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Slow Ride, Chapter One
Pairing: Dean/Castiel. And the rating is for real – this is SLASH. Big Time. With a teeny bit of plot thrown in, like, as a garnish.
Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own Supernatural and I'm making no profit from this work of fanfiction. Spoilers: This is set sometime in an alternate reality version of early Season Five, specifically one with more man sex. So spoilers at least through Free to Be You and Me.
Summary: Castiel had planned on saving Dean, but it's funny how often that situation gets reversed.
A/N: Title comes from the 1975 Foghorn classic from the album Fool for the City.
Seemed like something the Winchesters would like.
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"Damnit, Cas!"
Dean was turning him carefully onto his back, one hand on his arm and the other hovering uncertainly over his hip. "Jus' checking, no need to get excited," he muttered, his voice rumbling close to Cas' ear.
Castiel blinked. He wasn't particularly excited, was he? He would have asked for clarification, but Dean's hand closed unexpectedly around his upper thigh, gripping him tight and holding him down as Dean probed his knee with gruff, careful fingers.
A bolt of what felt like lightening rocketed outwards from the site of the injury, and Castiel convulsively kicked out with his other leg, an agonized gasp bursting from his lips until he resolutely clamped his jaw shut and turned his face away from Dean's low-pitched warnings; "Easy, Cas, Jesus, here we go, easy, damnit!"
There was a sickly, lurching sensation as the joint ground slowly back into place, and then Castiel was panting in frantic relief as the pain settled into something low and manageable. "There we go, good, good job, buddy." Cas watched in wonder as Dean used his own long-sleeve shirt to wrap the injured joint, holding everything tightly in place, and the pain receded even further. Immediately behind the relief came exhaustion, and Cas pressed his cheek against the ground and closed his eyes, taking thankful, damp breaths through the blades of grass.
"Anywhere else?" asked Dean, running his hands quickly over Cas' legs, then his arms, neck, a broad hand over the back of his head. "Anything hurt? Any blood coming out of you? No? Okay, c'mon, we gotta get inside."
Dean had been hunting down whatever had been killing children in the Vermont countryside. He was alone, since he and Sam had split up a few weeks earlier after yet another falling out. He was hoping they'd find a way to make it up to each other, but - what with the apocalypse bearing down on them and all - there really just weren't hours in the day.
As it turned out, the child sacrifices were the work of the demon Moloch, who had apparently escaped from hell in the recent ... upheavals. Castiel had realized the danger - Moloch was one of the ancient demons and Dean would be no match for him alone - and showed up only seconds before they were attacked. But as it turned out, Castiel wasn't much of a match either; the demon had swatted him away like a fly, sending him slamming down into the ground, hard.
Dean had managed to drive him off for the moment with Ruby's knife, but they had to get out of the open.
"On three, okay? One- Two – " Castiel felt himself being tugged upright, Dean's hands gripping the front of his shirt. Then one of his arms was lifted over Dean's head and around his shoulder, his wrist grabbed firmly to keep it in place. Dean's other arm snaked around his waist and he was hauled to his feet, clamped tightly to Dean's side so that he could keep the weight off his injured leg.
There was a crumbling wreck of a cabin about half a mile behind them, which Dean had been using as his base of operations. It was fully warded and maybe if they salted the windows they could hole up until they figured something out. "Let's go, Cas. Try to keep up."
Castiel leaned heavily, letting Dean keep him upright as they staggered together up the path. He was ridiculously thankful that Dean was bigger than his vessel, so he could support them both. His head drooped forward and he could feel the puff of warm, damp breath against his cheek when Dean looked down at him. "Jeez," Dean snorted, "You're looking pretty pathetic there, dude, for an angel."
They made it to the cabin and Dean started hauling him up the wooden stairs. Castiel remembered the sight of the threshold looming closer, and then his foot caught a step and the sickening pull that resulted sent him blissfully, whole-heartedly into darkness.
...
When he came to, Castiel found himself lying shirtless on a bare mattress, covered up to his waist with a cotton sheet. The air was dusty and the room was dark, but through the cracked window pane he could see faint light.
He felt pressure on his injured knee, and he fumbled for the edge of the sheet to peer underneath. He was wearing no pants, only Jimmy's boxer-briefs, and his left knee was wrapped in layers of gauze and propped up on a pillow. It ached dully, a low thrum. He turned his head at the sound of a door opening, and Dean came in, dragging his dufflebag behind him. "Hey, lookit you – finally woke up," said Dean, but Castiel thought that his voice sounded strained and rough. He was wearing his tattered undershirt and jeans, no shoes, and Castiel watched his bare feet move over the rough, dirty floor of the cabin with morbid fascination.
"What happened?" he asked.
"You passed out," said Dean. "I can't find that you hit your head, so maybe angels just aren't used to feeling pain."
"It's usually very – distant," Castiel agreed. "Now it is not."
"You dislocated your knee," said Dean.
"I dislocated Jimmy's knee," Castiel corrected flatly. "This vessel will heal."
"Good to know," said Dean. "But until then, you'd be better staying off of it. When you dislocate `em once, they're more likely to slip again." He knelt by the side of the mattress and pulled back the sheet to expose Castiel's injured leg, then rummaged in the duffel for a blue bag that Castiel recognized as an ice pack. Castiel watched wordlessly as Dean untucked the long end of gauze around his knee and unwrapped several layers. Then he broke open the ice pack and settled it over the joint, with the remaining gauze protecting the vessel's skin. Castiel felt it turn instantly cold as Dean wrapped the gauze back around the ice to hold it all in place, then settled the blanket back over the lump. "Keep that there," he warned; "it'll keep down the swelling."
"Thank you," said Castiel.
Dean tossed him a washcloth he had soaked in water from his canteen. "Here, dude," he said, "clean yourself up." Castiel looked down at Jimmy's body and found that it was streaked with dirt and sweat. Usually, both the body and the clothes he was wearing were kept immaculate, by his power. Any rents in his human form would heal themselves instantly. But now obviously there was no healing and no instant cleanliness. Awkwardly, he passed the cloth over Jimmy's stomach and down his arms, wiping away at the sweat. He could feel the coolness of the water against his skin, sharp and clear as it had never been before. Sensations were so much more distinct, he observed absently. "Your face," said Dean. Castiel was pretty sure there were tears mixed in with dirt on his cheeks. How strange.
"Here, get dressed," said Dean, handing him Jimmy's white undershirt and the crumpled white oxford. "No pants, sorry. You gotta rest that knee."
"Why am I undressed," Castiel wondered.
"Well, you freaking passed out," said Dean defensively. "I thought you must be hurt somewhere. But no, it turns out you're just a giant pussy. It figures, the one angel assigned to me's a fainter."
Somehow, Castiel could hear affection underneath the harsh words. Perhaps he was still able to read Dean's mind? That was an encouraging sign; he might have some powers left after all. "Moloch was much more powerful than I anticipated," he explained.
"Man, we gotta teach you some strategy," said Dean. "You threw yourself in there like a god-damned attack dog. You've got to learn how to fight with some other plan besides getting yourself killed." Castiel didn't have any comment to make about that – it was true. Angels didn't use strategy. They were implements of God's will and it didn't matter if they were destroyed in the effort. Of course, he thought bitterly, a real angel at full-power was almost impossible to destroy. "Seriously man," said Dean, "no more of this kamikaze shit."
"Look who's talking," said Castiel, hoping he was using the idiom correctly. From Dean's expression, it appeared he was.
Dean rolled his eyes as his gaze flicked unconsciously from the window, to the knife on top of the duffle. Somewhere beyond the wards of the cabin the demon was still out there, relentless and implacable, and until Castiel was well enough to move they were sitting ducks.
"Do not try to go up against the thing yourself," Castiel warned, knowing he might as well be reading Dean's mind. "I only require a little time to recover. Then I will be able to heal this vessel and banish Moloch."
"How much time," said Dean, narrowing his eyes. "You don't exactly look like you'll be fit for battle any time soon."
"I don't know for sure. Not long." Seeing Dean's skeptical expression, he tried to explain further; "The oldest demons, the most powerful - it's as though they carry Hell with them, wherever they go. My powers are affected as long as he is in the vicinity. That's why I was injured and why I'm a little low on charge. For a short time."
"So what, you're like, human-strength?"
"Of course not. Not exactly. Well the effects are similar, yes. Temporarily."
Dean blew out a breath. "Great." He rummaged around in the duffle bag, producing a half-empty bottle of soda and a foil packet that he tossed the bottle on the mattress next to Castiel. "Here."
"I don't require – nutrition," said Castiel blankly, watching Dean tear open the foil to extract what looked like a cracker.
"Dude, if your mojo is off enough that you can't even heal yourself, you should eat. At least drink something. Fluids, man. Gotta keep `em up, `s just like a car."
Dean and Castiel had never discussed the conditions of Castiel's fluctuating power capacity, so he took a sip of the soda without arguing, although he secretly didn't think he needed to. It was flat and overly sweet, but the taste of sugar was something he could probably get used to. He looked up again when Dean offered him one of the crackers.
"What is this?"
"It's a Pop Tart," said Dean. "Sorry, but I didn't exactly have time to pack angel food cake."
"This is food?"
"Well, Sam would say no, but it's cheap and it's easy to carry." Dean shrugged. "I eat `em."
Castiel nibbled thoughtfully at this – "pop-tart." It was very sweet and tasted mostly like flour. "You're supposed to heat them up," explained Dean, seeming faintly embarrassed, "but they're good cold too."
"I see."
"Sorry your first meal isn't more awesome," said Dean, rubbing the back of his neck. "You should have had, like, I dunno, steak or something."
Castiel finished about half of the cracker before he set the rest side. "This is what hunters eat," he said, sipping contentedly at his soda. "That's what I want to eat."
"At least we've got enough supplies to last a while, and there's a well out back if we run out of water."
"Do not attempt to leave the cabin," Castiel ordered. The wards around the house would only protect them within the four walls.
He watched Dean demolish the rest of the pop tarts, including his leftover half. He'd forgotten how much humans enjoyed their food. "I've probably got some candy left over from Halloween, if you want. It's been a while but candy doesn't go bad."
Castiel's stomach protested. "No, thank you."
"You sure? Your loss." Dean rummaged around in the bottom of the duffel and extracted a brightly-colored twist of paper that presumably contained an additional infusion of sucrose. "Ha, score!"
"Did you manage to save the child Moloch was planning to sacrifice?" asked Castiel, trying to take his mind off the unpleasant pressure in his midsection. At Dean's affirmative nod, he leaned forward in thought. "Then he will have to start the ritual over again. That will take time. He may be vulnerable."
"The other murders were spaced two days apart."
"It will take him at least that long to assemble the materials he requires. But he could come here and finish us off during that time. Even if he can't enter the cabin, he could stand outside and tear it down on us."
"I did something like that to a ghost once," said Dean, with his mouth full. "I guess this could be considered karma."
A sudden cramp made Castiel grunt, and he laid back slowly against the mattress.
"What's the matter with you?" Dean demanded, watching him. He leaned over and clamped a dry, callused palm over Castiel's forehead. Castiel blinked, unsure of how to best participate in this human ritual. After a moment, Dean sighed and pulled his hand away. Castiel stayed still in case he wanted to put it back again. "Man, I can't tell if you have a fever," Dean grumbled, "I got no idea how hot you're supposed to be."
Castiel didn't know either, but he found he liked to have Dean's hands on him and Dean's eyes on him. He didn't know why; it seemed to be a new feeling. He would have liked to ask Dean to explain it, but something told him it would be a bad idea.
Another cramp had him gritting his teeth.
"Dude, what?"
"My – stomach," said Castiel, grimacing and clenching his jaw with the unpleasant instinct that something might be about to crawl up out of it. "It feels – I don't know how to describe it –"
"It's fuckin' flat soda, man, no way it's making your stomach hurt," said Dean, capping the bottle and tossing it on the bed. He knocked Castiel's hand away and pushed him to lie flat against the mattress. "Here."
Dean's warm hand slipped up under Jimmy's oxford, making a pool of heat against his white undershirt. Castiel could feel the muscles of his abdomen clenching, and then releasing under the pressure. "You're too tense, dude, need to relax," said Dean. He rubbed a slow, careful circle and Castiel exhaled slowly in relief.
"It's working," he said in wonder.
"Yeah, well, I got experience with this," said Dean. "Sammy was a high-strung kid, go figure."
He left his hand long enough to melt away the squirmy feeling, then patted Castiel's shoulder and pushed himself up. The mention of his brother had shuttered his expression, but he managed a faint smile. "Okay, maybe not so much with the solid food," he said. "Live and learn."
Castiel decided it was wisest to keep still for a while longer. He closed his eyes and tried to capture all the sensory data that Jimmy's body was processing: the numbing cold of the icepack, the warmth of his feet under the sheet, the buzz of sugar entering the bloodstream. He listened to the sound of Dean moving around the room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Castiel cracked one eye to watch him, backlit by the light of the window, absent-mindedly ejecting and then reloading the clip on his gun. He used the muzzle to push aside one of the faded linen curtains, glancing outside, and then, apparently satisfied, let the curtain slide back into place.
Gradually Castiel became aware of another new sensation – the feeling of Jimmy's cock slowly filling in his boxer shorts.
...
Dean completed a perimeter check and returned to his duffle bag, carefully extracting all the weapons he had packed. Not that most of them would be any use against a demon of Moloch's caliber – wasn't like he had the colt in there, after all – but he'd spent half his life learning to keep a well-maintained arsenal between himself and the darkness, and old habits died hard.
He spread his current collection on the mattress next to Castiel, pausing to reload the SIG he kept for its stopping power. Maybe this demon had a bit part in the Old Testament, but it was hard to launch a good attack with only half a skull. Then he turned his attention to the knives; several that were weighted for throwing, the one he usually kept in his boot, and the jewel of his collection, Ruby's cursed blade. He hated to carry anything of hers but there was an undeniable pleasure in the way it put a demon down.
Of course, he noted as he glanced over at Castiel, there were some creatures that even the knife wouldn't touch.
The angel in question was currently trying to push himself up off the mattress, wincing every time he jolted his injured knee. "Cut that out," Dean directed; "Quit moving or you'll make it worse."
"I need to get up." Castiel looked uncomfortable, and Dean hastily returned to the bed.
"You hurting? I got pills, if you think they'd work on you."
"No, I. Uh. That's not the problem," Castiel stuttered. "Actually, it appears that this vessel has - achieved an erection." He was staring between his legs as though it would bite him.
Dean groaned. "WOAH, dude, way too much information!" He stood quickly with his hands up in front of his face, spinning around to face the door.
"Yes, I apologize," said Castiel, "I know this kind of thing isn't acceptable between fellow soldiers in your culture. I'll, uh, just ignore it."
"You do that," said Dean. There was a long pause. "Try thinking about baseball. Always works for me."
He wanted to leave the room but damnit, this was the most defensible spot in the cabin - the only place with clear sightlines to the surrounding woods. So instead he amused himself with the memory of Castiel's flustered face, which made him think of the night at the brothel. Good times. "I guess this is kind of a new experience for you, eh?"
"Yes," said Castiel, "I don't really know what to say. Obviously my control over this vessel has slipped due to our recent encounter with Moloch. It's, uh, it's not working."
"What's not working?"
"Baseball. Perhaps because I don't really follow human sports."
"Uh, try … Bobby in swim trunks."
A long pause. Then, apologetically; "I'm afraid angels don't really have much of an imagination …"
Dean huffed and turned around with his hand held exaggeratedly over his eyes. "Well then dude I think you're going to have to try plan B. I don't suppose you've ever heard of Rosie Palms?"
"You are referring to masturbation," said Castiel, sounding for all the world as if he was discussing a proceedure in a medical book.
"Uh, yeah, dude, that's what I'm referring to. Just, uh – you know – and I'll be in the hallway. For God's sake try to keep an eye on the windows, though, huh? We don't really need that demon to catch us with your hands down your pants."
Dean wheeled around to leave, but was stopped by Castiel's shy voice; "Dean."
"Dude, what?"
"I'm not really – I'm not sure what – to do."
Deep breath in. Count to ten. Let it out. "It's, uh, not really very complicated, buddy. Just, uh, take a firm hold and – go with what feels good." He should probably feel bad about teaching an angel to beat off, but he actually felt like he was being fairly awesome about this whole thing; it helped that he had been the one to teach little Sammy the whole 'no touching yourself in public' rule. This had eventually evolved into the 'dude, do that in the shower' rule, a rule that was in fact still in place today. Of course, the cabin didn't have a working shower, so that was a dead end.
Behind him he heard Castiel make a small noise, like a squeak, and Dean closed his eyes, thinking this was without question the weirdest, most awkward thing he had ever had to do. And he had done a lot of really weird and awkward things in his life. It was definitely time for him to head out to the hallway, but he found himself hanging around a moment longer ... it was like he was kind of invested in the whole thing now ...
"Dean?"
Calm, reasonable voice; "Yes, Cas?"
"It – feels weird."
"Yeah, buddy, that happens," said Dean, "Just go with it. Oh! - and use a sock or something, to - catch it, or you'll be stuck in wet shorts. Grab one of the white ones out of the duffel" (Sorry, Sammy – those were his socks).
The sound of fabric sliding over fabric. He really couldn't believe he was still in the room. "Okay?"
"Not remotely." Castiel sounded faintly out of breath and absolutely miserable. "I'm an angel of the lord. We aren't supposed to succumb to the pleasures of the flesh."
"You're putting too much thought into this, dude. All that guilt is just going to keep the little guy away from the big finish." Not that Dean was speaking from personal experience, or anything.
Silence.
"It's not working," said Castiel. "I don't think I'm doing this right."
Dean knuckled his forehead and hissed out a breath between his teeth. Okay, this was ridiculous. This was somebody who had literally gone to Hell for him, right? And now the poor bastard really needed a solid and damned if Dean didn't repay his debts. This really wasn't too much to ask. Right?
Sufficiently psyched up, he turned around to take charge of the situation. Don't over-think it, he reminded himself. Wordlessly he crossed the room and knelt next to Castiel on the mattress, avoiding eye contact. Then he nudged his hand between Cas' legs and cupped him firmly through his boxers.
Castiel gave a soft grunt that sounded pained and maybe a little frightened, but Dean quickly got to work. He had a cock, after all, so he pretty much knew what to do with it. Felt a little backwards, like tying somebody else's tie, is all. It only took some hard strokes and a couple good tugs through the fabric before Cas groaned, and Dean just remembered to ease the head out of the slot in his boxers and into the sock.
Then he gave a good squeeze and Cas jerked in his hand, sounding surprised but hopefully satisfied, too. Dean made sure to catch all of the spunk that spurted out from the end of his cock, and used the sock to wipe him quickly clean. "There you, buddy, good, good job," he muttered inanely, aware on one level that he was talking to Castiel as though he was a kid learning to hit a baseball, but also knowing that he wasn't hearing the words anyway.
As soon as he was spent Castiel went totally lax, his head flopping to the side, eyes glazed. Dean was pretty sure he was falling straight to sleep – just like a man – and he had to admit, he was feeling kinda smug. He'd just blown his little angel mind.
"Dude," he said quietly, tossing the sock into the corner and grimacing as he wiped his hands on his jeans. "You totally owe me."
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TBC