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antigonewinchesterTitle: Untitled / Heaven's Hands (as titled on AO3)
Fandom: Supernatural
Character/Relationship: Dean x Cas
Notes/Warnings: X-posted from my tumblr. Part 1 of 2, set post-4x11. Inspired by Hesitation by apokteino (which I'd link to but it's been taken offline). Another take on how 'Cas is ordered to seduce Dean' could have gone. CW consent issues.
Fic #: 002/101
The second time Dean wakes from now-in-technicolor nightmares of Hell to find Cas sitting on his bed, it’s 3 in the afternoon.
After Angels vs. Demons: Kaiju Battle, he and Sam had been slinging back jobs like it was a sweaty summer night, and it’d been working. Keeping him too tired to even dream. But then Sam had started bugging him again, asking if he wanted to talk about it. No. Telling him he should talk about it, that he’d feel better if—still no. The dreams came back, no matter how long he stayed awake. His head hit the pillow and every every was there in the dark: underneath fingernails, behind eyeballs, between each of his ribs, shuddering flesh beneath hands, skin trembling against his teeth. Even when the sun was shining down from on high.
“Hello, Dean.”
“Cas.” He sits up, rubs sleep from his eyes. Cas doesn’t move a muscle.
Since the mess a few weeks ago, he’d wondered if Cas was gonna come back at all. 1-800-HEAVEN, the number you have dialed is no longer in service. But he’s glad to see him. Kind of wary. That’s just how it goes with Cas, the confusingly sort-of-attractive tax accountant who could kill him with a wave of his fingers.
Still, he hadn’t seemed to enjoy being on CSI: Angel Murder Squad. “I haven’t seen Anna, if that’s what you want to know.”
“We’re searching for her, but other priorities are more important now.”
“Great. You found another seal?”
“It’s being handled,” Cas says, and then abruptly changes the subject: “You haven’t been sleeping well.”
Does the Pope shit in the woods. “Since when does Heaven care about my sleep schedule?”
“Sleep is important for humans,” Cas continues, “and we need you to be battle ready.”
His jaw clicks. “I am ready. You got a battle for me right now? No? Then a little afternoon nap won’t hurt anyone.”
“That’s not—” Cas starts, then stops. He shifts, moving closer, until he’s right next to Dean on the bed. Anybody else, the way Cas doesn’t stop staring at him, Dean would think it was a come on. Except the whole warrior for God thing. “Heaven told me… they want…” He’s never seen Cas grapple for words this much. Angels are decisive, righteous, ruthless; Cas is hesitating. Finally, he ends with, “We want you to be less troubled by your dreams.”
Nonchalance, a shrug and “What dreams?” But Cas doesn’t roll his eyes like Sam, or sigh with impatience like Bobby. Cas just stares right through him with those cold blues. “I’m fine, okay?”
“You aren’t fine. You spent years in the depths of Hell, and any soul would be—”
“Yeah, I’m not talking about that.” Dean’s off the bed and crouched down next to his bag. It’s half full with his crap: the jeans with the tibia-length tear down the side, his two gutting knives, King’s The Colorado Kid. He really should start packing. Sam might be back soon.
Cas’s baritone rumbles from behind. “It wasn’t your fault.” That makes Dean grab one of his shirts and throw it in with too much force. Doesn’t help. “My squadron was tasking with reaching you, and if we had truly know what what you were facing, with Alastair—”
“Guess hindsight’s a bitch, huh?”
Some boxers, a towel. Probably the motel’s. Whatever. A flask of holy water, almost empty. Dad’s journal; his usual comfort read. He’d been flipping through before his nap, checking again if there was anything more on the Apocalypse, wishing there was something, knowing there wasn’t.
Cas’s hand was firm, insistent, on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Dean.”
Anna had said angels were frozen, obedient statues. No chocolate cake, no forgiveness, no sex. They could feel like pigs could fly or fish could tap dance. But Cas sounds so goddamn sincere, his heart is beating double-time.
“What, you want me to say thanks for trying?” Now he’s the one invading Cas’s personal space. Cas doesn’t blink. “Make you feel better about failing?”
“We didn’t fail. I rescued you. But I…” That hesitation again. Then Cas moves even closer, until they’re practically breathing each other’s air. Dean can see the beginnings of crows feet around his eyes. Angels still got wrinkles, who would’ve guessed. “I can’t change what happened. But I can give you what you want.”
And then Cas kisses him.
Hands down the weirdest kiss of Dean’s life, and that’s counting—Cas doesn’t know to move his lips, or what to do with his tongue, and when Dean draws back, Cas’s eyes are open.
“What the hell,” Dean says.
Cas says: “We should have sex.”
Cas grabs at him as Dean’s heads try to catch up to what’s happening. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it. Lots of people he’d want to fuck but never get to. Anna Nicole Smith. Belladonna. Mr. Petrov from his second school of junior year (Silverpark Wolves, let’s howl!), somehow both a history nerd and the hottest teacher he ever had. But imagining was just imagining. Half of it with Cas was the adrenaline, looking over a cliff’s edge and the warm pull in the pit of his stomach, that voice saying, jump, baby.
“But angels can’t have sex,” he says as they land together on the bed. It squeals in protest.
“Circumstances have changed,” like that’s supposed to make sense, but Cas has stopped trying to lead. They’re awkwardly straddling, legs tangled up, with Cas hovering above him and a little lost look on his face. He keeps glancing down at Dean’s lips but doesn’t move to kiss him again. It’s like seeing human eyes in one of those museum marble statues; humanity where it shouldn’t be.
He’ll only live twice. He might not know angels, but he does know this.
Dean puts his hand on Cas’s cheek. Cas’s eyes widen, but after a moment he softens into Dean’s touch. “You sure?” Dean asks, waits for Cas’s nod, then shifts up to kiss him again, gentle.
If Cas was breaking the rules here, it wasn’t like Dean was going to smooch and tell. It’d been sliced apple sweet, getting back in the saddle with Anna, but he didn’t think Cas wanted to jump straight to the Kentucky Derby. They’d go slow. Easy. He takes charge, and if there wasn’t something nostalgic about a long breathy make-out session. Cas learns quick and Dean is 16 again, rewound half a century, taking Emily Smith’s first kiss at Owl Creek Point and the warm black blood under his fingernails disappearing as he runs his hands over soft tan skin, wet lip-gloss mouth giggling against his, and Cas is kissing him so earnestly, lips open now but still a little rough. Off comes Cas’s old man raincoat, his suit jacket, and then Cas wants to take off his shirts, until they’re both skin against skin. Dean trails his hand down Cas’s chest, and Cas shudders beneath him. No flushed cheeks, no heavy breathing, but no mistaking the curve ball he’s starting to pitch. “Dean,” Cas whispers. “I…” Dean grinds down and Cas groans low. They’re hidden in the back row of a movie theater, heavy petting through explosions and car chases, and there’s no such thing as werewolves or bone saws or the Apocalypse or Hell. When Cas moves his hips, mimicking Dean almost exactly, Dean gasps softly into his neck, and then hands grab his ass and twist and he’s back against the bed. Cas fumbles with Dean’s belt until Dean helps, shimmying out of his jeans as Cas undoes his own, and it’s then that something falls out of the pocket.
A gold wedding band.
Cas picks it up and without looking drops it off the side of the bed.
Shit. Dean had forgotten. Hadn’t even thought about the guy at all. Was he a newly wed? Did he have kids? Must’ve been one awkward conversation: Pardon me, ma’am, but I need to tell you your husband’s been touched by an angel.
“Cas,” he says, but Cas doesn’t hear him. “Hey, Cas!”
“Yes?”
“We gotta stop.”
Cas tilts his head. “Why?”
Dean gestures at Cas’s body. “The guy you’re—possessing.”
“Jimmy isn’t aware of anything I’ve done,” Cas replies. “So he won’t be aware of this.”
“Uh, but I will. You will. What, you think he’d be down for an angelic three-way?“
“Why does it matter?”
Through the haze, alarms start going off. “Because I’m not gonna make a guy catch when he doesn’t even know he’s playing the game! Look, I don’t like stopping just when we were getting to the good part, but I won’t.” Not—again.
Cas is frowning. “But you said yes. You want this.”
“And I’m saying no now.” Dean goes to move up, push Cas off, and hits a godblessed brick wall. His second try’s not any better, and makes Cas grab at his wrists. Pin them to the bed.
“Do we need to fight?”
“Oh, if you don’t get off me, we’re not just gonna fight, I’m gonna kick your ass!” But his anger’s more a whisper than a shout. He just hasn’t gotten his breath back yet.
“You can’t hurt me, Dean.” There’s no threat, no malice, no glee in Cas’s voice; just the facts.
He struggles again but it doesn’t do shit against Cas’s inhuman weight, and his dick’s picked the perfect time to betray him, still flying half-mast. Frustration sets his eyes stinging. “You better believe I can try.”
“I believe you would.”
Dean glares. For seconds that stretch decades he thinks Cas isn’t gonna let him go, or try to kiss him again, or—then the pressure’s gone, and Cas is halfway across the room.
“I… I’ve misunderstood,” Cas says. He’s dressed again, all buttoned up in his shirt and suit and that laughable coat. As if nothing had even happened.
“You think?” Dean rubs at his wrists.
“I’ve upset you. I thought…”
“You thought wrong!” He swallows and his throat’s full of razors. Crappy dry air motels. “When you find another seal, you let me and Sam know, but if you ever touch me again, you’ll regret it.”
Cas says nothing. Doesn’t even look at him. Then he’s gone in a whoosh of air, and Dean’s all alone.
Fandom: Supernatural
Character/Relationship: Dean x Cas
Notes/Warnings: X-posted from my tumblr. Part 1 of 2, set post-4x11. Inspired by Hesitation by apokteino (which I'd link to but it's been taken offline). Another take on how 'Cas is ordered to seduce Dean' could have gone. CW consent issues.
Fic #: 002/101
The second time Dean wakes from now-in-technicolor nightmares of Hell to find Cas sitting on his bed, it’s 3 in the afternoon.
After Angels vs. Demons: Kaiju Battle, he and Sam had been slinging back jobs like it was a sweaty summer night, and it’d been working. Keeping him too tired to even dream. But then Sam had started bugging him again, asking if he wanted to talk about it. No. Telling him he should talk about it, that he’d feel better if—still no. The dreams came back, no matter how long he stayed awake. His head hit the pillow and every every was there in the dark: underneath fingernails, behind eyeballs, between each of his ribs, shuddering flesh beneath hands, skin trembling against his teeth. Even when the sun was shining down from on high.
“Hello, Dean.”
“Cas.” He sits up, rubs sleep from his eyes. Cas doesn’t move a muscle.
Since the mess a few weeks ago, he’d wondered if Cas was gonna come back at all. 1-800-HEAVEN, the number you have dialed is no longer in service. But he’s glad to see him. Kind of wary. That’s just how it goes with Cas, the confusingly sort-of-attractive tax accountant who could kill him with a wave of his fingers.
Still, he hadn’t seemed to enjoy being on CSI: Angel Murder Squad. “I haven’t seen Anna, if that’s what you want to know.”
“We’re searching for her, but other priorities are more important now.”
“Great. You found another seal?”
“It’s being handled,” Cas says, and then abruptly changes the subject: “You haven’t been sleeping well.”
Does the Pope shit in the woods. “Since when does Heaven care about my sleep schedule?”
“Sleep is important for humans,” Cas continues, “and we need you to be battle ready.”
His jaw clicks. “I am ready. You got a battle for me right now? No? Then a little afternoon nap won’t hurt anyone.”
“That’s not—” Cas starts, then stops. He shifts, moving closer, until he’s right next to Dean on the bed. Anybody else, the way Cas doesn’t stop staring at him, Dean would think it was a come on. Except the whole warrior for God thing. “Heaven told me… they want…” He’s never seen Cas grapple for words this much. Angels are decisive, righteous, ruthless; Cas is hesitating. Finally, he ends with, “We want you to be less troubled by your dreams.”
Nonchalance, a shrug and “What dreams?” But Cas doesn’t roll his eyes like Sam, or sigh with impatience like Bobby. Cas just stares right through him with those cold blues. “I’m fine, okay?”
“You aren’t fine. You spent years in the depths of Hell, and any soul would be—”
“Yeah, I’m not talking about that.” Dean’s off the bed and crouched down next to his bag. It’s half full with his crap: the jeans with the tibia-length tear down the side, his two gutting knives, King’s The Colorado Kid. He really should start packing. Sam might be back soon.
Cas’s baritone rumbles from behind. “It wasn’t your fault.” That makes Dean grab one of his shirts and throw it in with too much force. Doesn’t help. “My squadron was tasking with reaching you, and if we had truly know what what you were facing, with Alastair—”
“Guess hindsight’s a bitch, huh?”
Some boxers, a towel. Probably the motel’s. Whatever. A flask of holy water, almost empty. Dad’s journal; his usual comfort read. He’d been flipping through before his nap, checking again if there was anything more on the Apocalypse, wishing there was something, knowing there wasn’t.
Cas’s hand was firm, insistent, on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Dean.”
Anna had said angels were frozen, obedient statues. No chocolate cake, no forgiveness, no sex. They could feel like pigs could fly or fish could tap dance. But Cas sounds so goddamn sincere, his heart is beating double-time.
“What, you want me to say thanks for trying?” Now he’s the one invading Cas’s personal space. Cas doesn’t blink. “Make you feel better about failing?”
“We didn’t fail. I rescued you. But I…” That hesitation again. Then Cas moves even closer, until they’re practically breathing each other’s air. Dean can see the beginnings of crows feet around his eyes. Angels still got wrinkles, who would’ve guessed. “I can’t change what happened. But I can give you what you want.”
And then Cas kisses him.
Hands down the weirdest kiss of Dean’s life, and that’s counting—Cas doesn’t know to move his lips, or what to do with his tongue, and when Dean draws back, Cas’s eyes are open.
“What the hell,” Dean says.
Cas says: “We should have sex.”
Cas grabs at him as Dean’s heads try to catch up to what’s happening. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it. Lots of people he’d want to fuck but never get to. Anna Nicole Smith. Belladonna. Mr. Petrov from his second school of junior year (Silverpark Wolves, let’s howl!), somehow both a history nerd and the hottest teacher he ever had. But imagining was just imagining. Half of it with Cas was the adrenaline, looking over a cliff’s edge and the warm pull in the pit of his stomach, that voice saying, jump, baby.
“But angels can’t have sex,” he says as they land together on the bed. It squeals in protest.
“Circumstances have changed,” like that’s supposed to make sense, but Cas has stopped trying to lead. They’re awkwardly straddling, legs tangled up, with Cas hovering above him and a little lost look on his face. He keeps glancing down at Dean’s lips but doesn’t move to kiss him again. It’s like seeing human eyes in one of those museum marble statues; humanity where it shouldn’t be.
He’ll only live twice. He might not know angels, but he does know this.
Dean puts his hand on Cas’s cheek. Cas’s eyes widen, but after a moment he softens into Dean’s touch. “You sure?” Dean asks, waits for Cas’s nod, then shifts up to kiss him again, gentle.
If Cas was breaking the rules here, it wasn’t like Dean was going to smooch and tell. It’d been sliced apple sweet, getting back in the saddle with Anna, but he didn’t think Cas wanted to jump straight to the Kentucky Derby. They’d go slow. Easy. He takes charge, and if there wasn’t something nostalgic about a long breathy make-out session. Cas learns quick and Dean is 16 again, rewound half a century, taking Emily Smith’s first kiss at Owl Creek Point and the warm black blood under his fingernails disappearing as he runs his hands over soft tan skin, wet lip-gloss mouth giggling against his, and Cas is kissing him so earnestly, lips open now but still a little rough. Off comes Cas’s old man raincoat, his suit jacket, and then Cas wants to take off his shirts, until they’re both skin against skin. Dean trails his hand down Cas’s chest, and Cas shudders beneath him. No flushed cheeks, no heavy breathing, but no mistaking the curve ball he’s starting to pitch. “Dean,” Cas whispers. “I…” Dean grinds down and Cas groans low. They’re hidden in the back row of a movie theater, heavy petting through explosions and car chases, and there’s no such thing as werewolves or bone saws or the Apocalypse or Hell. When Cas moves his hips, mimicking Dean almost exactly, Dean gasps softly into his neck, and then hands grab his ass and twist and he’s back against the bed. Cas fumbles with Dean’s belt until Dean helps, shimmying out of his jeans as Cas undoes his own, and it’s then that something falls out of the pocket.
A gold wedding band.
Cas picks it up and without looking drops it off the side of the bed.
Shit. Dean had forgotten. Hadn’t even thought about the guy at all. Was he a newly wed? Did he have kids? Must’ve been one awkward conversation: Pardon me, ma’am, but I need to tell you your husband’s been touched by an angel.
“Cas,” he says, but Cas doesn’t hear him. “Hey, Cas!”
“Yes?”
“We gotta stop.”
Cas tilts his head. “Why?”
Dean gestures at Cas’s body. “The guy you’re—possessing.”
“Jimmy isn’t aware of anything I’ve done,” Cas replies. “So he won’t be aware of this.”
“Uh, but I will. You will. What, you think he’d be down for an angelic three-way?“
“Why does it matter?”
Through the haze, alarms start going off. “Because I’m not gonna make a guy catch when he doesn’t even know he’s playing the game! Look, I don’t like stopping just when we were getting to the good part, but I won’t.” Not—again.
Cas is frowning. “But you said yes. You want this.”
“And I’m saying no now.” Dean goes to move up, push Cas off, and hits a godblessed brick wall. His second try’s not any better, and makes Cas grab at his wrists. Pin them to the bed.
“Do we need to fight?”
“Oh, if you don’t get off me, we’re not just gonna fight, I’m gonna kick your ass!” But his anger’s more a whisper than a shout. He just hasn’t gotten his breath back yet.
“You can’t hurt me, Dean.” There’s no threat, no malice, no glee in Cas’s voice; just the facts.
He struggles again but it doesn’t do shit against Cas’s inhuman weight, and his dick’s picked the perfect time to betray him, still flying half-mast. Frustration sets his eyes stinging. “You better believe I can try.”
“I believe you would.”
Dean glares. For seconds that stretch decades he thinks Cas isn’t gonna let him go, or try to kiss him again, or—then the pressure’s gone, and Cas is halfway across the room.
“I… I’ve misunderstood,” Cas says. He’s dressed again, all buttoned up in his shirt and suit and that laughable coat. As if nothing had even happened.
“You think?” Dean rubs at his wrists.
“I’ve upset you. I thought…”
“You thought wrong!” He swallows and his throat’s full of razors. Crappy dry air motels. “When you find another seal, you let me and Sam know, but if you ever touch me again, you’ll regret it.”
Cas says nothing. Doesn’t even look at him. Then he’s gone in a whoosh of air, and Dean’s all alone.