Fic: The Day We Saved The World
Words: 4500
Thanks to: watermaline for the beta.
Dedicated to: uselessplayback. This is a bribe so she will to continue being my friend. Clearly, I got the better half of the bargain.
The Day We Saved The World
“Is it really over?” Dean sways unsteadily as he pulls himself up from his knees. He rubs at the dirt and grime on his face with his sleeve (smearing it around more than wiping it away) and glances at the twisted wreckage on the street around him in wonder. “Is he really dead?”
Castiel pushes his body up from the ground as well, healing the cuts and bruises on his hands as soon as they leave the earth, bones realigning themselves in his legs and ribs easily, internal bleeding tapering off as quickly as it had started. By the time he stands, his vessel is clean and whole, immaculate.
Castiel watches as last of Lucifer’s celestial light drains from the body of the man once known as Nick, leaving behind only an empty husk that crumbles to ash. It is a terrible thing to behold, and Castiel can hear the voices of his heavenly brothers and sisters falling silent one by one-mourning the one that had become their sworn enemy but once was their most beloved brother. And when Castiel looks up at the clear night sky, all the twinkling stars seem to flicker and dim slightly, perhaps in grief as well--or perhaps because the morning star can no longer lead their way.
“He is no more,” Castiel says, and is startled by the sadness in his own voice.
But when Castiel looks back down again, Dean’s smile glows radiantly, purely-filled with so much joy Castiel would give the life of thousand stars before he’d see it fade. “Do you know what this means?” Dean whispers as he helps a dazed Sam get to his feet. “It means the apocalypse is over. It means we finally won!”
“Yes,” Castiel says, and feels an answering smile form on his face, unbidden. The sadness recedes, and all that is left is the dazzle of Dean’s joyous, disbelieving laugh. “It is over.”
“Fuck, Cas.” Dean takes a few short steps to Castiel and fists his hands in the material of Castiel’s trench coat. “This is fucking huge.”
“It is,” Castiel agrees, and Dean’s face is only inches from his own, the corners of his eyes crinkled up in a smile that seems to go on and on.
“You know what we need to do later, right?” Dean tugs Castiel in closer, brushing his lips ever so slightly against Castiel’s. “We need to have sex. Lots of sex. Awesome, loud victory sex.”
“God, Dean,” Sam complains loudly in the background. “TMI!”
Dean ignores him and continues to look into Castiel’s eyes expectantly. Castiel allows himself to tip forward until his forehead rests against Dean’s, inhaling the beauty and exuberance of him. “Is victory sex different than regular sex?” Castiel asks.
“Maybe,” Dean chuckles as he slides his hands under Castiel’s trench coat to give his backside a playful squeeze. “You’re gonna have to find out later.”
“Guys, seriously,” Sam says again, plaintively. “I thought we talked about the public groping thing.”
“Hey, I just saved the world here, so you can turn around if you don’t like it,” Dean barks, and Sam does, grumbling under his breath all the while.
“Sex can be very life affirming,” Castiel says as he puts his hands on Dean’s chest and feels his heartbeat under his palm. “I think I would like to investigate this victory sex.”
Dean kisses Castiel again, languorous and sweet, and then pulls away with a parting grope. Castiel has never seen him so relieved, so playful, so happy, and Castiel thinks he could never tire of this Dean, one free and filled with hope. “Come on, Cas,” Dean says. “Let’s get back to camp before Sam’s head explodes.”
The abandoned hotel they’d been using as a base is swarming with activity: people laughing and crying and shouting, hugging each other spontaneously.
Usually Castiel avoids crowds simply by taking flight and appearing a moment later at his destination, but Dean’s hand on his arm prevents him from doing so this time. He expects a path to clear before him as it normally does, people fearful of him and all that he represents, but the victory today seems to have changed the suspicion and doubt to easy acceptance. People clap and cheer as he passes by, calling out to him by name and congratulating him on his bravery and success. The experience is surreal, and Castiel feels almost as though he is a part of this community, instead of what he actually is: a disgraced angel amidst a sea of humans.
The enthusiasm of the crowd seems contagious, as Dean-usually dour and tense when surrounded by jostling masses-joins in the rambunctious celebration, clapping the shoulders of everyone he passes and thanking them for a job well done.
Castiel makes his way up the once grand (now slightly rundown) staircase and watches fondly, and with a touch of wistfulness. The voices of his brothers and sisters in Heaven are still silent, and it reminds him once more of how alone he is. He cannot join in the revelry of the humans, for today he lost a brother. But neither can he look down on them from on high as his siblings do, for the humans-Dean--are who he turned his back on Heaven to protect.
“Hey, Cas.” Chuck appears beside him, clutching the banister, ever drunk, ever nervous. “Good job with the big bad, man. You know, I really didn’t think I’d make it through this, but here I am. I guess I get to live another day as an unsuccessful pulp fiction novelist.”
“You will be remembered as a prophet, Chuck,” Castiel says, though it seems to bring him little comfort. “And it was Dean who slew him, not I. This is Dean’s victory.” Humanity’s victory, he adds to himself.
“But he couldn’t have done it without you,” Chuck says. “With your-uh, support and stuff. You know.”
Castiel does know. He looks across the lobby to where Dean is, and watches as he doubles over at the waist, laughing uproariously at something Bobby said. When Dean looks up, he catches Castiel’s eye and smiles.
“Castiel,” Chuck says, and Castiel turns back to him. “I just. I wanted to say thanks--for everything. And even if--other people don’t say it, it doesn’t mean they don’t feel it.” Dean’s walking up the staircase towards them now, and Chuck’s words rush out like a waterfall. “And I wanted to tell you that if I could write the ending to this story I’d give everybody what they wanted. I’d--”
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, warm and easy. He notices Chuck after a beat. “Hey, Chuck. Didn’t see you standing there.”
Chuck shrugs as though he hears that a lot. “Nice save with the end of the world, Dean.”
“Thanks.” Dean’s chest puffs up a little bit. “Something for you to write about, huh?”
“You know it, big guy,” Chuck replies. “Hey, you wanna get a picture taken to commemorate this? I found this old camera in one of the backrooms.” Castiel notices the strange black contraption hanging around Chuck’s neck.
“A picture?” Dean pauses only a second before he shrugs. “Yeah, what the hell, right? Maybe it can be your new book cover or something.” He summons Sam over and then beckons to Castiel.
“Uh, Cas? You wanna get in there?” Chuck’s holding up the camera, which is pointed towards where Dean and Sam stand, a few feet away.
Castiel positions himself by Dean awkwardly, not entirely sure what he should be doing. He relaxes a little when Dean’s hand presses lightly against the small of his back.
“Say cheese,” Chuck says, and Castiel doesn’t have a chance to even open his mouth before a light flashes.
A flat square slides out of the bottom of the camera, and Chuck waves it in the air a few times before handing it to Dean. The darkened portion eventually resolves itself into an image: Dean and Sam smiling out at the viewer while Castiel’s face is caught in profile, not quite ready for the shot.
“You’re supposed to look into the camera, dude,” Dean says, elbowing Castiel lightly in the ribs. “But I guess it doesn’t matter-I already know what you look like from the front. Full-frontal, even.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Sam rolls his eyes.
“We should put the date on it or something,” Sam suggests.
“Why, you gonna forget the day we saved the world?” Dean replies, but he asks anyway, “Anyone got a pen?”
With a quick glance at Castiel that he can’t quite decipher, Chuck pulls a black marker out of his pocket. “Always come prepared.”
“Thanks.” Dean pulls off the cap with his teeth and balances the photo on the banister while he scrawls the caption ‘The Day We Saved The World’ at the bottom. “There. Now who gets it?”
“Castiel,” Chuck says quickly, and everyone stares at him. “For safekeeping. He won’t lose it.”
“Okay,” Dean says, raising an eyebrow. “Cas it is.” He passes it to Castiel, and their fingers brush.
Castiel studies the photograph. In it, he looks happy.
The room Dean commandeers is like everything else in the hotel: slightly rundown, with a fine coat of dust graying furniture that might have once been handsome and imposing. A cloud of dust flies up when Castiel sits down on the edge of the bed, and Dean sneezes twice.
Castiel touches the worn bedspread decorated in blue and white stripes, and lingers over the texture of the nubby surface. He tries to remember a time when he didn’t have human hands to touch with, and the memory is hazy, distant.
He waits patiently while Dean takes off his clothes, one article at a time as humans must. The few times Castiel took off his clothing the human way (usually at Dean’s behest) it was a clumsy dance, limbs awkwardly fighting through fabric and buttons and zippers. But when Dean disrobes, the routine is efficient and beautiful, a joy to watch. Every movement results in a layer stripped away, every garment discarded leads to a tantalizing reveal of flesh. And when the final layer is gone, when all that stands between Castiel and Dean is the space in between them, it is as if Dean steals a piece of Castiel’s heart and hides it away where it can never be found.
“Like what you see?” Dean says with a little swagger that doesn’t completely mask the touch of insecurity beneath it.
Castiel studies the body that he once made flawless, now marked gently in a pattern of crisscrossing scars and cuts across the skin. Dean would look at the raised white flesh and be embarrassed by it, by the marring of smooth skin and muscle, but what Castiel sees is evidence of living and being alive-a magnificent tapestry of battles won and lost. Castiel feels the blood begin to sing throughout his body, skin prickling with the now familiar heat and throb below his waist. “I do.”
Dean smiles in response to that, and the self-consciousness in his eyes shifts to something more carnal.
The voices of his brothers and sisters begin to whisper in Castiel’s ears again, apparently finished with their mourning, but Castiel pushes them away. Being with Dean now in this place is a tiny fragment in time that Castiel wishes to hoard jealously to himself, a moment that only exists between the two of them.
Castiel rises, willing away that fabric that wraps around his vessel’s body with a thought.
“I don’t think I’m ever gonna get used to that,” Dean says and touches the newly bared skin of Castiel’s hips, his waist.
Castiel kisses Dean, presses forward until every part of their naked bodies are touching, from chest to toes, and marvels at how much bliss can be found in the simple experience of physical contact. Dean had told him about the other version of Castiel--the one living in the future, caught between humanity and angelhood--and how he had tried to make up the difference with a veil of empty hedonism. At the time, Castiel could not believe he would ever fall so far in any universe, any timeline.
But ever since that first night with Dean, ever since the first intoxicating rush of Dean’s mouth open and moving against his, Castiel has come to realize how terribly close to the edge of humanity he truly stands. How easy it would be to take one last step and fall off that edge.
Dean begins to move more insistently against Castiel, his erection heavy and hard against Castiel’s thigh. Castiel maneuvers Dean back onto the bed, and Dean slides up to let his head fall back against the pillows. “Come on, come on,” he says when Castiel pauses a moment to look at him, tan skin against the blue and white covers, arms under his pillow and legs spread temptingly. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you shouldn’t keep the Chosen One waiting?”
Castiel chuckles and kneels on the bed obligingly. He runs his hands up Dean’s legs, starting from the bottoms of his feet, moving to the back of his calves, and then up the sensitive spots behind his knees. Castiel stops short at the inside of Dean’s thighs, and then ducks down to take the tip of Dean’s erection into his mouth. He sucks hard enough to elicit a gasp, and then pulls off in order to lick down to Dean’s balls, taking them gently in his mouth one at a time before moving away again.
“Quit being such a tease, Cas.” Dean’s practically whining now, hips shifting anxiously from side to side. “Blow me, fuck me-just do something.”
“You should learn to be more patient,” Castiel says as he slithers forward until he’s completely on top of Dean.
“And you should learn to hurry the fuck up,” Dean retorts as his arms come up to pull Castiel down for a sloppy kiss.
Castiel takes Dean’s wrists and lowers them back down to the bed easily, resulting in a sharp, aroused intake of breath from Dean. It’s a simple matter to flip Dean over onto his stomach on the bed.
“That’s cheating,” Dean says, but the annoyance in his voice is counterbalanced by the wanton spreading of his legs.
“Dean,” Castiel whispers, and wonders if that single word conveys even a fraction of the wonder and awe he feels at this moment, all the adoration and affection and tenderness he could not begin to express if he had until the end of time to do it. “Let me--”
“Yeah,” Dean sighs in agreement before he even hears what Castiel is offering. “Whatever you want.”
“Lay still,” Castiel commands as he bends down to bite lightly at the back of Dean’s neck, and then licks a long stripe down Dean’s back to the top of his buttocks. Dean sighs a little when Castiel gently parts the curves and sweeps his tongue into the secret spot between them.
“And here I thought you didn’t know what victory sex was.” Dean tries to sound nonchalant, but the curling of his toes betrays him.
Castiel smiles a little to himself before ducking down again to lick at the tight ring of muscle, waiting for it to relax just enough for him to press gently but firmly in. The muscle flutters around his tongue and Dean moans above him, low and needy. As Castiel continues to alternate between lavishing the outside flesh with sweeps of his tongue and pressing inside, Dean’s moans roll into each other in a soft and continuous wave.
Castiel doesn’t stop until Dean pants, “Cas, please, Cas,” in a shuddering whisper. Castiel gives one final lick before moving up his body again, pressing kisses to every one of Dean’s vertebrae.
When he reaches Dean’s neck, one of Dean’s hands dart out to grab Castiel’s wrist, and Dean’s mouth is around two of Castiel’s fingers before Castiel realizes what’s happening. He loses himself in the warmth of Dean’s mouth around his fingers, tongue sliding suggestively along the knuckles, and exhales in sharp disappointment when Dean lets them go. “Cas, now,” Dean says as he guides Castiel’s fingers down, and Castiel needs no further direction.
He slips the saliva slicked fingers in one at a time and shivers at the burning heat all around them. It only takes a minute of stretching and scissoring before Dean is shifting impatiently again, and Castiel removes his fingers.
Dean moans in relief as Castiel finally slides in. Castiel wraps an arm around Dean’s waist and lifts him so that he’s no longer lying flat on the bed, but is instead propped up on his knees.
“Whoa, warn a guy, will you?” Dean says around a mouthful of pillow. He gets up onto his hands after a beat and Castiel doesn’t move until Dean pushes back a little to signal his readiness. Castiel kisses the arch of Dean’s back where sweat is beginning to pool in apology, and finds Dean’s erection with his hand. Dean thrusts forward approvingly as Castiel begins to stroke easily, tight and quick the way Dean loves it.
It’s only now that Castiel begins to move, hips moving forward and back in a motion that presses Castiel’s dick against Dean’s prostate with every stroke, causing Dean to throw his head back and moan, “Fuck, yeah, Cas. Fuck.”
Castiel focuses his attention on the rhythm, the response of Dean underneath his hands and his body. It becomes more difficult to maintain control when Dean begins to move aggressively as well, pushing into Castiel’s hand and then slamming back against Castiel’s hips so hard Castiel feels dizzy with the heat and pleasure of it.
Castiel feels Dean’s movements begin to stutter as Dean draws closer to climax, and Castiel redoubles his efforts until he feels Dean tense, clenching down on Castiel’s cock before coming apart in Castiel’s hands. Castiel moans and thrusts forward one last time before letting himself go as well, allowing the sensation of orgasm to lift him up and sweep him away as surely as if he were flying.
Castiel collapses on top of Dean, who is sprawled face-down on the bed.
“Holy mother of fuck, Cas,” Dean slurs as he rolls out from under Castiel and onto his side. “How does this keep getting better and better? I’ve never…” He trails off and looks at Castiel through heavy-lidded eyes, expression unreadable.
Castiel watches Dean carefully as the last edges of orgasm recede, leaving behind a drowsy warmth and contentment. “You were victorious, Dean. You saved the world.”
“And is this my reward? Awesome sex that never gets old?” Dean rolls down the sticky bedspread so they can both lie on clean sheets.
The angelic voices that Castiel had so carefully shut out are returning now, murmuring the will of Heaven in his ear in spite-or perhaps because of-his desire for privacy. He touches the spray of freckles across Dean’s cheek and thinks this must be what it feels to want the way a human wants, to want something selfishly and wholly for yourself. “You may request any reward Heaven has in its power to bestow.”
Dean smiles underneath Castiel’s fingertips, changing the terrain of his face into a series of mountains and valleys. “So, what you’re saying is that Heaven’s gonna give me the Heisman Trophy, and you’re just the Dallas Cowboys cheerleader I get to bang on the side?”
Castiel traces the curve of Dean’s bottom lip and knows the words are not what is important now. “What do you want?”
“I dunno.” Dean shrugs. “Sam’s alive, I’m alive, neither of us got worn by any angels to the apoca-prom, Lucifer’s dead, and the world managed not to get completely fucked in the process.” Dean’s gaze softens slightly. “And I-I’m having really great sex on top of all that. It’s more than I thought I’d ever get.”
The voices of his brothers and sisters grow louder in his head, and Castiel closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to hear the message they carry, but he cannot ignore it any longer. “Surely you must want something.”
Dean yawns as he finds Castiel’s hand and intertwines their fingers together. “What else could I need?” Dean asks as his eyes begin to slip closed. “As long as it’s all still here when I wake up.”
Castiel watches Dean sleep for as long as he can, until the calls of his brothers and sisters are no longer a symphony in the back of his mind, but a cacophony of sounds and demands instead. He stares down at where his and Dean’s palms kiss, and wonders if he will ever be able to forget the way this feels, even when he has no human fingers to feel with. Castiel untangles his fingers from Dean’s, and moves off the bed as quickly as he can, afraid that he will invent for himself an excuse to stay.
Before he goes, Castiel looks down at Dean one last time, and can’t help but try to memorize the curves and planes of his body. Even in sleep, Dean is an endless series of contradictions, a puzzle that could fascinate and frustrate Castiel forever. Before Dean, Castiel never envied humans before, never longed to be anything but what he was, but now--
Castiel takes a step back and turns away.
“Dude, Sam, strippers,” Dean says as he ambles through the park, enjoying the smell of the fresh-cut grass and the warmth of the sun on his face. “What’s the point of getting married if you can’t throw a bachelor party and have strippers?”
Sam’s laugh crackles back through the cell phone. “Does Cassie know that’s why you married her?”
“I married Cassie because she’s awesome, okay?” Dean watches a father toss a frisbee back and forth with his son and thinks, that’ll be me in three months. “Besides, for her bachelorette party she went with all her friends to see the Chippendales. So I’m pretty sure she’s not in a position to judge here.”
Sam’s making the bitchface he always makes when he knows he’s lost to Dean’s superior intellect; Dean can tell even through the phone. “Fine. I’ll talk to Jess about it, okay? Happy now?”
“Damn skippy I am,” Dean says. “Just don’t tell Dad about it or he’ll wanna go. You remember how weird it was when Dad showed up at my bachelor party and started waving dollar bills around.”
“Oh god,” Sam groans. “And Mom was pissed for weeks after that because he came home drunk and threw up on the living room floor.”
Dean shakes his head at the memory. “Good times. Hey, don’t you have some studying to do? Some spirit-crushing law school crap to do?”
“Between studying for finals and planning this wedding, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing left to crush,” Sam replies glumly.
Dean chuckles as he hangs up, and then feels a stinging impact on his calves as something hard and round hits the back of his legs. “What the--” Dean turns, and there’s a soccer ball rolling on the ground a foot away from him. He leans down to grab the ball and holds it out to the distressed looking little girl who approaches him. “This yours?”
“Y-yes,” the girl says, pushing her glasses up by the bridge of her nose. “I’m so sorry it hit you.”
“Happens all the time,” Dean says lightly as she takes the soccer ball. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks,” she says, and he turns to go. “Hey wait, mister. I think you dropped something!”
Dean checks his pockets for his phone and wallet-which are still there-and then turns back to the little girl, who is holding out something small and square. He accepts what turns out to be a Polaroid photograph and stares down at it curiously: it’s a picture of him and Sam grinning widely into the camera. The picture looks recent, but Dean doesn’t recognize where they are in the photo, or when they might have even taken it since Sam’s been living in California for the past three years.
Even odder is the third man in the photo, a handsome man who seems strangely familiar even though Dean is almost certain they’ve never met before. He has dark messy hair and seems faintly disheveled, with a long tan trench coat and a rumpled black suit underneath. The man isn’t even looking directly at the camera in the photo; instead, he’s looking over at Dean and smiling.
Dean shrugs and pockets the photograph. The strange guy is probably just one of Sam or Jess’ friends that Dean met and forgot; they must have all been out drinking the night it was taken because the smudged caption at the bottom says, ‘The Day We Saved The World.’
fin
Thanks to: watermaline for the beta.
Dedicated to: uselessplayback. This is a bribe so she will to continue being my friend. Clearly, I got the better half of the bargain.
The Day We Saved The World
“Is it really over?” Dean sways unsteadily as he pulls himself up from his knees. He rubs at the dirt and grime on his face with his sleeve (smearing it around more than wiping it away) and glances at the twisted wreckage on the street around him in wonder. “Is he really dead?”
Castiel pushes his body up from the ground as well, healing the cuts and bruises on his hands as soon as they leave the earth, bones realigning themselves in his legs and ribs easily, internal bleeding tapering off as quickly as it had started. By the time he stands, his vessel is clean and whole, immaculate.
Castiel watches as last of Lucifer’s celestial light drains from the body of the man once known as Nick, leaving behind only an empty husk that crumbles to ash. It is a terrible thing to behold, and Castiel can hear the voices of his heavenly brothers and sisters falling silent one by one-mourning the one that had become their sworn enemy but once was their most beloved brother. And when Castiel looks up at the clear night sky, all the twinkling stars seem to flicker and dim slightly, perhaps in grief as well--or perhaps because the morning star can no longer lead their way.
“He is no more,” Castiel says, and is startled by the sadness in his own voice.
But when Castiel looks back down again, Dean’s smile glows radiantly, purely-filled with so much joy Castiel would give the life of thousand stars before he’d see it fade. “Do you know what this means?” Dean whispers as he helps a dazed Sam get to his feet. “It means the apocalypse is over. It means we finally won!”
“Yes,” Castiel says, and feels an answering smile form on his face, unbidden. The sadness recedes, and all that is left is the dazzle of Dean’s joyous, disbelieving laugh. “It is over.”
“Fuck, Cas.” Dean takes a few short steps to Castiel and fists his hands in the material of Castiel’s trench coat. “This is fucking huge.”
“It is,” Castiel agrees, and Dean’s face is only inches from his own, the corners of his eyes crinkled up in a smile that seems to go on and on.
“You know what we need to do later, right?” Dean tugs Castiel in closer, brushing his lips ever so slightly against Castiel’s. “We need to have sex. Lots of sex. Awesome, loud victory sex.”
“God, Dean,” Sam complains loudly in the background. “TMI!”
Dean ignores him and continues to look into Castiel’s eyes expectantly. Castiel allows himself to tip forward until his forehead rests against Dean’s, inhaling the beauty and exuberance of him. “Is victory sex different than regular sex?” Castiel asks.
“Maybe,” Dean chuckles as he slides his hands under Castiel’s trench coat to give his backside a playful squeeze. “You’re gonna have to find out later.”
“Guys, seriously,” Sam says again, plaintively. “I thought we talked about the public groping thing.”
“Hey, I just saved the world here, so you can turn around if you don’t like it,” Dean barks, and Sam does, grumbling under his breath all the while.
“Sex can be very life affirming,” Castiel says as he puts his hands on Dean’s chest and feels his heartbeat under his palm. “I think I would like to investigate this victory sex.”
Dean kisses Castiel again, languorous and sweet, and then pulls away with a parting grope. Castiel has never seen him so relieved, so playful, so happy, and Castiel thinks he could never tire of this Dean, one free and filled with hope. “Come on, Cas,” Dean says. “Let’s get back to camp before Sam’s head explodes.”
The abandoned hotel they’d been using as a base is swarming with activity: people laughing and crying and shouting, hugging each other spontaneously.
Usually Castiel avoids crowds simply by taking flight and appearing a moment later at his destination, but Dean’s hand on his arm prevents him from doing so this time. He expects a path to clear before him as it normally does, people fearful of him and all that he represents, but the victory today seems to have changed the suspicion and doubt to easy acceptance. People clap and cheer as he passes by, calling out to him by name and congratulating him on his bravery and success. The experience is surreal, and Castiel feels almost as though he is a part of this community, instead of what he actually is: a disgraced angel amidst a sea of humans.
The enthusiasm of the crowd seems contagious, as Dean-usually dour and tense when surrounded by jostling masses-joins in the rambunctious celebration, clapping the shoulders of everyone he passes and thanking them for a job well done.
Castiel makes his way up the once grand (now slightly rundown) staircase and watches fondly, and with a touch of wistfulness. The voices of his brothers and sisters in Heaven are still silent, and it reminds him once more of how alone he is. He cannot join in the revelry of the humans, for today he lost a brother. But neither can he look down on them from on high as his siblings do, for the humans-Dean--are who he turned his back on Heaven to protect.
“Hey, Cas.” Chuck appears beside him, clutching the banister, ever drunk, ever nervous. “Good job with the big bad, man. You know, I really didn’t think I’d make it through this, but here I am. I guess I get to live another day as an unsuccessful pulp fiction novelist.”
“You will be remembered as a prophet, Chuck,” Castiel says, though it seems to bring him little comfort. “And it was Dean who slew him, not I. This is Dean’s victory.” Humanity’s victory, he adds to himself.
“But he couldn’t have done it without you,” Chuck says. “With your-uh, support and stuff. You know.”
Castiel does know. He looks across the lobby to where Dean is, and watches as he doubles over at the waist, laughing uproariously at something Bobby said. When Dean looks up, he catches Castiel’s eye and smiles.
“Castiel,” Chuck says, and Castiel turns back to him. “I just. I wanted to say thanks--for everything. And even if--other people don’t say it, it doesn’t mean they don’t feel it.” Dean’s walking up the staircase towards them now, and Chuck’s words rush out like a waterfall. “And I wanted to tell you that if I could write the ending to this story I’d give everybody what they wanted. I’d--”
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, warm and easy. He notices Chuck after a beat. “Hey, Chuck. Didn’t see you standing there.”
Chuck shrugs as though he hears that a lot. “Nice save with the end of the world, Dean.”
“Thanks.” Dean’s chest puffs up a little bit. “Something for you to write about, huh?”
“You know it, big guy,” Chuck replies. “Hey, you wanna get a picture taken to commemorate this? I found this old camera in one of the backrooms.” Castiel notices the strange black contraption hanging around Chuck’s neck.
“A picture?” Dean pauses only a second before he shrugs. “Yeah, what the hell, right? Maybe it can be your new book cover or something.” He summons Sam over and then beckons to Castiel.
“Uh, Cas? You wanna get in there?” Chuck’s holding up the camera, which is pointed towards where Dean and Sam stand, a few feet away.
Castiel positions himself by Dean awkwardly, not entirely sure what he should be doing. He relaxes a little when Dean’s hand presses lightly against the small of his back.
“Say cheese,” Chuck says, and Castiel doesn’t have a chance to even open his mouth before a light flashes.
A flat square slides out of the bottom of the camera, and Chuck waves it in the air a few times before handing it to Dean. The darkened portion eventually resolves itself into an image: Dean and Sam smiling out at the viewer while Castiel’s face is caught in profile, not quite ready for the shot.
“You’re supposed to look into the camera, dude,” Dean says, elbowing Castiel lightly in the ribs. “But I guess it doesn’t matter-I already know what you look like from the front. Full-frontal, even.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Sam rolls his eyes.
“We should put the date on it or something,” Sam suggests.
“Why, you gonna forget the day we saved the world?” Dean replies, but he asks anyway, “Anyone got a pen?”
With a quick glance at Castiel that he can’t quite decipher, Chuck pulls a black marker out of his pocket. “Always come prepared.”
“Thanks.” Dean pulls off the cap with his teeth and balances the photo on the banister while he scrawls the caption ‘The Day We Saved The World’ at the bottom. “There. Now who gets it?”
“Castiel,” Chuck says quickly, and everyone stares at him. “For safekeeping. He won’t lose it.”
“Okay,” Dean says, raising an eyebrow. “Cas it is.” He passes it to Castiel, and their fingers brush.
Castiel studies the photograph. In it, he looks happy.
The room Dean commandeers is like everything else in the hotel: slightly rundown, with a fine coat of dust graying furniture that might have once been handsome and imposing. A cloud of dust flies up when Castiel sits down on the edge of the bed, and Dean sneezes twice.
Castiel touches the worn bedspread decorated in blue and white stripes, and lingers over the texture of the nubby surface. He tries to remember a time when he didn’t have human hands to touch with, and the memory is hazy, distant.
He waits patiently while Dean takes off his clothes, one article at a time as humans must. The few times Castiel took off his clothing the human way (usually at Dean’s behest) it was a clumsy dance, limbs awkwardly fighting through fabric and buttons and zippers. But when Dean disrobes, the routine is efficient and beautiful, a joy to watch. Every movement results in a layer stripped away, every garment discarded leads to a tantalizing reveal of flesh. And when the final layer is gone, when all that stands between Castiel and Dean is the space in between them, it is as if Dean steals a piece of Castiel’s heart and hides it away where it can never be found.
“Like what you see?” Dean says with a little swagger that doesn’t completely mask the touch of insecurity beneath it.
Castiel studies the body that he once made flawless, now marked gently in a pattern of crisscrossing scars and cuts across the skin. Dean would look at the raised white flesh and be embarrassed by it, by the marring of smooth skin and muscle, but what Castiel sees is evidence of living and being alive-a magnificent tapestry of battles won and lost. Castiel feels the blood begin to sing throughout his body, skin prickling with the now familiar heat and throb below his waist. “I do.”
Dean smiles in response to that, and the self-consciousness in his eyes shifts to something more carnal.
The voices of his brothers and sisters begin to whisper in Castiel’s ears again, apparently finished with their mourning, but Castiel pushes them away. Being with Dean now in this place is a tiny fragment in time that Castiel wishes to hoard jealously to himself, a moment that only exists between the two of them.
Castiel rises, willing away that fabric that wraps around his vessel’s body with a thought.
“I don’t think I’m ever gonna get used to that,” Dean says and touches the newly bared skin of Castiel’s hips, his waist.
Castiel kisses Dean, presses forward until every part of their naked bodies are touching, from chest to toes, and marvels at how much bliss can be found in the simple experience of physical contact. Dean had told him about the other version of Castiel--the one living in the future, caught between humanity and angelhood--and how he had tried to make up the difference with a veil of empty hedonism. At the time, Castiel could not believe he would ever fall so far in any universe, any timeline.
But ever since that first night with Dean, ever since the first intoxicating rush of Dean’s mouth open and moving against his, Castiel has come to realize how terribly close to the edge of humanity he truly stands. How easy it would be to take one last step and fall off that edge.
Dean begins to move more insistently against Castiel, his erection heavy and hard against Castiel’s thigh. Castiel maneuvers Dean back onto the bed, and Dean slides up to let his head fall back against the pillows. “Come on, come on,” he says when Castiel pauses a moment to look at him, tan skin against the blue and white covers, arms under his pillow and legs spread temptingly. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you shouldn’t keep the Chosen One waiting?”
Castiel chuckles and kneels on the bed obligingly. He runs his hands up Dean’s legs, starting from the bottoms of his feet, moving to the back of his calves, and then up the sensitive spots behind his knees. Castiel stops short at the inside of Dean’s thighs, and then ducks down to take the tip of Dean’s erection into his mouth. He sucks hard enough to elicit a gasp, and then pulls off in order to lick down to Dean’s balls, taking them gently in his mouth one at a time before moving away again.
“Quit being such a tease, Cas.” Dean’s practically whining now, hips shifting anxiously from side to side. “Blow me, fuck me-just do something.”
“You should learn to be more patient,” Castiel says as he slithers forward until he’s completely on top of Dean.
“And you should learn to hurry the fuck up,” Dean retorts as his arms come up to pull Castiel down for a sloppy kiss.
Castiel takes Dean’s wrists and lowers them back down to the bed easily, resulting in a sharp, aroused intake of breath from Dean. It’s a simple matter to flip Dean over onto his stomach on the bed.
“That’s cheating,” Dean says, but the annoyance in his voice is counterbalanced by the wanton spreading of his legs.
“Dean,” Castiel whispers, and wonders if that single word conveys even a fraction of the wonder and awe he feels at this moment, all the adoration and affection and tenderness he could not begin to express if he had until the end of time to do it. “Let me--”
“Yeah,” Dean sighs in agreement before he even hears what Castiel is offering. “Whatever you want.”
“Lay still,” Castiel commands as he bends down to bite lightly at the back of Dean’s neck, and then licks a long stripe down Dean’s back to the top of his buttocks. Dean sighs a little when Castiel gently parts the curves and sweeps his tongue into the secret spot between them.
“And here I thought you didn’t know what victory sex was.” Dean tries to sound nonchalant, but the curling of his toes betrays him.
Castiel smiles a little to himself before ducking down again to lick at the tight ring of muscle, waiting for it to relax just enough for him to press gently but firmly in. The muscle flutters around his tongue and Dean moans above him, low and needy. As Castiel continues to alternate between lavishing the outside flesh with sweeps of his tongue and pressing inside, Dean’s moans roll into each other in a soft and continuous wave.
Castiel doesn’t stop until Dean pants, “Cas, please, Cas,” in a shuddering whisper. Castiel gives one final lick before moving up his body again, pressing kisses to every one of Dean’s vertebrae.
When he reaches Dean’s neck, one of Dean’s hands dart out to grab Castiel’s wrist, and Dean’s mouth is around two of Castiel’s fingers before Castiel realizes what’s happening. He loses himself in the warmth of Dean’s mouth around his fingers, tongue sliding suggestively along the knuckles, and exhales in sharp disappointment when Dean lets them go. “Cas, now,” Dean says as he guides Castiel’s fingers down, and Castiel needs no further direction.
He slips the saliva slicked fingers in one at a time and shivers at the burning heat all around them. It only takes a minute of stretching and scissoring before Dean is shifting impatiently again, and Castiel removes his fingers.
Dean moans in relief as Castiel finally slides in. Castiel wraps an arm around Dean’s waist and lifts him so that he’s no longer lying flat on the bed, but is instead propped up on his knees.
“Whoa, warn a guy, will you?” Dean says around a mouthful of pillow. He gets up onto his hands after a beat and Castiel doesn’t move until Dean pushes back a little to signal his readiness. Castiel kisses the arch of Dean’s back where sweat is beginning to pool in apology, and finds Dean’s erection with his hand. Dean thrusts forward approvingly as Castiel begins to stroke easily, tight and quick the way Dean loves it.
It’s only now that Castiel begins to move, hips moving forward and back in a motion that presses Castiel’s dick against Dean’s prostate with every stroke, causing Dean to throw his head back and moan, “Fuck, yeah, Cas. Fuck.”
Castiel focuses his attention on the rhythm, the response of Dean underneath his hands and his body. It becomes more difficult to maintain control when Dean begins to move aggressively as well, pushing into Castiel’s hand and then slamming back against Castiel’s hips so hard Castiel feels dizzy with the heat and pleasure of it.
Castiel feels Dean’s movements begin to stutter as Dean draws closer to climax, and Castiel redoubles his efforts until he feels Dean tense, clenching down on Castiel’s cock before coming apart in Castiel’s hands. Castiel moans and thrusts forward one last time before letting himself go as well, allowing the sensation of orgasm to lift him up and sweep him away as surely as if he were flying.
Castiel collapses on top of Dean, who is sprawled face-down on the bed.
“Holy mother of fuck, Cas,” Dean slurs as he rolls out from under Castiel and onto his side. “How does this keep getting better and better? I’ve never…” He trails off and looks at Castiel through heavy-lidded eyes, expression unreadable.
Castiel watches Dean carefully as the last edges of orgasm recede, leaving behind a drowsy warmth and contentment. “You were victorious, Dean. You saved the world.”
“And is this my reward? Awesome sex that never gets old?” Dean rolls down the sticky bedspread so they can both lie on clean sheets.
The angelic voices that Castiel had so carefully shut out are returning now, murmuring the will of Heaven in his ear in spite-or perhaps because of-his desire for privacy. He touches the spray of freckles across Dean’s cheek and thinks this must be what it feels to want the way a human wants, to want something selfishly and wholly for yourself. “You may request any reward Heaven has in its power to bestow.”
Dean smiles underneath Castiel’s fingertips, changing the terrain of his face into a series of mountains and valleys. “So, what you’re saying is that Heaven’s gonna give me the Heisman Trophy, and you’re just the Dallas Cowboys cheerleader I get to bang on the side?”
Castiel traces the curve of Dean’s bottom lip and knows the words are not what is important now. “What do you want?”
“I dunno.” Dean shrugs. “Sam’s alive, I’m alive, neither of us got worn by any angels to the apoca-prom, Lucifer’s dead, and the world managed not to get completely fucked in the process.” Dean’s gaze softens slightly. “And I-I’m having really great sex on top of all that. It’s more than I thought I’d ever get.”
The voices of his brothers and sisters grow louder in his head, and Castiel closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to hear the message they carry, but he cannot ignore it any longer. “Surely you must want something.”
Dean yawns as he finds Castiel’s hand and intertwines their fingers together. “What else could I need?” Dean asks as his eyes begin to slip closed. “As long as it’s all still here when I wake up.”
Castiel watches Dean sleep for as long as he can, until the calls of his brothers and sisters are no longer a symphony in the back of his mind, but a cacophony of sounds and demands instead. He stares down at where his and Dean’s palms kiss, and wonders if he will ever be able to forget the way this feels, even when he has no human fingers to feel with. Castiel untangles his fingers from Dean’s, and moves off the bed as quickly as he can, afraid that he will invent for himself an excuse to stay.
Before he goes, Castiel looks down at Dean one last time, and can’t help but try to memorize the curves and planes of his body. Even in sleep, Dean is an endless series of contradictions, a puzzle that could fascinate and frustrate Castiel forever. Before Dean, Castiel never envied humans before, never longed to be anything but what he was, but now--
Castiel takes a step back and turns away.
“Dude, Sam, strippers,” Dean says as he ambles through the park, enjoying the smell of the fresh-cut grass and the warmth of the sun on his face. “What’s the point of getting married if you can’t throw a bachelor party and have strippers?”
Sam’s laugh crackles back through the cell phone. “Does Cassie know that’s why you married her?”
“I married Cassie because she’s awesome, okay?” Dean watches a father toss a frisbee back and forth with his son and thinks, that’ll be me in three months. “Besides, for her bachelorette party she went with all her friends to see the Chippendales. So I’m pretty sure she’s not in a position to judge here.”
Sam’s making the bitchface he always makes when he knows he’s lost to Dean’s superior intellect; Dean can tell even through the phone. “Fine. I’ll talk to Jess about it, okay? Happy now?”
“Damn skippy I am,” Dean says. “Just don’t tell Dad about it or he’ll wanna go. You remember how weird it was when Dad showed up at my bachelor party and started waving dollar bills around.”
“Oh god,” Sam groans. “And Mom was pissed for weeks after that because he came home drunk and threw up on the living room floor.”
Dean shakes his head at the memory. “Good times. Hey, don’t you have some studying to do? Some spirit-crushing law school crap to do?”
“Between studying for finals and planning this wedding, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing left to crush,” Sam replies glumly.
Dean chuckles as he hangs up, and then feels a stinging impact on his calves as something hard and round hits the back of his legs. “What the--” Dean turns, and there’s a soccer ball rolling on the ground a foot away from him. He leans down to grab the ball and holds it out to the distressed looking little girl who approaches him. “This yours?”
“Y-yes,” the girl says, pushing her glasses up by the bridge of her nose. “I’m so sorry it hit you.”
“Happens all the time,” Dean says lightly as she takes the soccer ball. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks,” she says, and he turns to go. “Hey wait, mister. I think you dropped something!”
Dean checks his pockets for his phone and wallet-which are still there-and then turns back to the little girl, who is holding out something small and square. He accepts what turns out to be a Polaroid photograph and stares down at it curiously: it’s a picture of him and Sam grinning widely into the camera. The picture looks recent, but Dean doesn’t recognize where they are in the photo, or when they might have even taken it since Sam’s been living in California for the past three years.
Even odder is the third man in the photo, a handsome man who seems strangely familiar even though Dean is almost certain they’ve never met before. He has dark messy hair and seems faintly disheveled, with a long tan trench coat and a rumpled black suit underneath. The man isn’t even looking directly at the camera in the photo; instead, he’s looking over at Dean and smiling.
Dean shrugs and pockets the photograph. The strange guy is probably just one of Sam or Jess’ friends that Dean met and forgot; they must have all been out drinking the night it was taken because the smudged caption at the bottom says, ‘The Day We Saved The World.’
fin