Fic: Don't End With Blood
Title: Don’t End With Blood
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings Enticements: Bloodplay, language, explicit sex, mild BDSM, possible consent issues, dark themes, masochism, broken!Winchesters, knifeplay, blood drinking. If you're squeamish at all, move along.
Word Count: 1,669
Summary: "Family don’t end with blood, boy." - Bobby, No Rest for the Wicked.
Written originally for spnwriterlounge's Christmas in July fic exchange, further tweaked since then.
~ ~ ~
The first time it happened Castiel smeared oil on Dean’s forehead and anointed him. Dean watched from below crinkled eyebrows as Castiel muttered words of some ancient language, a cleansing prayer, he’d explained. Dean was wary, but then Castiel dropped to his knees and sucked his cock so good he came in fucking record time.
The second time it happened, Castiel shoved Dean to his knees against a dirty wall behind an indiscriminate dive bar in Indiana. Next to a dumpster, with one of Castiel’s hands cinched in his hair and the other braced against the wet slick of bricks, Dean let Castiel fuck into his mouth and swallowed every drop of it when the angel came, hard and fast, down his throat.
The third time it happened, Dean whipped out a fist against Castiel’s jaw and called him a useless fucking pussy, a bitchboy of Heaven when it impacted with a cold smack. Red welled up and sneaked out of one corner of Castiel’s mouth, the color of a hibiscus bloom, the color of a rich jewel, sucking Dean’s eyes to it and holding them there, as a magnet. His lips fell open in a soft gape as he stared, the small stain expanding as it swelled and bled through the pale skin around it. Then Dean was flat on his back with a punch of breath, Castiel ripping at his clothes like a wildcat. Dean choked a quiet no, but Castiel slapped him hard across the face and crawled up his body, one knee on each side of Dean’s shoulders.
“You should show me some respect,” he growled, and the words hit Dean harder than a sledgehammer, whiplashed him back to a dimly-lit kitchen and the alien electrical reverberation bending the space around the figure in front of him, the hair of Dean’s arms prickling to attention as if lightning would strike any second. Castiel was still alien and untrustworthy and terrifying then, an enigma that scared Dean more than any monster or spirit or demon ever had. He shifted the pieces around and tore Dean’s long-founded convictions from him, left him naked and grappling for purchase in some dark new world that hummed with fate and destiny and purpose. Faith.
Dean shivered and didn’t complain when Castiel gripped the back of his neck and pushed his cock past Dean’s lips. His head fell back in a long white flash of throat, the carefully-measured monotony of his voice unraveling into low groans and sighs, and Dean couldn’t stop staring at the way Castiel’s palm flattened to the wall, delicate bird-like bones of his wrists peering out from beneath the cuff of his coat. And when he scrambled back and flipped Dean over, had him bent over the bed before Dean’s muscles could catch up to how Castiel was maneuvering them, Dean realized with firm conviction that nothing had changed: Castiel was still just as alien, just as terrifying and primal, and it still made Dean’s hands tremble with apprehension every time he thought about him.
Castiel kept his hand pushed against the back of Dean’s neck while he fucked him, Dean stuttering and unable to move but not wanting to. When Castiel came, he said it again: “Show me some respect, Dean.”
The fourth time it happened, Dean called bullshit and demanded to know why Castiel was still helping them. Words were exchanged, insults slung, and somehow Castiel ended up pinned under Dean with a bloody nose and the darkness of lust staining the crystal blue of his eyes. His hands like marble claws tore at Dean’s jeans and pulled his cock out, stroking and pulling while Dean crushed their mouths together until he thought his teeth would break. When some of Castiel’s blood smeared onto his upper lip, Dean licked it off, surprised by the sudden sweet thrill flaring through his nerves at the jolt, like licking a battery or teasing a light socket. He blinked at Castiel and Castiel nodded, bit his lip hard enough to draw fresh crimson to the surface, and swallowed Dean up with that same sweet messy euphoria that lit Dean up like a livewire.
Dean lost track of times after that.
Sam was drinking demon blood and Dean couldn’t look his brother in the eye when he accused him of being a blood-sucking freak. There was a wedge driven between them, a rift that Dean wasn’t sure would ever heal, all because some stupid hellbitch shoved her rancid blood down Sammy’s desperate throat. And Sammy, stupid Sammy, he’d gone and become an addict, a dirty whorish junkie sneaking fixes in dark alleys and scratching at his wrists, red-rimmed eyes darting madly, never quite focusing. As far down as Dean had sunk, he’d never once breached the line of addiction, and anyway he’d only ever tasted Castiel’s blood. He never drank it. Never kept it in flasks and spliced the angel’s arm open to drink straight from the hot welling fount of his veins. With them it was just a power struggle, a kink, a thrilling fetish they only ever indulged in that one time and never brought it up again afterwards. They didn’t stop fucking, but blood never entered the equation after that.
It was somewhere caught between dusty West Texas and the blistering heat of New Mexico that it all changed.
Lucifer had risen and Sam was MIA. Dean was working with Castiel to find him, but the tricky bastard had used a hex bag and left no breadcrumbs. Sneaky brainiac Sam, always thinking one step ahead, brought up with the best of them to be a good hunter, and he was. Sam was a ghost drifting through nameless towns, not even a body trail chasing him as a shadow. He was sufficiently under the radar; the best Dean could offer was guesswork.
On the seventh day Sam was gone, Dean pushed Castiel onto his back and shoved into him in one hard push; the angel never flinched. He never winced or gasped or denied Dean anything he wanted to take, never fought off his body that covered Castiel’s smaller one completely or his slowly-consuming codependency. If anything he indulged it, condoned it even, with how willingly he laid himself bare for Dean’s taking. Dean wondered if Castiel even felt the pain of it. His cheeks always went rosy and his eyes fogged over, his jaw cracking open in a loose gape when he spilled all across his stomach; he obviously felt the pleasure, but never the pain.
Dean envied him his hollowness.
With Castiel’s ankles tight against his back, Dean wrenched his eyes open to stare Castiel in the face. “Dean,” the angel hissed out as he stared right back, drilling twin frigid burns straight through Dean’s skin. Like acid injected in the veins, it crept in a slow burn all across Dean’s body until he felt corroded and poisoned. Fucking an angel like this, it shouldn’t be fair, it shouldn’t be allowed, shouldn’t be happening. Castiel’s sense of loyalty, though, his selflessness and blind faith and duty, eclipsed the shame of it, and it made Dean retch to think he wasn’t going to be punished for this, because this was what he needed. And Castiel would tirelessly give it to him, whatever he wanted or required, no matter how deep Castiel had to dig, no matter if he had to scrape out the bitter pulp of what remained of his dignity, Dean was sure that Castiel would do it because Castiel believed in him.
Castiel’s voice again, slippery-dark and enticing, like he was enjoying it but Dean knew better, said, “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” Dean instinctually sighed. He snapped his hips harder into Castiel’s with the low grate of the angel’s voice, all abandoned and uncollected, saturated with the rush of lust. It was such a change, such a dramatic flipside to how cool and calculated he usually was. Dean could see it happening a thousand miles away, yet he wasn’t doing a damn thing to stop it - Castiel was slowly slipping down, going crazy, going human, and Dean was the one doing it to him. It sat sour on his stomach but he didn't stop fucking him, because this one thing was his - Castiel was his - and he’d shred anyone who tried to take that away from him. Not here, not now, not Castiel.
“Then drink,” Castiel said, voice still commanding even beneath his wilted gasps and weak sighs. The knife was in his hand, ghosting across his palm before Dean could object. His blood, thick and hot and petal-red, smearing over Dean’s open lips, just barely making it inside his mouth.
And Dean knew he should stop. He knew he should turn away from the blood and tell Castiel to go fuck himself, no way was he going to debase himself and sink as low as Sammy had. With all the demon blood curdling in his veins, Sam was hardly his brother anymore as it was; the Winchester bloodline had been fractured, their brotherhood filed away until the last frayed strings heaved and strained under the weight of Armageddon at its end. Dean could only gasp and shake as the web-thin filaments snapped, every lick and drop driving them further apart, demon blood on one side, angel blood on the other, both so damaged and undone by the viruses ebbing and multiplying in their veins.
But he didn’t. He didn’t stop him.
The fluid was rich, metallic but somehow sweet, lilted with a hint of tangy salt. Thick, succulent, spicy… Luscious enough to get him drunk on just a swallow, but addictive enough that he couldn’t stop after so little. Imbued with some power, an indefinable meshing point between grace and fury that surged tears into Dean’s eyes - not human blood, but more. Dean kept his stare set heavy and hot as an iron brand on Castiel’s face as he hinged his mouth wider, fastened his lips to the flat stretching plane of Castiel’s bleeding palm, and drank.
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings Enticements: Bloodplay, language, explicit sex, mild BDSM, possible consent issues, dark themes, masochism, broken!Winchesters, knifeplay, blood drinking. If you're squeamish at all, move along.
Word Count: 1,669
Summary: "Family don’t end with blood, boy." - Bobby, No Rest for the Wicked.
Written originally for spnwriterlounge's Christmas in July fic exchange, further tweaked since then.
~ ~ ~
The first time it happened Castiel smeared oil on Dean’s forehead and anointed him. Dean watched from below crinkled eyebrows as Castiel muttered words of some ancient language, a cleansing prayer, he’d explained. Dean was wary, but then Castiel dropped to his knees and sucked his cock so good he came in fucking record time.
The second time it happened, Castiel shoved Dean to his knees against a dirty wall behind an indiscriminate dive bar in Indiana. Next to a dumpster, with one of Castiel’s hands cinched in his hair and the other braced against the wet slick of bricks, Dean let Castiel fuck into his mouth and swallowed every drop of it when the angel came, hard and fast, down his throat.
The third time it happened, Dean whipped out a fist against Castiel’s jaw and called him a useless fucking pussy, a bitchboy of Heaven when it impacted with a cold smack. Red welled up and sneaked out of one corner of Castiel’s mouth, the color of a hibiscus bloom, the color of a rich jewel, sucking Dean’s eyes to it and holding them there, as a magnet. His lips fell open in a soft gape as he stared, the small stain expanding as it swelled and bled through the pale skin around it. Then Dean was flat on his back with a punch of breath, Castiel ripping at his clothes like a wildcat. Dean choked a quiet no, but Castiel slapped him hard across the face and crawled up his body, one knee on each side of Dean’s shoulders.
“You should show me some respect,” he growled, and the words hit Dean harder than a sledgehammer, whiplashed him back to a dimly-lit kitchen and the alien electrical reverberation bending the space around the figure in front of him, the hair of Dean’s arms prickling to attention as if lightning would strike any second. Castiel was still alien and untrustworthy and terrifying then, an enigma that scared Dean more than any monster or spirit or demon ever had. He shifted the pieces around and tore Dean’s long-founded convictions from him, left him naked and grappling for purchase in some dark new world that hummed with fate and destiny and purpose. Faith.
Dean shivered and didn’t complain when Castiel gripped the back of his neck and pushed his cock past Dean’s lips. His head fell back in a long white flash of throat, the carefully-measured monotony of his voice unraveling into low groans and sighs, and Dean couldn’t stop staring at the way Castiel’s palm flattened to the wall, delicate bird-like bones of his wrists peering out from beneath the cuff of his coat. And when he scrambled back and flipped Dean over, had him bent over the bed before Dean’s muscles could catch up to how Castiel was maneuvering them, Dean realized with firm conviction that nothing had changed: Castiel was still just as alien, just as terrifying and primal, and it still made Dean’s hands tremble with apprehension every time he thought about him.
Castiel kept his hand pushed against the back of Dean’s neck while he fucked him, Dean stuttering and unable to move but not wanting to. When Castiel came, he said it again: “Show me some respect, Dean.”
The fourth time it happened, Dean called bullshit and demanded to know why Castiel was still helping them. Words were exchanged, insults slung, and somehow Castiel ended up pinned under Dean with a bloody nose and the darkness of lust staining the crystal blue of his eyes. His hands like marble claws tore at Dean’s jeans and pulled his cock out, stroking and pulling while Dean crushed their mouths together until he thought his teeth would break. When some of Castiel’s blood smeared onto his upper lip, Dean licked it off, surprised by the sudden sweet thrill flaring through his nerves at the jolt, like licking a battery or teasing a light socket. He blinked at Castiel and Castiel nodded, bit his lip hard enough to draw fresh crimson to the surface, and swallowed Dean up with that same sweet messy euphoria that lit Dean up like a livewire.
Dean lost track of times after that.
Sam was drinking demon blood and Dean couldn’t look his brother in the eye when he accused him of being a blood-sucking freak. There was a wedge driven between them, a rift that Dean wasn’t sure would ever heal, all because some stupid hellbitch shoved her rancid blood down Sammy’s desperate throat. And Sammy, stupid Sammy, he’d gone and become an addict, a dirty whorish junkie sneaking fixes in dark alleys and scratching at his wrists, red-rimmed eyes darting madly, never quite focusing. As far down as Dean had sunk, he’d never once breached the line of addiction, and anyway he’d only ever tasted Castiel’s blood. He never drank it. Never kept it in flasks and spliced the angel’s arm open to drink straight from the hot welling fount of his veins. With them it was just a power struggle, a kink, a thrilling fetish they only ever indulged in that one time and never brought it up again afterwards. They didn’t stop fucking, but blood never entered the equation after that.
It was somewhere caught between dusty West Texas and the blistering heat of New Mexico that it all changed.
Lucifer had risen and Sam was MIA. Dean was working with Castiel to find him, but the tricky bastard had used a hex bag and left no breadcrumbs. Sneaky brainiac Sam, always thinking one step ahead, brought up with the best of them to be a good hunter, and he was. Sam was a ghost drifting through nameless towns, not even a body trail chasing him as a shadow. He was sufficiently under the radar; the best Dean could offer was guesswork.
On the seventh day Sam was gone, Dean pushed Castiel onto his back and shoved into him in one hard push; the angel never flinched. He never winced or gasped or denied Dean anything he wanted to take, never fought off his body that covered Castiel’s smaller one completely or his slowly-consuming codependency. If anything he indulged it, condoned it even, with how willingly he laid himself bare for Dean’s taking. Dean wondered if Castiel even felt the pain of it. His cheeks always went rosy and his eyes fogged over, his jaw cracking open in a loose gape when he spilled all across his stomach; he obviously felt the pleasure, but never the pain.
Dean envied him his hollowness.
With Castiel’s ankles tight against his back, Dean wrenched his eyes open to stare Castiel in the face. “Dean,” the angel hissed out as he stared right back, drilling twin frigid burns straight through Dean’s skin. Like acid injected in the veins, it crept in a slow burn all across Dean’s body until he felt corroded and poisoned. Fucking an angel like this, it shouldn’t be fair, it shouldn’t be allowed, shouldn’t be happening. Castiel’s sense of loyalty, though, his selflessness and blind faith and duty, eclipsed the shame of it, and it made Dean retch to think he wasn’t going to be punished for this, because this was what he needed. And Castiel would tirelessly give it to him, whatever he wanted or required, no matter how deep Castiel had to dig, no matter if he had to scrape out the bitter pulp of what remained of his dignity, Dean was sure that Castiel would do it because Castiel believed in him.
Castiel’s voice again, slippery-dark and enticing, like he was enjoying it but Dean knew better, said, “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” Dean instinctually sighed. He snapped his hips harder into Castiel’s with the low grate of the angel’s voice, all abandoned and uncollected, saturated with the rush of lust. It was such a change, such a dramatic flipside to how cool and calculated he usually was. Dean could see it happening a thousand miles away, yet he wasn’t doing a damn thing to stop it - Castiel was slowly slipping down, going crazy, going human, and Dean was the one doing it to him. It sat sour on his stomach but he didn't stop fucking him, because this one thing was his - Castiel was his - and he’d shred anyone who tried to take that away from him. Not here, not now, not Castiel.
“Then drink,” Castiel said, voice still commanding even beneath his wilted gasps and weak sighs. The knife was in his hand, ghosting across his palm before Dean could object. His blood, thick and hot and petal-red, smearing over Dean’s open lips, just barely making it inside his mouth.
And Dean knew he should stop. He knew he should turn away from the blood and tell Castiel to go fuck himself, no way was he going to debase himself and sink as low as Sammy had. With all the demon blood curdling in his veins, Sam was hardly his brother anymore as it was; the Winchester bloodline had been fractured, their brotherhood filed away until the last frayed strings heaved and strained under the weight of Armageddon at its end. Dean could only gasp and shake as the web-thin filaments snapped, every lick and drop driving them further apart, demon blood on one side, angel blood on the other, both so damaged and undone by the viruses ebbing and multiplying in their veins.
But he didn’t. He didn’t stop him.
The fluid was rich, metallic but somehow sweet, lilted with a hint of tangy salt. Thick, succulent, spicy… Luscious enough to get him drunk on just a swallow, but addictive enough that he couldn’t stop after so little. Imbued with some power, an indefinable meshing point between grace and fury that surged tears into Dean’s eyes - not human blood, but more. Dean kept his stare set heavy and hot as an iron brand on Castiel’s face as he hinged his mouth wider, fastened his lips to the flat stretching plane of Castiel’s bleeding palm, and drank.