[personal profile] nansense

TITLE: "When Play Turns Bitter - Chapter Eight: The Bones of You"
AUTHOR: [livejournal.com profile] nanoochka
RATING: NC-17 for language, violence and graphic descriptions of sex.
PAIRING: Dean/Castiel, Dean/OMC, Sam/OFC, mentions of Dean/Lisa and Cas/Balthazar
SUMMARY: “You’re happy with your world/ But there is something small in the back of your head/ Your concerns are still free/ You fall into the trap/ Without knowing what you want/ And there’s nothing left but a foolish idea/ Everything goes back into place.” Remember that play turns sour when playing with a fire; but Dean is as tired of pretending like his life hasn’t begun, as he is waiting for Castiel to notice.
WARNINGS: OMC slash
SPOILERS: General S6
WORDCOUNT: WIP
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all associated content is the property of The CW and Eric Kripke. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’ve been wanting to write a Dean/Cas epic in the frame of Dean/OMC for a while—there’s so much fic out there that situates their relationship within Dean’s involvement with Lisa, which is obviously all very well and good (and canon); but I’m more curious about how Dean would handle getting involved with another man. There are a lot of fun implications not only for his sexual identity, but how Castiel might respond to such a thing, so I figured to just forge ahead and see how things work out. The title is from the traditional Welsh standard written and sung by Caryl Parry-Jones, “Chwarae'n Troi'n Chwerw” (“When Play Turns Bitter” or, “When Play Turns Sour” - lyrics here); chapter title from Elbow. Thanks to [livejournal.com profile] sansday for taking point as head cheerleader/alpha, and [livejournal.com profile] shane_mayhem for the incisive beta and Portland-related cultural-geographical coaching.

Part Seven


“When Play Turns Bitter” by [livejournal.com profile] nanoochka

Chapter Eight: The Bones of You



     “You should have this before it’s gone.”

     The fabric of Dean’s t-shirt fell to the floor in a whisper, joining the heap of clothing that already contained his flannel overshirt, jeans, socks, and boots. All that remained on his body was the white boxer-briefs he hadn’t imagined anyone seeing when he got dressed this morning, the ones that were a little shorter, a little tighter than he normally liked—in retrospect, the kind of underwear you wore when trying to seduce someone, or spent way too much time browsing the Calvin Klein collection. Tented slightly at the front with his excitement, a moment later they, too, landed upon the pile. Dean pushed his chest out a little and spread his arms—an invitation for Castiel to look.

     In contrast to the deer-in-headlights expression he’d received a few hours previous in response to bringing up Castiel’s sexual history, the angel seemed pretty unperturbed that they’d returned to base camp only for Dean to close the shutters and lose his clothing. He wasn’t one for strip-teases, but Dean thought he was cocksure enough that it came across the right way. Unlike a lot of things in his life, Dean’s body was something he was confident of, as much as his ability to give pleasure; yet throughout the whole thing, Cas regarded him with an air of such calm that Dean felt momentarily unsure of himself.

     Not that he had a damn clue what he was doing in the first place. The brothel had been the first indication of that much.

     “Do you like what you see?” Dean asked, lowering his voice to a seductive purr so that Castiel would be forced to listen closely.

     Improvising, he slid a hand carefully down his chest and stomach, enjoying the feeling of his short nails catching against the hair on his belly, trailing lower to cup his growing erection. Castiel’s gaze made him feel hot all over and more than a little aroused.

     Castiel said, “Yes.”

     “Then come here.”

     He did. Though he’d never admit it out loud, Dean’s hands were trembling slightly as he brushed his fingers against the angel’s stubbled cheek, half expecting Cas to smite him for his trouble. To his credit, Cas didn’t startle at the touch, although Dean had no idea whether he knew what to expect, or just trusted Dean not to lead him astray. There were no road maps on this one. Dean was trying to convince an angel of the Lord to have sex with him in the most direct, least complicated way he knew how—by offering himself like a sacrificial lamb upon the proverbial altar.

     When Cas didn’t pull away, Dean decided to push the envelope a little further by insinuating one hand into the mess of Castiel’s hair, and pushing his trenchcoat off his shoulders with the other. The garment puddled unceremoniously upon the floor, followed by his suit jacket and tie. As Dean expected, he looked smaller without all those layers—but not vulnerable, not frail. In fact, Dean was still scared out of his mind. He wanted so very badly to strip away the rest of those clothes until they were
both naked and exposed, but didn’t want to push Cas too hard and startle him. Dean thought back to the first time he’d heard Castiel’s real voice in that gas station, and got the feeling that bad things happened when Castiel’s control was allowed to slip too far.

     “You ever kiss someone?” Dean asked, trying to take things slow and alert Cas to what he had planned.

     To his surprise, Castiel said again, “Yes.” He must have noticed Dean’s look of confusion, because he added, “I kissed your mouth when I breathed life back into your body. I’d never done that before—but I still remember what you taste like.”

     The simplicity of the words made Dean shudder briefly before closing the last few inches of distance between them, crushing their mouths together for what was supposedly the second time. At first Cas seemed not to know what he was doing, both eager and uncertain, hands aimless and indecisive. They pulled at Dean’s hair and clutched at his flesh, alternating between moving too much and too little, like a rabbit snared in the sight of the hunter’s rifle. He behaved exactly like every other virgin Dean had ever encountered, but he caught the exact moment that Cas started to pick up cues and mimic Dean’s actions back at him. Within seconds they were wrapped in each other’s arms, Castiel struggling out of his white dress shirt and pleated-front pants, trying unsuccessfully to kick off his shoes before he remembered about the laces.

     “Why are you doing this?” he gasped, when Dean released him to palm the front of his boxers.

     “Because I want to,” Dean answered simply, not having to think about it. He let Castiel’s trousers slip to the ground, a black mess of fabric around the angel’s slim ankles. “Because you’re my friend and I don’t want you to die tomorrow; and I especially don’t want you to die knowing that you could have experienced this, and didn’t.”

     Dean helpfully exchanged the ‘I’ for the ‘you’, still unable to admit for how long he’d been thinking about Cas this way. Sometime within the last year he’d realized that Cas wasn’t nearly as cold or robotic as he first seemed, and maybe even before that, Dean had realized how much he wanted to be the one to find out how deep those still waters could run.

     Already knowing the answer, he asked, “Do you want me, Cas?” The angel nodded once, sharply, and Dean quirked a smile. “I’d feel a lot better if you
said it.”

     “You just want your ego stroked,” Cas deadpanned. At Dean’s shameless grin, he smiled and rolled his eyes a little. “Yes, Dean, I want you.”

     “Good.”

     Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of the vessel formerly known as Jimmy Novak’s boxers, feeling the ridge of hipbone beneath his thumb, Dean slowly slid the underwear down, ghosting a kiss across Castiel’s mouth before he followed the path down his body. It was difficult to tell beneath all those clothes, but Castiel—Jimmy, once—was a fetching combination of slim and muscular, not perfectly toned and tight, but attractive. Real. He had broad shoulders and powerful runner’s legs, a generous ass that Dean wanted to sink his teeth into. The clean, angular lines of his body were a map that Dean could follow with his hands and tongue. This might not have been the angel’s true form, but it seemed to suit him well enough, the vessel reflecting Castiel’s contradictory softness and strength. And Jimmy, as Dean might have predicted, was circumcised—a good, clean-cut little Christian.

     He looked up from beneath his eyelashes, holding Cas’s gaze. “I want you, too,” he said, meaning it.

     Easily accessing his memories of the johns he’d sucked off, back in the day, Dean decided against standing on ceremony and simply took Castiel’s swelling penis into his mouth. A broken moan echoed from above him and he smiled, starting to suck and work at the hardening flesh. The taste was oddly neutral, clean skin and the barest trace of salt, more bitter where pre-come beaded upon Dean’s tongue. Unbelievable heat seemed to radiate off Cas’s body. Dean put his hands to work caressing every inch of skin he could reach, reminding himself that while Castiel wore this skin well, he wasn’t a man. Still, that didn’t seem to stop him from enjoying the sensations like one. The sounds that tumbled from Cas’s mouth were unrestrained, feminine almost, delicious to hear in that undeniably masculine voice. He responded to Dean’s attention like a finely-tuned instrument, his cries melodic and resonating deep in the pit of Dean’s stomach like a note struck perfectly pure and deep. His hands tugged and pulled at Dean’s hair in gratitude, desperation, bewilderment.

     Unsurprisingly, Castiel came within a few short minutes, letting out a surprised shout as his orgasm caught him off guard and damn near crumpled him on top of Dean, who merely swallowed down the issue and released his cock with a ‘pop’. For a moment longer he suckled at the sensitive skin of Castiel’s dick, licking it clean, until Castiel jerked and withdrew from overstimulation. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed giving a blowjob that much.

     Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Dean tested the tenderness of his own lips with the tip of his tongue. “How did that feel?” he murmured, sliding his hands up Castiel’s thighs. The soft scrape of hair tickled his fingers. Castiel looked down at him with wide eyes, saying nothing, but when Dean asked, “Was it good?” there was a nod. Dean couldn’t help but smirk; this was like being slave and master all at the same time. “Would you like to do something else?”

     Finally, Cas admitted, “Yes,” that apparently being the syllable of choice for the evening.

     Dean prodded, “What?” and Cas answered, “Everything.”

     To Cas’s chagrin, the holy oil was the only form of lubricant they had going. While at first reluctant—and indignant—over this proposed use, Cas warmed to the idea when Dean slicked some over Castiel’s palm and showed him how to jerk Dean off, how to slide those fingers down behind his balls and into the dark space beyond, that tight little ring that none but a single adventurous woman had approached in his lifetime. Dean, having fucked more than a few girls this way, knew how to direct Cas’s movements but not how it would feel.

     Eventually he settled for manoeuvring them around until he was able to push his own oil-slick finger into Castiel’s ass at the same time, saying, “Do what I do; tell me what feels good.” The result almost short-circuited his brain.

     Within minutes they were both ready to shudder apart, but Castiel, hard again already, shifted until he had worked himself beneath Dean’s body, legs sinewy and strong about his waist. The mattress was filthy with age and dust, creaking with every movement, but all Dean could register was the slide of their skin together, Castiel’s pink lips parting to emit fevered gasps, litanies of Dean’s name.

     He had no idea it would be this way, and then Cas murmured, “I think I’d like to feel you inside of me. Can we do that?” Their bodies were already lining up just so, the tip of Dean’s erection nudging at Castiel’s opening that he’d taken the time to stretch with such adoration and deliberateness.

     “You mean you want me to fuck you?”

     “Dean,
yes,” growled Cas, growing testy.

     “Yeah, we can do that,” Dean chuckled.

     Making to reach for the condoms in his duffel, Dean sluggishly realized that safe sex was a bit moot here; it wasn’t as though they would catch something from one another, and it’d been ages since Dean had been inside another person’s body without a barrier of latex. The thought that he might just slide into Castiel right now without risk of illness made his cock jump with excitement, all of him ready to be
there without further debate or delay.

     “Ready?” he whispered hotly, trailing his tongue down the line of Castiel’s throat and down to his clavicle. At Cas’s nod, he smiled and guided the angel’s hands down to encircle his cock, still slippery with oil, pulling away just slightly so that he could find his way. “Put it in, go on.”

     The words made Castiel’s breath choke up, escaping from his mouth as a moan, but a moment later Dean felt the head of his dick begin to press inside, Cas’s hands pulling him forward. As he slowly sank into Cas’s body, savouring the give of muscle sweet and searing heat, those broad hands traveled up Dean’s body to tighten around his shoulders. Cas didn’t so much moan as he seemed to croon with rapture, his neck arching back in the most beautiful line of skin Dean had ever seen, flushed and damp with sweat. He didn’t appear to feel any pain, just the pleasure of their hips finally slotting together, Dean fully seated and home. Dean held his breath because he was afraid that the slightest movement would make him fall to pieces.

     “What now?” Cas muttered, earning another laugh from Dean.

     “Now I guess we just hold on and enjoy the freaking ride,” Dean offered, and started to move, a slow, controlled rock of hips that grew smoother as he fucked Castiel open, felt the muscles fluttering wildly around him but beginning to relax and ease his movement.

     From certain angles Dean noticed that the head of his cock stroked across a sensitive button of flesh that wrenched an honest-to-god squeal from Castiel’s throat, and mentally patted himself on the back for finding the prostate without much effort. Aiming for that spot again and again like there was a bull’s-eye painted over it, Dean grinned at the furious whimpers and cries that Castiel emitted each time, egging him on.

     Beginning to pick up the rhythm and thrusting back at Dean’s hips in counterpoint, Cas babbled, “Don’t stop, please, Dean, don’t stop,” and tightened his legs, vice-like, around Dean’s body. Dean mashed their lips together, starting to slip up in his control, and heard himself making the most delirious sounds he’d ever uttered. The mattress was skidding across the floor as though on ice.

     One of Castiel’s hands, sidetracked in clawing across Dean’s back, found its way to the scar on Dean’s shoulder and settled there, fingers lining up perfectly with the raised pink flesh as if it had never left. In gesture it was similar to what Anna had done but the reaction was completely different—unexpected, sudden, irreversible. Heat jumped through Dean’s body like lightning through a metal tower, flash fire in every vein and nerve and cell tracing back to that single point of connection. Castiel felt it, too; he cried out so loudly that Dean for a moment thought he was listening to Castiel’s true voice, and maybe he was. Dean felt him come between their stomachs as his own release shook him like a seismic event and he all but exploded inside Castiel’s body. The orgasm seemed to go on for hours.

     There was barely enough time to catch his breath when Castiel erupted in a flurry of movement and flipped them over, flipped
Dean over. His stomach was pressed against the ugly mattress so suddenly that Dean hardly registered that he was no longer inside Cas’s body. Hands jerked his hips upwards and back and next he knew, his asscheeks were being spread and Castiel’s tongue found that hidden place that Dean had practically just discovered himself. Shouting in surprise, Dean jolted, not away but into the blunt pressure, feeling himself licked and worshipped and prodded. Occasional swipes of tongue landed on his perineum and balls, making his spent cock twitch in misguided eagerness. He had no idea if Cas even knew what he was doing back there, but improvisation or not it felt wilder and more intense than anything else Dean had experienced before.

     “C’mon,” he heard himself say, goading, challenging, “are you gonna make me wait all night or are you gonna
fuck me?”

     “Is that what you want, Dean?” Cas answered. From the harsh arousal in his voice Dean didn’t have to be told how much the angel was getting into it. He anticipated bruises in the morning, a series of perfect handprints to match the original.

     “God, yeah,” Dean whimpered, when a finger pushed into his ass and was joined by another before Cas’s tongue got back in the action. The blasphemy, however, earned him a perfectly painful slap on the rear. “Now, Cas,” he prompted, fidgeting back into those fingers.

     It’s possible that Dean realized that he might be a little in love with him when he sank into Dean’s body, Cas a remarkably quick study and a strong case for the brevity of the angelic refractory period. The burn was blissful, and Dean was so caught up in the pleasure that he couldn’t tell the two apart. He made a low, keening noise from the time Cas first breeched him to the time he felt those slender hips bump against his ass. He wondered if this was what women felt, opening themselves to another body, letting them inside; he wondered if it was this same overwhelming, powerful, transcendent thing, and then Cas began to move.

     If anyone asked, Dean couldn’t have said why he wanted Cas to fuck him, why it was important for both of them to give something away. Maybe it was just the endorphins, the ecstasy-like high of the angel’s body on top of his, enveloping him in warmth; but that wasn’t an argument Dean could buy even with the most vehement of denial. He wasn’t behaving like a man suddenly struck by the impulse to sex up his angel friend, not responding to Castiel’s grunts and thrusts like someone just along for the ride. His one lucid thought, that he remembered, was wishing they could do this forever.

     When they changed again up a while later and Dean took Castiel from behind, both of them lying on their sides with Dean’s arm hooked around Castiel’s chest, he might have said as much out loud. They didn’t let each other go until the dawn came, bright and sharp through the broken shutters like an archangel’s fire.






     Dean shuddered awake with a gasp, and bolted upright when he found himself alone in bed rather than next to Kurt like he expected. He immediately missed the comforting, belting warmth of his lover’s body curled against him in sleep. A moment too late, he remembered that Kurt was out of town on a client meeting, and wouldn’t be back for a couple of days.

     Stumbling out of his creaky bed and to the bathroom, Dean caught a phantom chill across the sweat on his arms and back. He shivered despite the warmth of the summer night. A glance at the wall clock showed that it was hours still before dawn—just about the same time Dean was woken by dreams of Cas each night, even when the angel couldn’t be held responsible. Occasionally he liked to convince himself that the dreams were from Cas, but he knew that this was as much a fantasy on his part as the dreams themselves, his mind’s weak substitute for the single most elusive thread in his existence. For a lot of people it was happiness, but Dean was already happy; contentment was easier to come by these days than Castiel.

     He pulled on a pair of sweats he found on the floor, Sam’s judging by the size, and paused in front of the mirror. It seemed like he had his most uncomfortable self-revelatory moments in front of his own reflection these days. Even without his memories of Hell to keep him from meeting his own eyes, it was getting harder and harder to keep up the charade that there weren’t still things for him to feel guilty over. Dean told himself that a dream didn’t mean anything—and it wasn’t even really a dream, just a memory of some stuff that happened a million years ago, albeit with perfect detail and recollection. He had dreams about Kurt, too. Sometimes.

     Deciding that he should get back to bed or risk being sluggish at work, Dean started to withdraw from the bathroom when the sudden desire to prod at his shoulder took hold of him, almost directing his fingers to settle over that handprint as if guided by an unseen force. Dean knew there was no such thing, because not even Cas could make him do anything he didn’t want to do; but still, he didn’t try to resist.

     All he felt when he covered the scar with his own hand were the smooth bumps and ridges of the handprint, all but faded into his skin. These days it was almost invisible to anyone but him, and maybe Cas, but Dean didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop looking for it, as impossible to avoid as his own shadow. The memory of the orgasm he’d had when Cas touched it was still fading from his mind like an afterglow, and yet Dean couldn’t sense any traces of it when he touched the brand himself. Maybe that was just something special that had happened at the time, but it was gone now.

     “Nice try, Cas,” Dean whispered, and the silence echoed back except for Sammy’s snores from down the hall.

     Castiel’s warm presence from the bed was sheer illusion when Dean returned to his room to lie down again. The next time he fell asleep, he didn’t dream at all.


Chapter Nine





Hope you enjoyed that, guys... I know you've been waiting for it very patiently indeed. XD
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