Fic: The Great Impossible (Dean/Castiel, NC-17)
Title: The Great Impossible
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 713
Summary: First there was nothing. Then there was Dean.
A/N: Written for Porn Battle XIII.
None of this should be possible.
Castiel knows he's dead. He remembers dying, feeling his grace dissipating into the ether. And then there was nothing, nothing at all, and then this room with the smell of woodsmoke, the soft down comforter and Dean's mouth - sweet and wet and sure - fitting perfectly against his own.
Endless questions crowd into his mind and then disappear just as quickly as Dean's teeth scrape against his neck. Castiel gasps and clutches at him much too hard. However long it's been it must have been too long; his carefully crafted control is fraying at the edges. Dean's fragile human bones should splinter under this pressure, but instead he smiles against Castiel's neck and soothes the teeth marks he's left behind with his tongue.
Castiel moves his hand downwards, savoring the familiar planes and angles of Dean's body. Yes, this is right. Every inch of Dean is as it should be. If anything, perhaps he feels better than before, stronger and healthier. Should that worry him? It doesn't.
Instead he feels nothing but joy as his hand finds what it was looking for. He has always been amazed that he can do this to Dean, make his flesh swell and harden with wanting. He runs his thumb over the head, already moistening with precome, and traces the large vein underneath. Dean swears under his breath, offers up the kind of blasphemies that Castiel was always warning him about before,. He laughs out loud with the sheer joy of hearing them again.
"Can't wait." Dean's breath is hot against Castiel's ear. "You've gotta stop, or I'm going to-"
Castiel should stop; he has no idea if this will all end the moment he achieves his goal. But after so long without Dean - without being able to see him or pleasure him or love him properly - he just can't. He can no more stop the now frantic motions of his hand anymore than he can erase mistakes of the past. So he just kisses Dean in silent apology, keeping his eyes open so he can see, maybe for the last time, the beauty of Dean Winchester's face as he loses himself in pleasure.
Dean lies still for only a moment then begins to slide downwards, no doubt intent on returning the favor. Castiel is aching for him but shakes his head, holding him still. "Don't."
"Cas?" Dean sounds terribly confused and it hurts so much to be the one to put that note into his voice again.
"I don't know what will happen," Castiel confesses. "Afterwards. I don't know if I'll be able to stay."
"You will."
And that's how he knows.
He pulls Dean on top of him, needing his comfortingly solid weight. He is sorry, so very sorry for Sam who has no doubt been left behind and for the thousands of humans Dean will no longer be able to help. "How?" More than anything, he hopes it wasn't a Leviathan.
"Wendigo. I think it must have been fast. I don't remember suffering."
Castiel wraps his arms around him, amazed as always how Dean fits so perfectly into the spaces created by his vessel. It's as if Jimmy Novak was created so that Castiel could fill him, and then be filled in turn by Dean. "I wish I was real," he whispers. "I wish I could send you back."
Dean lifts his head and looks Castiel directly in the eyes. "You are real. This is Heaven and I get what I want, right? They must have known I won't settle for some kind of copy."
Castiel looks around the room. There is snow outside the window, heavy and thick. Shelves are brimming with books and a rustic wooden table holds a steaming apple pie and two icy cold beers. He is lying in Dean's arms; the air is thick with the smell of their sweat. "This is what you want?"
Dean sits up, straddling him. Reaching back, he guides Castiel deep inside him; somehow he is already wet and open. He shuts his eyes and groans as he seats himself completely. "This." His voice is rough and deep. "This is everything I've ever wanted."
Castiel throws his head back and, once again, gives thanks to God.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 713
Summary: First there was nothing. Then there was Dean.
A/N: Written for Porn Battle XIII.
None of this should be possible.
Castiel knows he's dead. He remembers dying, feeling his grace dissipating into the ether. And then there was nothing, nothing at all, and then this room with the smell of woodsmoke, the soft down comforter and Dean's mouth - sweet and wet and sure - fitting perfectly against his own.
Endless questions crowd into his mind and then disappear just as quickly as Dean's teeth scrape against his neck. Castiel gasps and clutches at him much too hard. However long it's been it must have been too long; his carefully crafted control is fraying at the edges. Dean's fragile human bones should splinter under this pressure, but instead he smiles against Castiel's neck and soothes the teeth marks he's left behind with his tongue.
Castiel moves his hand downwards, savoring the familiar planes and angles of Dean's body. Yes, this is right. Every inch of Dean is as it should be. If anything, perhaps he feels better than before, stronger and healthier. Should that worry him? It doesn't.
Instead he feels nothing but joy as his hand finds what it was looking for. He has always been amazed that he can do this to Dean, make his flesh swell and harden with wanting. He runs his thumb over the head, already moistening with precome, and traces the large vein underneath. Dean swears under his breath, offers up the kind of blasphemies that Castiel was always warning him about before,. He laughs out loud with the sheer joy of hearing them again.
"Can't wait." Dean's breath is hot against Castiel's ear. "You've gotta stop, or I'm going to-"
Castiel should stop; he has no idea if this will all end the moment he achieves his goal. But after so long without Dean - without being able to see him or pleasure him or love him properly - he just can't. He can no more stop the now frantic motions of his hand anymore than he can erase mistakes of the past. So he just kisses Dean in silent apology, keeping his eyes open so he can see, maybe for the last time, the beauty of Dean Winchester's face as he loses himself in pleasure.
Dean lies still for only a moment then begins to slide downwards, no doubt intent on returning the favor. Castiel is aching for him but shakes his head, holding him still. "Don't."
"Cas?" Dean sounds terribly confused and it hurts so much to be the one to put that note into his voice again.
"I don't know what will happen," Castiel confesses. "Afterwards. I don't know if I'll be able to stay."
"You will."
And that's how he knows.
He pulls Dean on top of him, needing his comfortingly solid weight. He is sorry, so very sorry for Sam who has no doubt been left behind and for the thousands of humans Dean will no longer be able to help. "How?" More than anything, he hopes it wasn't a Leviathan.
"Wendigo. I think it must have been fast. I don't remember suffering."
Castiel wraps his arms around him, amazed as always how Dean fits so perfectly into the spaces created by his vessel. It's as if Jimmy Novak was created so that Castiel could fill him, and then be filled in turn by Dean. "I wish I was real," he whispers. "I wish I could send you back."
Dean lifts his head and looks Castiel directly in the eyes. "You are real. This is Heaven and I get what I want, right? They must have known I won't settle for some kind of copy."
Castiel looks around the room. There is snow outside the window, heavy and thick. Shelves are brimming with books and a rustic wooden table holds a steaming apple pie and two icy cold beers. He is lying in Dean's arms; the air is thick with the smell of their sweat. "This is what you want?"
Dean sits up, straddling him. Reaching back, he guides Castiel deep inside him; somehow he is already wet and open. He shuts his eyes and groans as he seats himself completely. "This." His voice is rough and deep. "This is everything I've ever wanted."
Castiel throws his head back and, once again, gives thanks to God.
