Fic: Plan B (Dean/Castiel)
Title: Plan B
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: The spoiler clip for 5x03
Length: ~1,600 words
Summary: Dean Winchester keeps his promises.
Author’s Note: I told tracy_loo_who that I would try to get Dean and Cas to do that with the, y’know, stuff from the 5x03 clip. It took me a lot longer and turned out a lot angstier than I anticipated. I also told aesc that I could write it in less than 500 words, which um. Okay, I’m full of fail today. But ENJOY.
Plan B
Dean Winchester has made a lot of promises over the years. I’ll keep Sam safe. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll stop it. He maybe doesn’t have the best track record. But this promise-You are not gonna die a virgin. Not on my watch-this one he intends to keep.
Even if it means he has to take matters into his own hands. As it were.
“Cas, c’mere,” Dean says. The decision’s made; he holds his shoulders straight. Cas, on the other hand, looks hunched under the heavy weight of his coat. Still reeling from the spectacular failure that was Plan A, apparently. But Dean’s going to fix all of that. He’s not going to let Cas die a virgin. He’s not.
“Let’s try something else,” he says, and rubs his hand along that tensed curve of muscle until he’s cradling Cas’ neck. Cas’ eyes swing to his, wide, and Dean swallows once, pushing closer, slowly, not as decisive as he’d like to be.
“Dean?” Cas says, and there, that does it somehow-one low recitation of his name, and Dean’s leaning in, whispering “Shh,” pressing his mouth against Cas’ dry lips.
Any lingering fear that he might have had that Cas would push him away, would stutter and blush and flee like he did with the, ahem, ladies of ill repute, swiftly evaporates. Cas is like a statue coming to life beneath his hands, growing warm and pliant. Growing needy, greedy, kissing him back with a passion that surprises Dean. That reminds Dean that he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing here, how he’s really going to follow through.
Cas says his name again, breathy, intense, and Dean turns his sudden tight-chested panic into a laugh. “See? Now you have the occasion.” He sucks in a breath. “Take off your coat, Cas.”
Cas practically rips it off, still trying to cling desperately to Dean’s lips, to his shoulders, his sides, his waist. His movements are jerky, human; his eyes wide and dark and full of so much want that Dean can barely fathom it. He just thought he’d sit here quietly? Fuck. Dean can’t even- That is so fucked.
Dean spreads out Cas’ coat on the floor. He gets down, leans back, spreads himself out, too. “Come down here,” he says, voice rough with a bravado he doesn’t fully feel. “Come here and fuck me.”
He needs Cas to do this. He wants Cas to need to do this. So even though Cas is still kind of staring at him slack-jawed, this new command having apparently shortwired his stunted angel brain, Dean doesn’t stop. He unbuttons his fly, starts worming his jeans down his legs. If he looks up and to the left, he’s afraid he’ll see the sky already beginning to lighten.
“Come here,” he says again, and this time, Cas comes, awkward on his knees for one so penitent, crawling across the dusty floor to Dean. Yet when it comes to kissing, Cas doesn’t need to be told twice: he’s grasped the concept instantly, mouth alternately hard and soft, forceful and relenting. He lets Dean in, lets Dean tug his suit jacket off his shoulders, loosen his tie, get his fly undone. Dean worms his hand inside, not thinking about it-man. angel. other man’s cock-because then he will freak out. But he’s not freaking out. He’s touching Cas’ dick, and Cas is making a stuttery, broken sound against Dean’s mouth, gripping Dean tight like he wants to raise him up all over again. So, uh. Points for Plan B.
And yet Dean needs- He’s gonna need- And suddenly it hits him, so perfect he couldn’t have planned it better. He shifts Cas a little, and keeping him thoroughly distracted, gropes for the jar that all night has kept teetering on the table. Like it wants to spill out, fragrant and slightly warm, across Dean’s hands, slicking the skin of his palms. Very special. Very rare. Well, this is a special moment. Cas is how many thousands of years old, and he’s only going to be a virgin for another couple minutes or so, if Dean has anything to say about it. He just has to- Do it. Just do it.
He promised.
Determined, Dean squirms away from Cas’ octopus-like grip and wriggles out of his boxers, then runs a hand down past his balls and to the crack of his ass. Cas is staring at him, kneeling between Dean’s splayed legs. It should make it harder, the eyes on him, but somehow it’s easier when he can look up and know what he’s doing this for, that he’s doing it for Cas: Cas who should get to experience what it’s like to be a man at least once, and if that means Dean has to play bitch, well. He’s played at worse things.
He works his fingers inside, first one, then a second, scissoring them in sort of rushed and sloppy, because it doesn’t really matter, this isn’t about him. It should be freaking him out, though, his fingers up his ass and Castiel staring down at him, but instead he finds himself scooching forward, bearing down and pushing deeper, and with his free hand he grabs Cas by the hip, guiding him forward. His hand is still slick against Cas’ taut skin, the firm ridge of his hipbone, and he slides it down until he’s fisting Cas’ dick, until they’re both perfectly greased like engine parts, made to fit together.
Dean cants his hips up. “Come on, come on,” he says, and Cas may be a virgin, but he’s hardly clueless: even angels, it seems, know where to stick it. He lifts Dean up with disturbing ease, bungling the line up at first, the head of his cock bumping off the edge of Dean’s hole, sliding heavy against Dean’s inner thigh. Dean lets out a frustrated grunt. “Fuck me,” he says, and he’ll swear to his (second) grave it’s a command and not a plea.
Cas mutters something like, “I’m endeavoring to-” before cutting himself off with a guttural, “Fuck,” eyes squeezing shut as the head of his cock pushes inside Dean for real, squeezing past that tight ring of muscle, and Dean’s sweating so much he’s slick with it, his fingers are leaving instantly-healing bruises on Cas’ arms. His knees are locking, pressing tight around Cas’ waist, and he can’t- He can’t even- Because Cas is inside him, he’s filling him up, and he’s not a virgin anymore, just like Dean promised. Just like Dean promised, Cas is having sex for the first time on his last night alive, moving in and out of Dean with hard, desperate strokes, even as he tries to cushion Dean’s head from the rough, dirty floor. Even as he suckles and bites at Dean’s bottom lip, and Dean’s hands scramble helplessly for a moment against wooden boards slick with spilled, special oil before he gives in and puts them back where they want to go: Cas’ shoulders and ass and the back of his neck, all the places Dean wants to touch now that he can, while he still can.
Cas’ own hand drifts down, finds the swollen arc of Dean’s cock. His fingers glide with the same sweet smoothness, stroking over Dean’s leaking slit. “Good,” he asks-or maybe states-and Dean thinks he says, “Yeah, yeah, Cas, it’s good,” but in truth he may not say anything, may not manage anything more than a moan, a drawn out utterance of Cas’ name, before he comes-comes with Cas’ cock still inside him, hard and setting off sparks.
Dean would be embarrassed that Cas, the virgin, apparently has more stamina than he does, but he figures it’s an angel thing. Or at least that’ll be his reasoning later. Right now he floats, dick twitching against his stomach, as Cas’ hips stutter, as Cas pushes in balls-deep and dies, just a little, there in Dean’s arms.
The first thing Dean says when Cas slips out and lies down beside him-when he can talk again-is, “There. Told you.”
For a moment they both stare at the cracked and peeling ceiling. They are both half-naked, half-clothed; their skin slick with sweat and something else, something fragrant and old.
Dean glances over at the jar. It’s on its side, barely more than a last, pathetic trickle dribbling past its lip. Dean feels some of the tightness in his chest ease. He promised Cas he wouldn’t let him die a virgin. He promised him he wouldn’t let him die-
Okay, then. Time to fess up. “Oil’s all gone,” Dean says, trying to inject some guilt into his voice (but not trying very hard). “Guess we can’t do the ritual.”
Cas doesn’t turn his head or roll to look. “It’s all right,” he says. His chest, which had been rising and falling like he was still gasping for post-coital breath, suddenly stills. “The oil was to be used to anoint our bodies. Now we are prepared.”
Dean feels suddenly cold. He sits up, ignoring his body’s protests, and reaches for his jeans. “Great. That’s…convenient.”
“Dean.”
Dean ignores him in favor of looking for his second shoe.
“Dean.”
It’s definitely a command, not a plea. Dean turns. Castiel is still lying on the ground, half-dressed, propped on his elbows, on his ridiculously frail-looking, deceptively human arms. “Thank you,” he says. His blue eyes radiate sincerity, and something that isn’t quite warmth. “I am grateful for the experience. Truly.”
“Yeah,” says Dean, turning away from the window, from the pink light that’s beginning to seep through. “I’m sure you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.”
NOTES:
1. I have now written TWO fics based around spoilers for this episode, and it hasn’t even aired yet! WHY DO YOU MAKE ME CRAZY, SHOW? If this version bummed you out, a much more cheerful take on the whorehouse scenario is here.
2. Weirdly, there's a strip club called Plan B not too far from my house. This isn't actually relevant; I just think it's funny. (And yes, my neighborhood is that classy.)
Also, spoiler-free people! You can still have fun, too! You should check out the amazing drawings bmouse has been doing! She even drew this wonderful illustration for A Wincest Story-though I may love the pic above it of John Winchester’s afterlife even more. (CHP! Represent!) Anyway, go give her some love, for she is awesome.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: The spoiler clip for 5x03
Length: ~1,600 words
Summary: Dean Winchester keeps his promises.
Author’s Note: I told tracy_loo_who that I would try to get Dean and Cas to do that with the, y’know, stuff from the 5x03 clip. It took me a lot longer and turned out a lot angstier than I anticipated. I also told aesc that I could write it in less than 500 words, which um. Okay, I’m full of fail today. But ENJOY.
Plan B
Dean Winchester has made a lot of promises over the years. I’ll keep Sam safe. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll stop it. He maybe doesn’t have the best track record. But this promise-You are not gonna die a virgin. Not on my watch-this one he intends to keep.
Even if it means he has to take matters into his own hands. As it were.
“Cas, c’mere,” Dean says. The decision’s made; he holds his shoulders straight. Cas, on the other hand, looks hunched under the heavy weight of his coat. Still reeling from the spectacular failure that was Plan A, apparently. But Dean’s going to fix all of that. He’s not going to let Cas die a virgin. He’s not.
“Let’s try something else,” he says, and rubs his hand along that tensed curve of muscle until he’s cradling Cas’ neck. Cas’ eyes swing to his, wide, and Dean swallows once, pushing closer, slowly, not as decisive as he’d like to be.
“Dean?” Cas says, and there, that does it somehow-one low recitation of his name, and Dean’s leaning in, whispering “Shh,” pressing his mouth against Cas’ dry lips.
Any lingering fear that he might have had that Cas would push him away, would stutter and blush and flee like he did with the, ahem, ladies of ill repute, swiftly evaporates. Cas is like a statue coming to life beneath his hands, growing warm and pliant. Growing needy, greedy, kissing him back with a passion that surprises Dean. That reminds Dean that he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing here, how he’s really going to follow through.
Cas says his name again, breathy, intense, and Dean turns his sudden tight-chested panic into a laugh. “See? Now you have the occasion.” He sucks in a breath. “Take off your coat, Cas.”
Cas practically rips it off, still trying to cling desperately to Dean’s lips, to his shoulders, his sides, his waist. His movements are jerky, human; his eyes wide and dark and full of so much want that Dean can barely fathom it. He just thought he’d sit here quietly? Fuck. Dean can’t even- That is so fucked.
Dean spreads out Cas’ coat on the floor. He gets down, leans back, spreads himself out, too. “Come down here,” he says, voice rough with a bravado he doesn’t fully feel. “Come here and fuck me.”
He needs Cas to do this. He wants Cas to need to do this. So even though Cas is still kind of staring at him slack-jawed, this new command having apparently shortwired his stunted angel brain, Dean doesn’t stop. He unbuttons his fly, starts worming his jeans down his legs. If he looks up and to the left, he’s afraid he’ll see the sky already beginning to lighten.
“Come here,” he says again, and this time, Cas comes, awkward on his knees for one so penitent, crawling across the dusty floor to Dean. Yet when it comes to kissing, Cas doesn’t need to be told twice: he’s grasped the concept instantly, mouth alternately hard and soft, forceful and relenting. He lets Dean in, lets Dean tug his suit jacket off his shoulders, loosen his tie, get his fly undone. Dean worms his hand inside, not thinking about it-man. angel. other man’s cock-because then he will freak out. But he’s not freaking out. He’s touching Cas’ dick, and Cas is making a stuttery, broken sound against Dean’s mouth, gripping Dean tight like he wants to raise him up all over again. So, uh. Points for Plan B.
And yet Dean needs- He’s gonna need- And suddenly it hits him, so perfect he couldn’t have planned it better. He shifts Cas a little, and keeping him thoroughly distracted, gropes for the jar that all night has kept teetering on the table. Like it wants to spill out, fragrant and slightly warm, across Dean’s hands, slicking the skin of his palms. Very special. Very rare. Well, this is a special moment. Cas is how many thousands of years old, and he’s only going to be a virgin for another couple minutes or so, if Dean has anything to say about it. He just has to- Do it. Just do it.
He promised.
Determined, Dean squirms away from Cas’ octopus-like grip and wriggles out of his boxers, then runs a hand down past his balls and to the crack of his ass. Cas is staring at him, kneeling between Dean’s splayed legs. It should make it harder, the eyes on him, but somehow it’s easier when he can look up and know what he’s doing this for, that he’s doing it for Cas: Cas who should get to experience what it’s like to be a man at least once, and if that means Dean has to play bitch, well. He’s played at worse things.
He works his fingers inside, first one, then a second, scissoring them in sort of rushed and sloppy, because it doesn’t really matter, this isn’t about him. It should be freaking him out, though, his fingers up his ass and Castiel staring down at him, but instead he finds himself scooching forward, bearing down and pushing deeper, and with his free hand he grabs Cas by the hip, guiding him forward. His hand is still slick against Cas’ taut skin, the firm ridge of his hipbone, and he slides it down until he’s fisting Cas’ dick, until they’re both perfectly greased like engine parts, made to fit together.
Dean cants his hips up. “Come on, come on,” he says, and Cas may be a virgin, but he’s hardly clueless: even angels, it seems, know where to stick it. He lifts Dean up with disturbing ease, bungling the line up at first, the head of his cock bumping off the edge of Dean’s hole, sliding heavy against Dean’s inner thigh. Dean lets out a frustrated grunt. “Fuck me,” he says, and he’ll swear to his (second) grave it’s a command and not a plea.
Cas mutters something like, “I’m endeavoring to-” before cutting himself off with a guttural, “Fuck,” eyes squeezing shut as the head of his cock pushes inside Dean for real, squeezing past that tight ring of muscle, and Dean’s sweating so much he’s slick with it, his fingers are leaving instantly-healing bruises on Cas’ arms. His knees are locking, pressing tight around Cas’ waist, and he can’t- He can’t even- Because Cas is inside him, he’s filling him up, and he’s not a virgin anymore, just like Dean promised. Just like Dean promised, Cas is having sex for the first time on his last night alive, moving in and out of Dean with hard, desperate strokes, even as he tries to cushion Dean’s head from the rough, dirty floor. Even as he suckles and bites at Dean’s bottom lip, and Dean’s hands scramble helplessly for a moment against wooden boards slick with spilled, special oil before he gives in and puts them back where they want to go: Cas’ shoulders and ass and the back of his neck, all the places Dean wants to touch now that he can, while he still can.
Cas’ own hand drifts down, finds the swollen arc of Dean’s cock. His fingers glide with the same sweet smoothness, stroking over Dean’s leaking slit. “Good,” he asks-or maybe states-and Dean thinks he says, “Yeah, yeah, Cas, it’s good,” but in truth he may not say anything, may not manage anything more than a moan, a drawn out utterance of Cas’ name, before he comes-comes with Cas’ cock still inside him, hard and setting off sparks.
Dean would be embarrassed that Cas, the virgin, apparently has more stamina than he does, but he figures it’s an angel thing. Or at least that’ll be his reasoning later. Right now he floats, dick twitching against his stomach, as Cas’ hips stutter, as Cas pushes in balls-deep and dies, just a little, there in Dean’s arms.
The first thing Dean says when Cas slips out and lies down beside him-when he can talk again-is, “There. Told you.”
For a moment they both stare at the cracked and peeling ceiling. They are both half-naked, half-clothed; their skin slick with sweat and something else, something fragrant and old.
Dean glances over at the jar. It’s on its side, barely more than a last, pathetic trickle dribbling past its lip. Dean feels some of the tightness in his chest ease. He promised Cas he wouldn’t let him die a virgin. He promised him he wouldn’t let him die-
Okay, then. Time to fess up. “Oil’s all gone,” Dean says, trying to inject some guilt into his voice (but not trying very hard). “Guess we can’t do the ritual.”
Cas doesn’t turn his head or roll to look. “It’s all right,” he says. His chest, which had been rising and falling like he was still gasping for post-coital breath, suddenly stills. “The oil was to be used to anoint our bodies. Now we are prepared.”
Dean feels suddenly cold. He sits up, ignoring his body’s protests, and reaches for his jeans. “Great. That’s…convenient.”
“Dean.”
Dean ignores him in favor of looking for his second shoe.
“Dean.”
It’s definitely a command, not a plea. Dean turns. Castiel is still lying on the ground, half-dressed, propped on his elbows, on his ridiculously frail-looking, deceptively human arms. “Thank you,” he says. His blue eyes radiate sincerity, and something that isn’t quite warmth. “I am grateful for the experience. Truly.”
“Yeah,” says Dean, turning away from the window, from the pink light that’s beginning to seep through. “I’m sure you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.”
NOTES:
1. I have now written TWO fics based around spoilers for this episode, and it hasn’t even aired yet! WHY DO YOU MAKE ME CRAZY, SHOW? If this version bummed you out, a much more cheerful take on the whorehouse scenario is here.
2. Weirdly, there's a strip club called Plan B not too far from my house. This isn't actually relevant; I just think it's funny. (And yes, my neighborhood is that classy.)
Also, spoiler-free people! You can still have fun, too! You should check out the amazing drawings bmouse has been doing! She even drew this wonderful illustration for A Wincest Story-though I may love the pic above it of John Winchester’s afterlife even more. (CHP! Represent!) Anyway, go give her some love, for she is awesome.