(no subject)
First time poster, long time lover.
Written for april 7
Bitten:pg-13
1k+ of Dean/Castiel of Supernatural (complete AU, so if you aren't a fan of the show, it's not spoilery.)
His mind works in cycles.
"I think of you when I most often shouldn't be."
His mind works in and of the moon's phases.
"When I am hunting, I imagine your body. What your bones must taste like. They must taste the way you look just after you've let me make love to you, sweet, ripe, intoxicating."
Cas's words are never small. Nothing about Cas is small. His eyes are large and dark, his mouth and teeth, and his love for Dean. His love for Dean lives everywhere; in the forest, in the bed, in the people he hunts even when the moon is not full. That scares Dean, because Dean's words are small. Dean's eyes, mouth, teeth, are all small. Cas devours Dean's body only after a good hunt. He comes to the bed reeking of blood, fear. It makes Dean hard.
Cas strokes Dean's hair, his fingernails lightly scraping on Dean's scalp. "When I eat, it's beautiful."
When the moon is full, Cas staggers home the morning after, beaten and cut, with wide black circles under his eyes. When the sun comes up, he ushers Dean back to bed, and holds on until it's hard for either of them to breathe. On these mornings, Dean can feel Cas growl into his hair. On these mornings, Cas tells his lover, "You are so alive, it makes me ache."
The way they met was Cas tried to hunt Dean.
After a severe situation at home, Dean swiped his father's wallet and went to a club. Clubs were never something Dean understood. Everybody is too close together, screaming in each other's faces, and then of course, the blinding flash of somebody's camera. Seeing spots all night, Dean was surprised when a face appeared.
Too close for comfort, nearly spilling Dean's beer, Cas stood there with his mouth half open, staring.
"Uh. Hi," Dean mused. "I'm Dean."
Cas licked his lips (Dean couldn't help but watch) and stuck his hand out. "Castiel."
They walked to a park that nobody went to. The swingset was rusty, the slide dented, the grass brown and sad. Dean's heart beat too fast in his chest. He could feel the blood rushing through his ears. Even though the night was cool, he was sweating. He'd never run off with somebody before. Even if only for a few hours.
Cas kept a distance between himself and Dean that night. Later he would say it was because the beer made Dean's scent tangible, as though it was written on him like a tattoo, something that could be seen and touched, and licked. That night, though, when Dean asked why Cas was standing so awkwardly at a distance, Cas just said, "I don't want to frighten you."
Dean shrugged in his jacket, blowing out a puff of breath, "So, frighten me." He smiled.
Cas's boots crunched dead leaves, stepping slowly, ever so slowly toward the innocent. They were almost nose-to-nose when Dean sucked a tight breath in.
Cas said again, "I don't want to frighten you. I want to wrap my hands around your back, and keep you as close to my body as I possibly can. You have no idea how wonderful your skin looks in the moonlight." Cas moved his hand to Dean's cheek. "You are cold. You're small, and weak, and I want to wake up in the morning - all mornings - and have you near to look at, to inhale."
The way they met Cas tried to hunt Dean. Somewhere between the coat check and the park, Cas fell in love.
Cas runs his fingers back down Dean's head. "When I eat, Dean, I wonder if your blood would ever taste as sweet and pungent as you smell when you're excited. Or if your eyes would taste salty, like the ocean. When I eat, I think about coming home and making love to you until I can feel myself alive inside of you."
Dean hisses inwardly. Cas's words always are too big to carry, to hear. He never knows what to say.
"I am never not thinking of you when I hunt."
It's too easy for Dean to imagine Castiel hungry and prowling in the middle of the night. Slanting himself on street corners, sniffing out the air for something fresh to eat. Dean imagines that the prey is always young, some lost souls that nobody would miss. Castiel would put on a mask of innocence and once in his snare, remove the cover and sink his teeth in. Trust is a weapon all on its own.
That night under the moon, Castiel did wrap his arms around Dean's back, his fingers hot even through Dean's clothes. Cas nuzzled Dean's neck, opened his mouth to tongue the pulse point. Dean was frightened, confused, but all the same, he liked it and fingered the buttons on Castiel's overcoat just to keep his own hands busy.
Cas had said, "Go home. Dean, you should go home. We'll meet again."
When there were no more excuses about where the bloodstains had come from, Cas told Dean what he really was. Baffled, Dean just touched the pad of his thumb to Cas's teeth and shook his head. It wasn't to be believed.
But it was true.
Sometimes, when Dean is asleep, Castiel observes the humanity of this small thing he beds himself with. The pink of his ears, his lips. The steady rise and fall of his chest where a beautiful heart rests, warm and pumping blood. He is alive and open for Castiel. From that very first night, the scent of this boy was screaming for Castiel's attention; it begged to be taken. It's almost impossible to not tear open his throat and drink his little voice when his whimpers and moans are measured and timed with each finger stroke of flesh on flesh.
No man or woman's meat compares to Dean. They are merely appetizers, finger food. Dean is all dessert, stretched out and brimming with excitement. All of his blood rushes to the center of his body and to the first layer of his skin. Castiel has a hard time not biting through the bone of Dean's fingers, the soft muscle of his cheeks. Instead, he will take it out somebody else, rip their stomachs open, their chests and ingest their lives as easy as he pleases.
Dean tries to pretend that Castiel is normal.
"I hunger for you in ways that cannot be sated, Dean. I must have you, always."
And Castiel tries to pretend that Dean isn't normal. That his own mind's cycles aren't constantly snapping back to Dean with each bite of a stranger he takes.
Written for april 7
Bitten:pg-13
1k+ of Dean/Castiel of Supernatural (complete AU, so if you aren't a fan of the show, it's not spoilery.)
His mind works in cycles.
"I think of you when I most often shouldn't be."
His mind works in and of the moon's phases.
"When I am hunting, I imagine your body. What your bones must taste like. They must taste the way you look just after you've let me make love to you, sweet, ripe, intoxicating."
Cas's words are never small. Nothing about Cas is small. His eyes are large and dark, his mouth and teeth, and his love for Dean. His love for Dean lives everywhere; in the forest, in the bed, in the people he hunts even when the moon is not full. That scares Dean, because Dean's words are small. Dean's eyes, mouth, teeth, are all small. Cas devours Dean's body only after a good hunt. He comes to the bed reeking of blood, fear. It makes Dean hard.
Cas strokes Dean's hair, his fingernails lightly scraping on Dean's scalp. "When I eat, it's beautiful."
When the moon is full, Cas staggers home the morning after, beaten and cut, with wide black circles under his eyes. When the sun comes up, he ushers Dean back to bed, and holds on until it's hard for either of them to breathe. On these mornings, Dean can feel Cas growl into his hair. On these mornings, Cas tells his lover, "You are so alive, it makes me ache."
The way they met was Cas tried to hunt Dean.
After a severe situation at home, Dean swiped his father's wallet and went to a club. Clubs were never something Dean understood. Everybody is too close together, screaming in each other's faces, and then of course, the blinding flash of somebody's camera. Seeing spots all night, Dean was surprised when a face appeared.
Too close for comfort, nearly spilling Dean's beer, Cas stood there with his mouth half open, staring.
"Uh. Hi," Dean mused. "I'm Dean."
Cas licked his lips (Dean couldn't help but watch) and stuck his hand out. "Castiel."
They walked to a park that nobody went to. The swingset was rusty, the slide dented, the grass brown and sad. Dean's heart beat too fast in his chest. He could feel the blood rushing through his ears. Even though the night was cool, he was sweating. He'd never run off with somebody before. Even if only for a few hours.
Cas kept a distance between himself and Dean that night. Later he would say it was because the beer made Dean's scent tangible, as though it was written on him like a tattoo, something that could be seen and touched, and licked. That night, though, when Dean asked why Cas was standing so awkwardly at a distance, Cas just said, "I don't want to frighten you."
Dean shrugged in his jacket, blowing out a puff of breath, "So, frighten me." He smiled.
Cas's boots crunched dead leaves, stepping slowly, ever so slowly toward the innocent. They were almost nose-to-nose when Dean sucked a tight breath in.
Cas said again, "I don't want to frighten you. I want to wrap my hands around your back, and keep you as close to my body as I possibly can. You have no idea how wonderful your skin looks in the moonlight." Cas moved his hand to Dean's cheek. "You are cold. You're small, and weak, and I want to wake up in the morning - all mornings - and have you near to look at, to inhale."
The way they met Cas tried to hunt Dean. Somewhere between the coat check and the park, Cas fell in love.
Cas runs his fingers back down Dean's head. "When I eat, Dean, I wonder if your blood would ever taste as sweet and pungent as you smell when you're excited. Or if your eyes would taste salty, like the ocean. When I eat, I think about coming home and making love to you until I can feel myself alive inside of you."
Dean hisses inwardly. Cas's words always are too big to carry, to hear. He never knows what to say.
"I am never not thinking of you when I hunt."
It's too easy for Dean to imagine Castiel hungry and prowling in the middle of the night. Slanting himself on street corners, sniffing out the air for something fresh to eat. Dean imagines that the prey is always young, some lost souls that nobody would miss. Castiel would put on a mask of innocence and once in his snare, remove the cover and sink his teeth in. Trust is a weapon all on its own.
That night under the moon, Castiel did wrap his arms around Dean's back, his fingers hot even through Dean's clothes. Cas nuzzled Dean's neck, opened his mouth to tongue the pulse point. Dean was frightened, confused, but all the same, he liked it and fingered the buttons on Castiel's overcoat just to keep his own hands busy.
Cas had said, "Go home. Dean, you should go home. We'll meet again."
When there were no more excuses about where the bloodstains had come from, Cas told Dean what he really was. Baffled, Dean just touched the pad of his thumb to Cas's teeth and shook his head. It wasn't to be believed.
But it was true.
Sometimes, when Dean is asleep, Castiel observes the humanity of this small thing he beds himself with. The pink of his ears, his lips. The steady rise and fall of his chest where a beautiful heart rests, warm and pumping blood. He is alive and open for Castiel. From that very first night, the scent of this boy was screaming for Castiel's attention; it begged to be taken. It's almost impossible to not tear open his throat and drink his little voice when his whimpers and moans are measured and timed with each finger stroke of flesh on flesh.
No man or woman's meat compares to Dean. They are merely appetizers, finger food. Dean is all dessert, stretched out and brimming with excitement. All of his blood rushes to the center of his body and to the first layer of his skin. Castiel has a hard time not biting through the bone of Dean's fingers, the soft muscle of his cheeks. Instead, he will take it out somebody else, rip their stomachs open, their chests and ingest their lives as easy as he pleases.
Dean tries to pretend that Castiel is normal.
"I hunger for you in ways that cannot be sated, Dean. I must have you, always."
And Castiel tries to pretend that Dean isn't normal. That his own mind's cycles aren't constantly snapping back to Dean with each bite of a stranger he takes.