could do it forever. My own father was never much inclined towards tactile affection, not like my mom, and the tendency to be physical with my family probably comes from her. It’s how I was with Sam growing up, and Ben and Lisa—even Cas, who always squirmed and protested but, I could tell, secretly loved it. I don’t think he came from a very affectionate family, either.

     Having no such physical outlet here makes me feel out of sorts and even more alone, almost as much as having no one to talk to about how my kid is the greatest human being on Earth. How his mom’s level-headedness rubbed off on him, despite my fuck-ups. I can’t tell Sam, because that might raise one of his massive eyebrows, though if I’m honest with myself, the one person I want to call the hell up and boast to is Cas, because—he’d get it. Once upon a time, he was always the one to tell me not to worry about my kid so much. Ben made it obvious to everyone he met, Cas included, eventually, that he would grow up to be a really outstanding guy. If I called Cas now to say he was right, he wouldn’t be surprised to hear about Ben; okay, he wouldn’t pick up the phone to begin with, not with my number on the caller ID, but if he did, I know he wouldn’t be surprised. The kicker is that I wouldn’t know what to say to him even if I did know how to reach him outside of Sam.

     I don’t believe in God, but the second I notice Sam’s Android phone sitting there on the coffee table, the realization is so sharp I might as well have asked for a sign. Guilt tightens my throat before my fingers close all the way around it, hands suddenly clammy against the rubberized skin of the casing. My gaze ticks instinctively down the hall in the direction of Sam’s office, senses on the alert for any sign he might be about to find me out, but even through the paranoia, the thought occurs to me I haven’t quite decided what I plan to do. Except that, as far as my hands are concerned, I have. It’s nothing to click into the address book and scroll down through the B’s and the C’s until I see Castiel’s name there in front of me like the Holy fucking Grail—well, almost nothing, since with this futuristic phone of the future I barely know what I’m clicking on at first.

     I don’t recognize Cas’s number, which makes sense considering he had them all disconnected at the same time he changed the locks at his apartment, but I can see the area code is local. The call connects with a click of my thumb, so fast I could call it an accident, had I the stomach for it. Speaking of which, that pansy-ass organ is slowly sinking to my feet as I listen to the pregnant ring ring on the other end. My breath hitches when someone picks up. Every muscle in my body tenses.

     “Palermo Springs Rehabilitation Centre, how can I direct your call?”

     Wait. What?

     Except for a slight choking sound in the back of my throat, I’m silent for long enough on the other end that the receptionist sighs in a huff and repeats, “Palermo Springs, hello?”

     “Uh, sorry,” I blurt out. “I think I’ve got the wrong number or… something.” I end the call immediately and sit staring at the phone.

     Wrong number. Has to be. It makes no sense that Sam would still have this number kicking around in here, because it’s been ages since he set foot in a rehab facility—and yet it dawns on me I haven’t exactly been around to know for sure, one way or another. But I haven’t seen Sam touch more than a couple beers the whole time I’ve been here, and, well—I would know. Wouldn’t I? He was a whole other person on the blow. However much I trust him, a part of me will never stop looking for the slightest hint he might be using again. No way that’s the case, I tell myself. Sam’s way too much of a dick on drugs for any backsliding to have escaped my notice.

     Besides which, I was nowhere near the P’s in Sam’s address book that I could have dialled Palermo by mistake. It’s possible I hit a speed-dial button or something, but… Only one way to be sure.

     I glance down at the phone again and, very deliberately, hit the call button to dial Castiel’s number, my earlier nervousness almost forgotten in the confusion and sudden slap of fear about my brother. I’m practically eager to hear Cas’s voice on the other line, and pray for him to pick up as the phone rings a few times.

     Rationally, I know what’s going to happen before it does, a few theories about Cas already starting to come together in my mind. But denial has always been one of my strong suits. The idea of Cas on drugs is kind of absurd, anyway, considering the guy barely drinks. I’m sure there must have been a bender or two after we broke up, but, like Sam, I’ve never seen him drink more than a beer or two around here, probably following Sam’s lead. Still, he’s been acting totally different, nervous and withdrawn compared to the sharp, confident cat who picked me up at a bar like he ate dudes for lunch. I wouldn’t have recognized him if not for his face. Drugs could do that, if Sam’s Dr. Jekyll routine was anything to go by, and I find myself holding my breath again until the line clicks and I hear that chipper voice again.

     “Palermo Springs Rehabilitation Centre, how can I direct your call?”

     Fuck. Mind still racing, I stutter a greeting in response and tentatively say, “This is Sam Winchester calling,” in the hopes that, if he’s a patient there, the receptionist will recognize him. I remember Palermo—not only is it small, but the staff are so expertly trained they’re on a first-name basis with everyone, especially celebrity guests. It’s kind of creepy.

     “Hi, Mr. Winchester,” chirps the receptionist. Definite recognition in her voice, and warmth like she’s plenty used to him calling. Huh. “Did you need me to direct your call?”

     “Uh…” I trail off, conflicted, but the receptionist’s gentle hmm? of encouragement settles the issue. I’ve come this far already; if I’m going to steal my brother’s phone and stalk his friends, I might as well go all in. Just in case, I lighten my voice to sound more like my brother’s, which is noticeably less gruff than mine. “I’m looking for Cas Novak,” I say shakily.

     “You usually are,” she replies with a laugh. “Should I connect you through, or did you just need to leave a message for him?”

     No to both—it’d do me no good to be summarily ignored and have my name placed on a block list or something. “I just misplaced his info,” I answer. “Can I just get his room number off you again? I’m thinking of visiting this afternoon.”

     “He’s in cabin number four.” Wracking my brain, I recall at the last second that Palermo has a bunch of small, cottage-type places for patients with less severe issues, or who are starting to regain their independence. Well, ‘small’ is a bit inaccurate: Sam stayed in one for a week near the end of his program, and at the time I remember thinking it was bigger than some of the apartments we’d lived in growing up.

     “Right, of course. Silly me.” I clear my throat a little and decide to wrap this up before I can act like any more of a freak. “Well, thanks for your help, I’ll be coming by in a little while.” I hang up.

     Sucker-punch nausea is a normal response to discovering that your ex-lover is in rehab, right? I don’t even know where to begin trying to wrap my head around that, because—Cas. This guy I love, who is quite possibly the biggest square on the planet, apart from my memories of him in bed that can still make me blush, is camped out in some fucking facility?

     My brain can barely compute, but what Sam said about Cas’s “issues” is starting to make a hell of a lot more sense. Between my dad and my brother, it’s safe to say I come from a family of addicts; I’ve hit the sauce too hard enough times in my own life to know how destructive it can be, though thankfully never around Lisa or Ben. The thought of Cas being caught up in drugs or alcohol, because of me, sends me pitching forward to sit with my head between my knees so I don’t vomit all over Sam’s carpet. It should be enough that Cas is getting help, clearly near the end of his program if he’s living unsupervised, but now more than ever I feel how important it is to go talk to him, to just… apologize for everything, right up to yelling at him on the beach last week. For all the good it’ll do.

     In the process of trying to convince myself I don’t have every intention of going to Palermo to see Cas, I spend a fair bit of time wandering around the house, no less aimless than before. As I shower, I wonder if Cas showers a million times a day to content with the heat I know he must hate, and afterwards I spend so much time pondering the selection from my open suitcase, I’m both embarrassed and tempted to announce this sartorial dilemma to Sam and say, “See? Gay.” Although Lisa threw out all of my flannel and jeans with rips in the ass during the first year we were married, even she was a little puzzled by some of the getups that started showing up in my wardrobe under Cas’s influence. I distinctly remember the way her eyebrows went up the first time I wore a scarf when it wasn’t cold outside.

     Eventually I settle on tightest pair of jeans I own and a grey V-neck T-shirt I have to confess looks damn good. Still with no clear picture of what I hope to achieve by going there, I figure it can’t hurt to look presentable doing it. Cas was no different, dressing in clothes that perfectly matched his eyes, or strategically ruffling his hair whenever he had something touchy to bring up, and me, being an average, twentysomething dude, fell for it every time, oblivious and distracted by his mouth or the open V of his shirt while he went on about the opera tickets he’d purchased for that evening. Hell, it’s an art women have perfected for ages, right up there with asking for a new living room set during sex. If Cas is going to slam the door in my face, I at least want him to hesitate beforehand.

     “Sam, I’m going out!” I yell at the closed door of his office, and in response I get something that sounds like a grunt of acknowledgement. He doesn’t ask where I’m going or when I’ll be back, which suits me just fine, since I won’t have to lie about it. Already I’m contemplating signing his name in the guestbook at Palermo, which I should feel shitty about, but regard as sheer necessity. Desperate times and all that, and I’m pretty goddamn desperate right now.

     Years later, I still remember the way to Palermo without a map, and although it’s within walking distance of Sam’s house, I take the Impala in case I’m forced to beat a hasty retreat. The compound looks just as I remember it, serene and cookie-cutter and not unlike the kind of gated community you’d see out in Newport or other uber-wealthy parts of California; parts of Cardiff, in fact, which is why Palermo fits in so well, why the damaged wealthy feel so at home here. Sam used to complain more about feeling pampered and coddled than he did working the steps, but Cas… this is probably not much different than the conditions under which he grew up, a product of old money and a truly intimidating empire. Even cut off from his family’s resources, he no doubt found a way to hold on to some of it, some way to keep himself in a degree of the creature comforts he once enjoyed freely. Cas always was one for planning ahead.

     The visitation policy for unsupervised patients is pretty relaxed, considering they are clients, not inmates, and can come and go as they please; the guard at the front gate waves me through before I can finish giving a name. By comparison, arranging face-time with inpatients in the main facility is a whole other song and dance, regulated by strict hours and pat-downs for the more severe cases, just in case a visitor gets the bright idea to smuggle something in. This reassures me somewhat. I would submit to eighty fucking cavity checks for Cas—not the fun kind, either—but I doubt he’d feel the same, fiercely private to the end. I wonder how much of this Sam knows, though I imagine he has filled in most of the blanks already. He was the one who spent time here, after all; I was just a lousy commuter.

     The compound really is beautiful, green and pristine, inviting, obviously a place of meditation and relaxation. I have to park the car near the main building and walk the rest of the way, since most of the compound is accessible only on foot. Other people, be they patients or staff, are out walking the grounds with far less of a sense of purpose than me, seemingly happy to be out and about, enjoying the cool breeze and sweet sea air. I trace the hedged-off paths that lead the way, bypassing a quiet pond and several meditation areas, and try not to reminisce about all my other visits here that were filled with fear for my brother, hoping it won’t be the same with Cas.

     Christ, I hope he’s okay. He’s done such a damn good job of hiding all this, he could be in deep shit and I wouldn’t know it, wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing to help. He must hate it here. It’s almost possible for me to picture him forcing himself to relax in this environment, pretending like he belongs, but I know he must miss his old digs, that ridiculously opulent condo in the steeple of a church, or his second home in Chicago that could have gotten Oprah’s nod of approval. Hell, she probably even bought it off him outright. I’d buy them back myself if I could. But all I’ve got to offer is a weak apology and a plea for him to look me in the eye again. I’d like for him to look at me that way again, too, to kiss me with the same need as on the beach, but that’s nothing but a stupid fantasy on my part. No hopes or expectations to that end. I don’t deserve it, but then, I’ve always asked too much of Cas.

     There are six of these transitional, independent-living cottages on the compound, arranged around a leafy outdoor pond and a little cul-de-sac. It looks not unlike a fancy overnight camp, but with a decent illusion of freedom and normalcy. Each has its own small porch and sitting area out back, partially fenced off for privacy. Not unlike the first time he took me home, my hand is shaking slightly when I stop in front of the door to his cottage. There’s no doorbell I can press and get it over with, a single touch of a button to seal my fate; I’ve actually got to reach out and knock, feeling each rap of my knuckles against the wood like a fucking new nail in my coffin.

     I try to stand as far back from the peephole as possible—cheap of me, I know—but my objective here is to get him to open the door, not take one look and call for security before I even see his face. In some small way, that will make it better. Whenever things used to get really bad with Lisa and I had no clue how to carry on, seeing Cas’s face was the one thing that reminded me I was fighting for something important, even if the only person I was fighting was myself.

     At first there’s no answer, no sign of life within, but then I remember that this is Cas we’re talking about, not my brother, and not everything he does sounds like an army rushing into battle. Still, the sudden rattle of the doorknob surprises me—I wonder if they still leave everything unlocked around here?—and I suck in a thick breath when the door swings open and Cas is just there, sleep-rumpled and dressed in sweats that make him look unbearably young and carefree. My stomach flips when I realize they’re an old pair of mine.

     “Dean,” he says in alarm, voice rough with disuse, and takes a step back like he’s discovered a tiger on his doorstep. His eyes track over me in a rush and then to our surroundings, a knee-jerk reflex to the past couple weeks of secrecy and suspicion. Much to my relief, his desire to keep me hidden overrides his impulse to chase me away, dragging me inside by the wrist so he can shut the door behind us. “What the hell are you doing here?”

     “Obviously, I came to see you,” I answer tersely. “What the hell are you doing here? At Palermo?” Before we can launch into a frantic back-and-forth, because I know he’ll want to know how I found him or this place, I say, “I got your number off Sam’s phone, okay? I had no idea you were in fucking rehab, for Chrissakes, I was just… I was just going to call you, but then I find out you’re here fighting a goddamn addiction?” I remember at the last minute I’m supposed to be here to apologize, not give him the fifth degree, and add, “Sorry. I just had to come see if it was true for myself.”

     Cas scrunches up his face like he doesn’t know which part is more ridiculous. “Oh, great,” he retorts. “So now you’re going and stealing private information off your brother’s phone. Glad to see nothing’s changed.” He shakes his head angrily. “Can’t you see you aren’t wanted here, Dean? I’ve kept this information personal for a reason—it’s none of your business.”

     Unable to help it, I snort. “Right, none of my business. We break up, you take off, and when you’re suddenly locked away in a rehab facility, I’m expected to believe I had nothing to do with it.” It’s one hell of a thing to try and lay claim to, but I’m not here to weasel out of my responsibility or haggle for a smaller share of the blame. I deserve all of it, and that’s exactly how much I’m here to take. “Cas, the thought of you hurting yourself with something, I just—” I muffle a strangled sound of pain and have to look away from his face, allowing myself to observe my surroundings for the first time. His temporary home is exactly as bland and cookie-cutter as I expected, soothing blues and whites, though fresh flowers and a river-stone fireplace attempt to cheer things up. “I’m not worth it.”

     Castiel’s expression hardens at me, and he moves back to lean against the wall near the entrance to the kitchen. On the table next to a steaming cup of coffee—three sugars, so much milk it’s nearly white—I can see a crisp newspaper sitting there, not yet read, which must have been left by the maid. Goings-on of a world all but inaccessible to most of the patients here. I can feel Cas watching me for a second, observing my curiosity. Then he says, “You’re right, you’re not.”

     I can’t be upset at what’s true. “Then why all this?” I ask, gesturing around me.

     By his sigh, I can tell Cas is deciding how much he wants to commit to this conversation, how much he wants to tell me. That I’ve yet to be hauled away by Palermo’s intimidating security team is heartening. “I’m not here for drug or alcohol abuse,” he eventually tells me. “Believe it or not, my life has kind of fallen apart recently. I needed to recoup, and I needed a place to live. Considering I had enough personal money saved, this seemed a logical way to achieve both.” I watch as one of his shoulders lifts in a shrug, a gesture that makes my throat close up with its unspoken pain. “I needed help.”

     “And it’s my fault.”

     His eyes lift to meet mine, and there’s no hostility or reproach in them, just tiredness and heartbroken acknowledgement that what I’ve said is the absolute truth, a flickering resolve to not contradict me. That’s painful, but good. Cas doesn’t need anything more on his plate right now, from the looks of it, including trying to protect my ego. I advance slowly towards him, anticipating being pushed away at any second, but he lets me get closer than arm’s reach before he flinches and presses himself back against the wall a bit more. I freeze.

     “I’m sorry I yelled at you last week,” I murmur. “It was a shitty thing to do and I knew it at the time, I just… lost it. You didn’t deserve that.” At his jerky nod, I risk coming an inch closer. “Tell me what I can do to help, if there’s some way to…” I trail off uselessly.

     Castiel’s mouth gives an ugly twist as he straightens and sets his shoulders in a tense, angry line that means business, as much as the warning flash in his eyes. “What? Some way to make it better, Dean? Take back the lies and get my family speaking to me again? Change the fact that I’ve lost everything because of you?”

     “Don’t you think I’d change that if I could? Hell, I’d leave and go back to Indiana, if that’s what you wanted. If it’d make things easier.” This isn’t what I’m ready for at all, but once the words are out I realize I really would do that for him. Sam wouldn’t get it, of course, but knowing Cas might be more at ease with me gone is worth my brother’s confusion and my own mileage. My own heartbreak, too, though that one goes without saying. I’d move to freaking Antarctica for him. “I’ll go if you ask me to. Even though I might not be able to fix things myself, I won’t stick around and watch you hurting, not if leaving can change that.”

     “Out of sight, out of mind, right?” he snaps.

     “You know that’s not what I mean.”

     Recognizing the muscle that tics in his jaw as disgruntled agreement, I give in to the desire to touch, pressing our bodies lightly together so that he can feel I’m here and not go off someplace else in his mind to escape the conversation. He shivers against me, hard enough that I feel it, and I dip my head to meet his gaze since he’s staring pointedly at the floor. The only way to snap Cas out of these moods is to be direct, so he’s got no way out of the conversation except through. I don’t want a repeat of last time, and my face sure as hell would appreciate not getting punched again, but something about Cas just makes me want to push and push until he shoves back, gives me some spark of anger, of the old, passionate him. But let the record show I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.

     “Cas. Do you want me to leave?” I repeat.

     He looks at me again, finally, chewing the inside of his lip, and counters, “What do you want from me, Dean?”

     Well, that’s simple enough, at least. “I don’t want to see you acting like some goddamn zombie all the time,” I say. “I’d like you to be happy again and not… this.”

     “And what if that man doesn’t exist anymore? What if this is all there’s left?” Shit, he looks ready to lose it, face pinched and upset in a way that could mean he’s about to go mental at me, or just start bawling. Since I’ve never seen the latter, and have no desire to, I’d happily settle for outrage if it gets us somewhere, gets me more of that Cas from the other day. Like I said, I’m in no hurry to get pummelled again, but I’ll take that over strained silence. Therapists always say anger is useful, right? That’s what I want. He can beat me to a bloody pulp in the name of progress. I don’t say that out loud, though.

     “I don’t believe that,” I tell him. “But maybe you do, and that’s why I’m willing to do what I can to change it. Anything, Cas. If you want me to go, I’ll go. But if you want me to stay…” I let that hang there for a second, aching with hope, and dare to think his silence can be read as acceptance. “Tell me what you need, man.” I think we both know what that is, though I’m afraid to even think it. It’s nothing less than what he took for himself on the beach that day, something hard and hungry and brutal, the desire to exact punishment for wrongs done to him. And shit, every part of me is willing to give it to him if it’ll help. From the way it made me feel, it could be that it’ll help me, too; his fist made me feel like I was atoning for something unspoken.

     “What motivation could you possibly have to stay?” he asks me, and one of his hand lifts up to fist the fabric of my T-shirt before reaching to touch the place where my lip is still a bit swollen, the cut fading. At first the pressure is tentative, distracted, but as I open my mouth in invitation he presses harder, seemingly fascinated by what his fist left behind. It stings a little and I hiss.

     “I’m not here to talk about me,” I remind him, fighting the impulse to lick at the pads of his fingers or just take the digits into my mouth altogether.

     He seems to anticipate what I want, eyes going a dark indigo with sudden heat like the angry clouds before a summer storm. “You don’t particularly want to know what I want to do to you, Dean,” he says coldly. “I have never wanted to treat someone that way, much less you, and I don’t like it. I don’t even want to talk about it with my therapist, and she’s paid to listen to that crap. It’s just that you make me so…”


     “Angry.” A quick shift occurs, too subtle for me to decipher, and I feel his other hand sneak out to curl around my hip, fingers digging into bone. This time there’s no hesitation, the sharp pressure, in fact, hard enough to make me think there’ll be a bruise there later. I push myself into it and watch with satisfaction as his nostrils flare. “Are you telling me that’s what you want?”

     The lowness of his voice sends a shiver up my spine I know Cas can feel, and I shift my weight forward, pressing our chests together to show how much I’d welcome a glimpse inside his head right now, even if it’s something he’s afraid to let me see. I’m not afraid to go there, though maybe I should be—I don’t know. I just keep thinking there’s got to be something beneath the surface waiting to get out, something he’s done a bang-up job of hiding from Sam and the people here at Palermo, even from himself. I want that part of him for myself, want all of that pain and resentment and whatever else lurks down there. If it’ll let Cas finally think he’s not the only one who’s hurt, so be it. He isn’t, and I could probably spend a few days unpacking every ugly thought that’s crossed my mind since he left, but I’m slowly starting to realize he won’t believe it unless he sees it for himself, feels like he’s giving back a little of what was done to him.

     With a shiver, I realize I want that for him, no matter what it takes. It’s like that line about not knowing how deep the rabbit hole goes—I don’t think the point is that it’s deep, but that it’s impossible to resist finding out for yourself once you’ve been invited to look. Cas has already led me down pretty far, since I’d hardly be here if I hadn’t met him. Even if I’m starting to suspect we’re wandering into seriously uncharted fucking territory, I trust him all the same, like I wouldn’t trust anyone else; not even like he trusts himself.

     “I want you.” My voice comes out hoarse, words cracking around everything I don’t know how to say out loud, but my hands are weirdly steady as I reach out to touch him, bracketing the edges of his slim hips with my hands. He’s breathing hard into me, flush creeping up his neck to stain his cheeks, and I feel the length of him starting to harden against my leg. The loose sweatpants do nothing to disguise that he’s getting aroused, meeting me somewhere in the middle of my own excitement. Thing is, he doesn’t seem to give a shit if I notice. “I want to feel you kiss me again like you did at the beach,” I say. “Honestly, Cas, I don’t care what I have to do to get you to make me yours again, how fucking low I have to stoop. I’ll do anything, just… let me.”

     To prove it, I slide down to my knees, wincing at the hard impact against the wood floors, and lean in to nuzzle his erection through the soft cotton until he gasps. As his hand creeps into my hair and tightens almost right away, I release the soft moan that’s been building practically since I walked in the door. I haven’t had a cock in my face since the last time I was with Castiel. I’m not ashamed to admit having both of these things in front of me is enough to make my mouth water. Meanwhile, the tight jeans that seemed such a great idea an hour ago are hot and constricting, trapping the boner that suddenly presses against the fly. I could unbutton myself, would be grateful for the relief actually, but get the idea that Cas might have something to say if I go off-script now. Especially after I’ve all but offered myself to him in slavery or some shit.

     He smells so unbelievably good, though, a combination of soap and the musky sleep smell I remember. It drives me wild, breath panting, sweat springing up at my temples, heart beating hard against my chest. I press my face in closer, parting my lips to mouth at the head of his cock and the fabric that’s beginning to grow damp with excitement. The sting of protest from my lip just makes it better. A long glance at Castiel’s face shows him watching me with an expression gone slack, and his grip tugs a bit harder now, sending a sharp tingle through my scalp. It’d be rude if I didn’t want it so bad. I obey his hand and let him pull my mouth away so he can press against my lower lip with his thumb. This time I do flicker my tongue out to taste, and can’t hold back a deep groan of gratitude.

     “Please,” I say. Cas murmurs in assent and pets at my hair a little, absently, and then he draws back from my lips and slides the sweatpants down over his hips. His cock bobs towards me, thick and glorious as ever, and my mouth chases after him to take his length onto my tongue.

     The taste is hot and bitter and sweet all at once, and the low cry that escapes Castiel’s throat isn’t human enough to resemble English. He’s all need, shoving himself into my mouth insistently, so I give up trying to stroke along the vein that dissects the spine of his cock and just hollow my cheeks, closing my lips around the head to suck as he fucks my face and keeps my head steady with that hand in my hair. I’m so turned-on I can’t stop to think about the power I’m giving him here, something he’s never asked of me in this way.

     For all the months I’ve been out of the game—it never seemed right to make it with another guy, not after what happened with Cas—my throat remembers just how to take his girth. The gag reflex relaxes so he can slide all the way in, Cas easing up as I near the base so as not to choke me. I use my hands to cradle his balls and work his pants down the rest of the way so he can kick them right off. Needing to feel him around me, I nudge at his leg until he gets the hint to hook his knee over my shoulder, heel bumping against my back and drawing me in closer. The soft hair on the inside of his thigh tickles my face while the coarser pubes around the base of his shaft brush my nose, little teases of sensation that make me suck harder out of frustration that I’m not also touching myself, despite my hands being busy. When a quiet rustle of fabric from above lets me know Cas has stripped off his T-shirt, I swallow another soft moan around his cock. Having him naked against me while I’m still fully clothed is all kinds of hot, like I could walk out of here right now and no one would be the wiser for it. Except, maybe, for the fact I’m so horny I could die.

     “Dean.” A rough yank at my hair pulls me off him with an unexpected whine from my own throat, so plaintive it makes me blush in embarrassment. It soon fades when I see the state of Castiel, flushed halfway down his chest and breathing like he just came off the biggest tube of his life. “I’m going to fuck you,” he informs me in that dark honey voice. “Stand up.”

     I do, legs shaky, and I’m barely vertical before he drags my shirt up over my head and attacks my belt, working my jeans open with a look of determination on his face that’s almost venomous. As he crouches to shove them down my legs along with my briefs, he noses against my hipbone before he bites down, so hard I buck and holler obscenities into the quiet of his house. I feel his nails scrape lines of fire down my torso, relentless, and then the fingers of one hand slide into the crease of my ass to press against my hole. It’s a miracle I don’t shove myself back onto them, I want it so bad. The smile he shoots me is raw with hunger and knowing at the way I push myself into his touch.

     “This is what you want,” he says, not a question. Off the jerk of my head, which I suppose passes as a nod, he draws himself back up to full height and takes a step back.

     He hasn’t touched my cock once, which is so hard it judders purple and leaking, almost flat against my stomach. The realization he isn’t going to hits hard; I don’t know why, but I can tell from the flintiness of his eyes I’m on my own for this one. Unsure how I feel about that, I start to take a small step away, but the slow stroke he gives his cock, mouth twitching at the look on my face, makes me shudder in anticipation all the same. He was right: this isn’t a Cas I recognize, not what I’m used to, but I can neither figure out what he’s thinking nor walk away, since I’m the one who asked for it.

     As if in acknowledgement of this understanding, he gestures to the couch. “If you want it so bad, go lie down and spread yourself open for me.”

     The words make me gasp like I’ve been slapped across the face. My feet move of their own volition, carrying me to where he’s indicated. Kneeling tentatively on the soft leather, I look at him over my shoulder, suddenly unsure. “You got condoms and lube?”

     He laughs at me. “Dean, you’re the last person I was with. Since you’re the one who was fucking around, tell me: do I need one?”

     Each of these statements makes me flinch in surprise, but the answer is still no. Although I can think of nothing I’d like more than his naked cock sliding inside me, it seemed like too much to hope that it was something I’d ever feel again. So I shake my head and he stalks forward to snatch up a bottle of hand cream from the side table, and tosses it in my direction.

     “Lie down,” he repeats. I do, squirming at the brush of my nipples against the leather sofa, and a moment later I feel his broad, warm hand grip the flesh of one of my asscheeks, pulling me firmly apart. I moan softly and he says, “Show me.”

     It should be impossible to feel this naked around Cas, who has literally seen every inch of me up close, but spreading myself like this makes my face go hot, mouth dry. I can only imagine what the hell I must look like, holding my ass open to him like a goddamned whore, but the want is so powerful I don’t so much as utter a sound of protest. I think he knows how badly I need it, because he strokes a finger over where I’ve exposed myself to him and makes a desperate noise of his own. “Let me see your face, Dean,” he murmurs, and when I glance over my shoulder at him he looks as wrecked as I’ve ever seen him.

     He fumbles with the lotion but holds my eyes as he presses his finger inside. Every ounce of me that wants to screw my face up and bury it in the cushions fights against my will to maintain eye contact. It feels important somehow. The latter wins out, and I’m rewarded with a glimpse of how Cas bites down on his bottom lip when he adds another digit, then another. I spread my legs wider and rock back against his hand despite the burn—after this long, it’s like practically like getting drilled for the first time—and the gradual force with which he fucks into me makes my throat clench, a broken, keening noise emerging from my throat like a dying animal. Cas knows just where and how deep to jab his fingers, hitting my prostate on the first try, and he curls them against that spot again and again until the muscles in my legs shake in involuntary response.

     “C’mon, Cas, you dick,” I growl at him. Christ, this is almost more than I can take, this relentless toying, and he knows it. What I’m less sure of is whether or not he cares; because this is a side of Cas I’ve never seen, not even when angry. But he must be getting impatient, himself, judging from the speed with which he withdraws his fingers and slicks himself up.

     I have to look away for this part, not from squeamishness or anything, but because my senses go into overload as he plants my right leg on the floor so I’m good and open for him, even without my help. A gentle stroke of his cockhead over my entrance is all the warning I get before he guides himself inside, pressing in as relentless as anything. The stretch of him splitting me open is so goddamn good I groan his name, long and low, arching my hips so he’s got a perfect angle at my ass. He takes advantage of it a split second before I’m ready, starts to move when he knows I’ll still feel it. Unlike the first time he topped, and every time after, for that matter, he doesn’t wait to ask if I’m okay, just reads off my impatient shifts against him to start fucking me. It occurs to me we haven’t kissed once since I got here.

     The impact of Castiel’s cock against my prostate makes me yell his name, over and over again, and when my voice gets too hoarse I lose myself in his heavy breathing and stuttered moans, savour the slap of his pelvis against my ass as he fucks in and in and in. My hands clutch at the sofa cushions until my knuckles ache. It’s rhythmic, a pounding drumbeat I feel down to a molecular level, and I catch myself grinding my hips back and forth in counterpoint, building the friction against my own erection in addition to the unbelievable pleasure of Cas’s dick inside me. When he fists a hand into my hair, pulling tight to the point of pain, I arch against him even more, taking everything, offering everything. I’m so close to the edge my whole body is a flayed nerve.

     Cas falls forward to bite and kiss at the skin of my shoulders, muttering nonsense in my ears about how good I feel, how much he’s missed being inside me. I expect him to work his way around to my mouth, a kiss I need so badly, but what I get instead is his two hands around my neck, index and middle fingers pressing against my throat and Adam’s apple enough to make me think twice. Never in my life have I felt anything like that; I expect to panic at my dwindling air supply, but all I feel is an unbelievable calm at the trust I have in Cas. It’s a trust he hasn’t asked for, but has all the same.

     My heart hammers, blood pounding straight to my dick as he continues to thrust and slide his chest against my back, both of us slippery with sweat. Not quite knowing why his chokehold excites me—my mind keeps flashing between the need to fight for breath and the mental picture of how I must look, being used this way—the pressure surprises me so hard I suck in a laboured gasp and spurt all over the couch cushions. I think it’s the sound of me coming that knocks Cas over the edge, too, which he does with a choked-off shout, flooding me with slick.

     “Fuck,” I whisper, breathing hard. My insides feel painted and raw and all I can smell around us is sweat and sex. I feel Castiel heaving against my back and wish I knew what the hell just happened.

     Though I wince and groan a little as he pulls out, I continue to lay face-first on the couch and make no effort to move. It takes me a minute to figure out why I feel so weird, which turns out to be the sensation, once again novel, of Cas’s spunk leaking from my abused hole. Confident that’s one of the more unlikely phrases I’ve ever thought of in this lifetime, I want to laugh about it to Cas but can’t summon the energy even for that. The rest is probably best not to think about right now, because that way lies sheer fucking madness. He warned me, I remind myself, and I couldn’t leave it well enough alone. A part of me is pretty conscious, in a vague sort of way, of having been punished, and at the very least used. That’s as far as I get before I shut the whole train of thought down. This was for him.

     I do manage to turn my head when I feel Castiel’s weight withdraw from the couch. He stumbles down the hallway—bathroom, is my guess—and sure enough returns with a damp towel that is flung at my head. Taking the hint, I struggle onto my back and wipe myself down, trying not to notice the stony expression on Castiel’s face as he does the same. I don’t like it, even less the fact that he won’t look at me, and when he grimaces and starts to pull on his sweatpants, I guess he isn’t going to invite me to stay for lunch. My legs are like rubber as I go to retrieve my own clothing.

     I’m halfway to dressed when I glance up from the buckle of my jeans and see Castiel staring off into space, shoulders tense. He’s barely in the same solar system anymore, let alone the same room, and for some reason the only thing I can think of to do is clear my throat and say, “I won’t tell Sam.”

     Those saucer-blue eyes swivel towards me, this freaky habit Cas sometimes has of looking at me without turning the rest of his head. “I wouldn’t imagine you would, no.”

     “He’s been wondering where you are.” Catching the barely-perceptible slump of his shoulders, I sigh. “Cut this bullshit out and go talk to him, okay? You and me—he’s got nothing to do with any of this. Call your friend. He’s worried. And don’t say you don’t want to, ‘cause I know that’s bullshit, too.” There’s an imperceptible nod. “Good.”

     Hesitantly, Cas says, “Are you going to come back here?” not like he’s shy, but like he doesn’t trust himself to ask any more than he does my response.

     “Are you asking me to?” By the muscle that leaps in his cheek, I know I’m not going to get an answer to that, so I go into the kitchen and grab a pen off the table, scribble my cell phone number down on top of the cover story of the newspaper. “I meant what I said, Cas. This is—whatever you want. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave. But if you want…” Trailing off, I leave that hang there and shift the newspaper closer towards the edge of the table so he’s sure to see it. My message is pretty clear, Day or night.

     “You should go,” he says, finally.


     I’m still shirtless, but since I find my boots before I find my shirt, I put those on first, not bothering with laces, letting the tongues hang out of them like some of the wannabie gangsters we sometimes see down at the beach at night, teenagers with rich parents and aspirations to the ‘hood. Cas just watches me dress, staring almost, the way someone’ll stare you down when they’re waiting for you to take the goddamn hint and leave, though there’s no animosity behind it for once. That he wants me to is clear. That he wants me to stop talking, doubly so. But it’s like he’s just too tired to ask again.

     Hoping this indicates a momentary weakness in his defences, I say, “I came out to Ben this afternoon.”

     &nsbp;Cas makes a sound between a grunt and a snort. He says, “Congratulations,” in the most deadpan tone imaginable, and I guess I misjudged his magnanimity just now, considering the iciness of his voice.

     I frown. “‘Congratulations’? Seriously?” Not like I expected a parade, but that one word seems so inappropriate or the experience that I’m of half a mind to demand a do-over. Then again, I could have kept my mouth shut and walked out of here with, if maybe not dignity, composure. Instead it’s gonna be another fight, I can feel it.

     “What else do you expect me to say?”

     Growing angry—it’s so much easier to get angry about an offhand comment than it is to think too hard about what just went down, the sudden, painful pull of damn near every muscle in my body—I shuffle over to the kitchen entrance and snatch up my T-shirt where it lies discarded on the wood floor. Although I inch towards the door to let Cas know my change of subject doesn’t indicate I’m planning to stick around, I realize from the renewed stiffness of his posture, this seems to be his worst fear right about now. My presence in his home, the look on his face like it’s sheer fucking torture. Son of a bitch.

     “Just thought you’d appreciate it, man,” I say, voice steady as I can make it. “Seein’ as how you always longed to share yourself with your family, and all.”

     Cas steps closer to the front door, which he pulls open and stands there with his hand on the doorknob, glowering. That’s that, then. I get the message and walk past the threshold, though not before turning to him to say, “I’m trying to fix things. Make them right.”

     With a hard twist of his lips, Cas shakes his head. “You’re trying to fix things for yourself, Dean. At least you can still do that.” He starts to close the door. “But don’t talk about it like it could possibly make a difference to me, because I’ve got nothing left. There’s nothing for you to make right here, okay? Understand that.”

     The door shuts in my face without another word, but I don’t knock again or try to get him to open up. He’s right, in a way. After that, there’s not a whole lot else to be said.

Chapter Six

Link | + | Add to Memories | Tell Someone

Comments {1}

(no subject)

from: [identity profile]
date: Aug. 13th, 2011 11:57 pm (UTC)

I need a cold shower after that part. Goodness. Dean taking it so willingly.. too good.

Sadly, I wanted to slap Dean at the end of this chapter. Sometimes that boy can be really dense.

I love how much emotion you can inspire in me through this fic. It's pretty damn miraculous. Going from hot because of your porn to pissed because Dean's being a bastard.