[FiC]: The Ghost Of You Lingers (Dean/Castiel, Adult)
[The Ghost Of You Lingers]
SPN. Dean/Castiel. R. ~2,580 words. Vague S5.
Notes/Warnings: schmoopy pornlet; language; cigarettes. Quick and unbeta'ed. Title from Spoon. For my spn_30snapshots table to the prompt smell.
- - -
It's the dying days of winter, the sky above swollen like a fresh bruise. New York City is on the verge of a thunderstorm, and Dean's riding it out in a shabby little apartment somewhere deep in the heart of Hell's Kitchen.
It's early morning, and Dean's leaning against the rusting fire escape four stories from the ground, watching the steam rise from the wet pavement in the alley below, listening to the honking and squealing of traffic. The sounds of the waking city have become a noisy backdrop to his own steady breathing.
Dean's always hated cities, always hated New York especially, but there's something about being able to lose a few days in the anonymous swirl of people and tall buildings. There's something about the chaotic crowds full of people that never stop to look or wonder what he's doing here. This is a city of strangers, and Dean's spent most of his life feeling like a stranger in a strange land. It's fitting he should end up here now.
Dean takes a long drag from his cigarette, needing the nicotine like he needs a good night's sleep. He tightens his other hand on the railing, exhaling the smoke into the cool morning air. His stomach growls, tempted by the sweet smells emanating from the bakery around the corner.
Dean needs to figure out what the fuck he's doing, what the fuck they're all going to do. They're chasing the apocalypse, on the trail of the devil, but maybe for now it's enough that he can just close his eyes, inhale the bitter city stench, and try to make it through another day without losing his shit. He watches a gutter punk loiter in front of the Gristedes, and for a moment he's transported back to his own childhood - long days spent wandering back roads and city streets, all too often homeless and hungry and in over his head. Nothing much has changed, except now he's learned to fuck up the entire world and not just Sammy's lunch.
Dean lights another cigarette with the butt of the first, then changes his mind and flicks them both over the railing into the gutter below. He's too tired, too hungry, and there's a thumping pressure building behind his eyes. He should get breakfast from the diner across the street, but first he should call Sam and see how he's doing with the research at the library, and he should figure out how long Cas is in town for.
Think of the angel, and he shall appear.
Dean smirks as he turns to see Cas climbing out onto the fire escape. Dean watches him for a long moment, noting the way the grey morning light plays across Castiel's pale naked chest, the way his back muscles bunch and pull as he takes his place at Dean's side and crosses his long arms over the railing. The only thing Cas is wearing is his black slacks, unbuttoned and hanging low on his narrow hips. His hair is sex-mussed, his eyes tired and puffy. They'd been fucking all night, pushing their own demons away, working each other up so fast and so hard it's a miracle they're both standing upright.
Dean doesn't know what he's doing these days. But somehow Cas is a steadiness Dean's come to rely on. Too much or too little, he doesn't really know yet. Dean squints upward, watches the sun hide behind a cloud. A streak of lightening dances across the sky.
"You were right," Cas says without preamble, looking away from the noisy street. "The angels were responsible for the fires in Portland, Bangkok, and Berlin yesterday."
"Son of a bitch," Dean huffs, scowling as he drums his half-empty pack of Luckies against the railing. "Fuck it. I think we should head back to bed. This day is already fucked to hell and back."
"Dean," Cas says, voice chastising. He places a hand over Dean's upper arm, the warmth of his palm seeping through Dean's skin. The pressure building behind Dean's temple is making him feel a little dizzy, so he presses closer to Castiel, rests his hands around his slim waist. Says, "I'm serious, Cas. Let's go back to bed."
For once Cas doesn't argue; he simply gathers Dean in his arms and pulls them both inside. In a matter of seconds, they make themselves at home on the bed they've been sharing in the guest room (the apartment itself belongs to a friend of a friend of Bobby's). Clothes thrown to the floor, they arrange themselves under the covers, chests and dicks aligning, hands slipping and lips catching.
Dean grips into the muscles of Castiel's back, lets Castiel set the pace this round. He thinks about last night, the way Cas fucked his ass like he owned it, fucked him loose and open and raw. He thinks about being inside Castiel only a couple hours before, the feel of his sweet, tight ass contracting around him. They're too tired to fuck now though, so they just move together. They lose themselves in the rocking motion of their bodies, cocks bumping and grinding with a slow, perfect friction. By the end, Dean's thrusting and twisting and moaning so loud he almost misses the sound of the rain when the storm finally comes.
The last things Dean remembers before he falls asleep are Castiel's slitted blue eyes watching him come apart, and the way the chaotic drumbeat rhythm of the rain against the roof sounded just like his heart.
- - -
Dean wakes to the sound of thunder, a roar and a rumble that fills the dark apartment and sends gooseflesh across his naked skin. When Castiel snakes an arm around him, Dean presses his face against Castiel's neck, breathes in the electric ozone smell of the angel's skin, of the world outside. Dean stays that way for a while, humming as Cas runs his fingers through his hair.
"I should leave soon," Castiel says after a while. Dean grunts, winds his bare legs around Castiel's, loving the rough feel of their leg hair catching.
"And I should go gank a magical blade to kill an aswang," Dean mumbles, hand reaching to curl around Castiel's dick, sending the angel's lean body quivering and shaking underneath him. Skin sliding over skin, Dean kisses Cas into silence, convinces him to stay just a little while longer.
It's hunger that eventually forces Dean out of bed more than an hour later. He slides on his discarded pair of boxers and heads down the hall, bare feet whispering over the cool wood floor. Dean stops in the bathroom to take a long piss, wash his hands, and brush his teeth before making his way to the small kitchen in search of food. Sam texted that he'd be heading to one of the university libraries in the afternoon, and Dean knows it's just an excuse to give him and Cas some alone time. Sam gets this goofy, all-knowing look on his face every time he looks at them. Dean often has the urge to superglue his nosy little brother's eyelids shut; that'd teach him.
Dean pauses at the kitchen window, stopping to assess the grey skies and the rain-slick streets. Through the rain-spattered glass, he watches the movement of the city - the people rushing through the rain with umbrellas and ponchos, and the cars throwing up waves of water onto the sidewalks. He leans his head against the pane; his breath fogs the glass in oval patches that slowly disappear.
Dean knows this is it. The days are counting down. Sooner or later this all will come to a head. He'll have to make the kind of decision no one should ever have to make. Dean sighs. The rain's just a soft trickle now, hitting the windowpane in a gentle tap-tap-tap. In the distance, somewhere beyond the Upper West Side, Dean can see a meld of blue and gold through all the gray clouds, the promise of clearer skies.
Dean turns away from the window and makes his way toward the top row of kitchen cabinets. The apartment hasn't been occupied in months, so when they first started squatting the only edible food was the canned goods left in the pantry. Dean brought a few other essentials at the corner grocer yesterday: fruit, bread, cheese, lunch meat. Tried to keep it healthy and trans-fat-free so Sammy wouldn't bitch too much. Dean whistles as he puts on a fresh pot of coffee. He then pulls down a box of Lucky Charms and munches on the dry cereal while the coffee brews.
A few minutes later, Dean takes his fresh steaming cup of joe and the cereal box back to the bedroom with him. There he finds Cas leaning back against the headboard, naked as the day his vessel was born, his long legs tangled in the lavender sheets. His dick is soft, resting snug against a nest of dark curls. The room itself is warm; it smells like sex and old books and the winter rainstorm.
Dean meets Castiel's gaze as the angel brings a lit cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. Cas smokes for a long moment, steadily watching Dean. Dean's eyes trace the curve of Castiel's pink lips, transfixed by the way they curl around the end of the cigarette. Then Dean laughs, shakes his head, and says, "I'm a horrible influence."
"You are a truly abominable influence," Cas agrees dryly, mouth circling around a slow exhale of smoke. "I seem to have picked up several of your worse vices." His gaze lingers on Dean's own as he runs his free hand down between his legs to stroke his dick, lazy-slow and teasing.
"You love all my fucking vices," Dean growls breathlessly, a soft heat winding through his body, settling in his gut. He sets the coffee mug and cereal box on the side table before crawling back onto the bed. He leans across Cas and takes the cigarette from his mouth. Dean takes a long pull, holds the smoke inside of his lungs for a moment before he exhales slowly; he watches the smoke wreathe around Castiel's head. He then takes another drag before resting his hands against the sharp, perfect angles of Castiel's hipbones and leaning in for a kiss.
Castiel opens for him automatically, and Dean pushes the smoke into the angel's mouth, rolls it across their tongues. This is the way Dean taught Cas to do this once upon a time: long hours spent passing the smoke between each other, getting lost in the lazy slide of their tongues and the quiet friction of their bodies.
It's another long moment before Dean manages to pull himself away from the addicting lure of Castiel's warm, wet mouth. He stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray on the side table before dragging Castiel down to the middle of the bed with him.
Castiel lands on his back, staring up at Dean. "I should go soon," the angel sighs, running his fingers along Dean's stubbled jawline. "I have a lead to track in Guadalajara."
Dean runs his fingers over the amulet Cas has looped around his neck. It's the only thing Cas is currently wearing. It's weird to think of Cas taking this important piece of Dean with him everywhere he goes; but Dean trusts him with it, and he knows it somehow connects them. "Think you'll find him?" Dean asks after a beat, letting the amulet fall back against Castiel's chest.
"I don't know how any of this will end, Dean. But I have to keep searching," Castiel says, his warm hand landing on Dean's cheek. Dean turns into the touch, slides his body alongside Castiel's and says, "Yeah, I know."
If only the searching was enough to get them somewhere, Dean thinks. Nothing seems enough right now. It's why he takes what he can when he can. It's why he takes this half-fallen angel into his bed every time he gets the chance. And maybe it's why Dean clings so hard to what he has now; he clings so hard it almost feels real. Almost feels lasting.
Dean licks his dry lips as Cas leans closer. He captures Castiel's mouth, his tongue sweeping inside, tasting coffee and tobacco. Cas slides his arms around Dean, digs his fingers into Dean's waist, and pulls himself on top of Dean. Castiel's movements are smooth and graceful. His sleek muscular thighs wrap around Dean's hips, and his long fingers trace up and down Dean's spine. The smell of smoke and sex lingers on him, and Dean takes the time to suck at Castiel's throat, to taste the seasalt tang of his skin.
Some moments are good, solid, real. They're perfect enough to linger on in the space they once occupied long after the day is over, taking up time and energy like some ghostly revenant. Moments like these are rare. The hour of peace after the storm has passed. The sound of Castiel's voice in his ears: please Dean, please; the feel of Castiel's demanding hands on his flesh; and the smell of smoke and the city grit, spunk and dirty shirts.
Castiel looks down at him, eyes bluer than usual. Dean closes his own eyes, but he feels when Castiel leans closer to run his lips across Dean's eyelids. Dean's too tired to think or ask for more. But he says anyway, "You should stay a while, Cas."
"I should go before the day ends," Cas replies, voice gone thick and distant, like he's already on the verge of leaving.
"Then c'mere," Dean says, drawing Castiel closer. The angel's hard, warm body still feels like a refuge. "You gotta leave me something to remember you by."
Dean's mouth is rough and hungry, taking what he can in the time he can. But Castiel is gentle when he gives, pressing his lips against Dean's neck and wrapping long fingers around Dean's cock. Dean rocks into Castiel's grip, into the warm surety of his tight fist. Cas works Dean fast and quick, and Dean lets his mind narrow to this singular moment: to the force and pressure of Castiel's touch, and the secret warmth of his mouth.
Dean comes with his eyes squeezed shut and a shout caught in his throat, spilling hot and thick into Castiel's hand. Cas strokes him through it all, his breathing gone ragged.
"Your turn," Dean whispers, taking Castiel's thick length into his own hand, jacking him with all the strength he can muster up. Castiel groans, rests his head against Dean's neck, and thrusts jerkily into Dean's fist.
"Come for me, Cas," Dean urges, tightening his hold as he says it. Cas bites down on Dean's neck as he comes, fingers gripping tight into the muscle of Dean's upper arms. When Cas is done, Dean pulls him closer, letting Castiel's weight fall on top of him.
They stay that way for a long moment, bodies twined together in the middle of the bed in a tangle of sheets and sweat-slicked limbs. There's light pouring in through the bedroom window, a sharp splash of afternoon sun that spills across their naked bodies.
Dean closes his eyes. The rain's stopped; the sun's come out. The city waits for him.
-fin-