tracy_loo_who | Fic: Dirty and Desperate (Dean/Castiel, NC-17)

Well, I was going to write something deep and meaningful or some shit about Dean having to make choices, but I'm not in a deep and meaningful mood, so I wrote this instead.

Title: Dirty and Desperate
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~1,300
Notes: This is an outtake from Where All Paths Lead, though it can be read as a stand-alone PWPish thing. For

darksilvercat, who requested a series of porny one-shots based on part of that fic. This is the first, and don't ask why I'm going in reverse order. :P
Summary: It will happen everywhere: against the wall (hard and fast), in Dean's car (quiet enough so Sam won't hear from the motel), on a grassy hill that wouldn't still be there if it weren't for them (breathless and intoxicated on triumph), in the ruins of a town they fail to save (dirty and desperate).

Some we'll win, some we'll lose. This one, we lost. Castiel can still hear himself saying it; can hear the grave dispassion in his voice. It seems like so long ago.

He starts to say it again, now, tries for that same grave dispassion because he hates this feeling, whatever it is -- helpless regret-grief-guilt-loss-hopelessness -- and thinks that maybe, maybe if he can say it dispassionately he'll remember how to be dispassionate. But he has been spending too much time with Dean, can't just turn it off anymore, and his voice cracks on this one.

"Shut up," Dean snarls even though Castiel has stopped talking. They are alone, here under the red sun and sky, in the ruins of a town looking at the ruins of a house that only hours ago belonged to a single mother they made a promise to. But they are too late, and there is a charred teddy bear at their feet and the smell of burnt lives in the air, and Dean rounds on Castiel, chest heaving and eyes too bright. "Shut the fuck up, don't you dare recite fucking platitudes at me now, not this time, not after we promised--"

"There's nothing we could have done," Castiel insists, trying to convince them both, but it's not working on either of them.

"I said shut up!" Suddenly Dean's dirt- and sweat-streaked face is in his, and he is glorious in his fury and so close Castiel can feel the heat of his body, can smell his sweat and blood and desperation. "How can you say that, of course there's something we could have done! We could have tried harder, we could have gotten here in time, we could have--"

Castiel cuts him off because he is afraid Dean's heart will break, or his mind will, or both, and somehow that fear shoves the helpless regret-grief-guilt-loss-hopelessness aside. "But we didn't, and there's nothing we can do now, so you don't have to--" He doesn't know how to finish, exactly, doesn't know how to make Dean better, but it doesn't matter because a moment later Dean's dirty fist connects with his jaw. It makes a solid, fleshy sound that hurts Castiel more than the blow itself does. He doesn't flinch, doesn't move.

"Don't have to what?" Dean's voice is wild and harsh, dangerous, and he punches Castiel again, harder this time, as if all it takes to move an angel is more force. Castiel lets him because maybe this will make Dean better, maybe if Dean punches hard enough, once for each innocent person that burned, he'll stop wanting to burn himself. "Don't have to feel bad? Don't have to blame myself? Don't have to keep thinking about the dread in that woman's eyes?" Another punch, so hard his knuckle splits, but Dean doesn't notice. "Easy for you to say, you're a fucking angel, you don't feel anything, just like you won't feel this--" One more punch to the mouth, and this time Castiel loses his balance in a flash of pained surprise.

How can Dean think that, after everything? "I feel," he says numbly, even as he stumbles backwards, even as Dean grabs fistfuls of his coat to catch him, even as they both crumble to the scorched and bloodied earth and Dean lands heavily on top of him.

"I know." The talking stops after that because Dean crushes their mouths together brutally, and Castiel isn't sure if the blood he can taste is Dean's or his own. It doesn't matter. What matters is Dean, Dean's tongue forcing its way into his mouth, Dean's teeth clashing against his own, Dean's hardness pressed into his thigh, Dean's need to feel something other than helpless regret-grief-guilt-loss-hopelessness.

Castiel is surprised at this turn of events, surprised that this is what Dean needs, but he opens his mouth and his legs under Dean and lets him in, lets him take whatever he needs because that's what Castiel needs. It's familiar and terrifyingly alien all at once, and Castiel's body responds by arching upwards and shuddering at the sinful pressure. He is already hard, and ready. They kiss like it's the end of the world, like they just lost for the last time and the apocalypse is pressing in on them and the only thing keeping it at bay for a few more minutes is the war between their tongues and the grind of crotch against leg and Dean pressing Castiel into the black soot. Their clothes are stained with grime and the blood of humans, demons, and angels, and they chafe Castiel's skin when Dean rubs their bodies together, but he welcomes it because it's another distraction from everything he doesn't want to feel.

What he does want to feel, needs to feel, is Dean's hands on him, anywhere, everywhere, hitting, stroking, anything. What Dean does is grab both of Castiel's wrists to pin them to the ground, arms outstretched. "We promised, we promised, we promised," Dean chants into his mouth with every thrust against Castiel's leg, and Castiel struggles under him, pressing up and needing more contact, more heat and more friction, but Dean only tightens his grip and crushes Castiel back down, mindful for once of only his own pain and pleasure.

Dimly Castiel registers this as progress of some sort, somehow, but right now all he can think about is that it's not enough, not nearly enough, so Castiel turns into him slightly and wraps his legs around Dean's and squeezes tight. The movement smashes his cock against the hard muscle of Dean's thigh and a strangled moan escapes from Castiel's throat. "We tried, we tried, we tried," he replies mindlessly, desperately.

There is almost a scuffle because now Dean's leg is trapped and it's harder for him to thrust deep enough and fast enough to keep the apocalypse at bay. He panics and grunts and fights against Castiel's legs but that only makes Castiel squeeze tighter and moan louder, and eventually Dean finds that angle that makes both of their bodies jerk with pleasure. So he settles into it, even though it's an awkward, uncomfortable angle that reduces him to rocking against Castiel in blind, hot need. Castiel matches his movements and for a minute they are almost in sync, eyes locked and rocking together amidst the cloud of dust they're kicking up with Dean still muttering promise, promise, promise and Castiel still breathing try, try, try.

Castiel loses it first, his rhythm, his mind, all of it. The pleasure builds up to point in his groin, sharp and painful, and his legs go weak and fall away. All he can do is lie there, spread eagle on the bloody ground as Dean's weight crushes him and makes him come and come and come in huge, wheezing gasps. His body jolts with each wave, with each pulse, and for a moment his thigh is no longer pressed up between Dean's but Dean comes anyway, crashes over the edge and back down with more fucks on his lips now than promises. They ride through the pleasure together, bodies undulating and sliding stiffly against one another, until there is nothing left but numbness and panting and the dust settling around them.

Castiel licks his cracked lips and says once more into the quiet space between them, "We tried."

And Dean just looks at him, green eyes searching blue ones like he might find salvation in one of the little dark flecks if only he looks hard enough. Maybe he does find something, because finally he unpins Castiel's wrists, sinks his fingers into the folds of Castiel's coat, and lets his forehead fall onto Castiel's shoulder. "We tried," he agrees brokenly, and doesn't look at the charred teddy bear.

fin.