It ain't about sleep, don't let 'em snow you over with that line, it weren't never about sleep. Kid, he found his angel, pulled him up from that river bank and never moved more than five feet from him after. All the trekking we done this far? Just him and me and damn near a thousand monsters littering the trail behind us? Done wiped away the moment he laid eyes on that dirty coat.
Don't mean that his angel was too happy about the whole situation. Dean's keeping him near, and that angel keeping his eyes on the ground, even when I know he can feel me staring daggers at him.
Dean stops, first time since his feet hit the ground here, turns to that angel and they don't say a word. I'm watching, shifting my blade's weight in my hand, waiting for the conversation but they only look at each other. Dean's face a picture of concern, anger, confusion and need. I wouldn't need to see him for it, each one rolling off him in waves, I can taste it in the air around us. The angel, now, he's just sad. Sad, defiant. That's all I can get from him and I wonder if angel blood would work the same as human blood does. That vessel is human, right? But would I taste his terror trapped in there? or the desperation of the angel trapped here with us?
"Benny, we gotta stop. I gotta sleep." I follow Dean's eyes as they break away from mine, starting at the hem of the angel's coat, traveling up to his lips, and it ain't sleep i'm tasting in the air. No, that'd be my own expectations crumbling to dust, motes in the hazed light filtering through the canopy above. Did I expect the kid to see me as anything other than a monster? No. Did I think about what might happen if he did? Yes. Yes, I did and it every bit involved his eyes traveling over me in just the way they licked up this angel of his.
His angel mutters, "Sleep?" in this same confused tone to echo my thoughts but when Dean turns, heading off away from me, the angel follows, shoulders slumped. They neither one look back but I got the message loud and clear I ain't invited to this slumber party.
It sounds like a laugh, what bubbles up from my chest, watching the two of them walk away. It's pouring out of my mouth, but it feels like an absence that makes my lungs burn and when the angel follows Dean around a crooked tree where I can't see them anymore, I'm bent over gripping my thighs sucking in jagged breaths my body don't actually need.
I'm a century old vampire. I'm a pirate. I've survived Purgatory. I've lived and I've loved and I've lost. What the fuck is this?
It's in the air, they didn't make it far, and not a hint of 'rest' or 'sleep' tainting any taste that meets my lips. It's Dean's heat, I taste. His want. It's fiery and rushed and I'm remembering my first taste of pure cinnamon as a child, how it's sweet and burns.
I'm moving before I think, focused steps through the fallen leaves, and it's Dean I hear first. His breath, near a pant, and I can taste the stale whisky on his every exhale, lingering from topside, but it's the angel's groan that moves me closer still.
"Dean-" I hear, the name from the angel's mouth like his vessel was formed in the womb with lips and tongue to create that sound, lungs to push the perfect breath behind it, like his purpose in all of Heaven and Earth is that one syllable and it may as well be, it's seldom anything follows it. This time ain't no different, the angel, I lean around the crooked tree to see, the bark rough under my palm, he's stood arms at his side while Dean stands with him, chest to chest. The angel rolls his head to the side, eyes closed, hands clinched in tight little fists while Dean is laying his lips along the angel's neck.
Shit.
Dean pulls away, I can't see exactly, but his hands are working under the angel's coat, his voice drags along the ground saying, "Shut up." before he leans in to place a kiss along the angel's jaw and another, as the angel angles in for it, right on his mouth.
Whatever Dean's doing, he isn't letting go, and it's when the angel's hips begin to move under that coat that I get it. The angel hasn't raised his hands to touch Dean and it might be drops of blood on his coat where his fists hang from his fingernails breaking the tender skin of his palm but he pushes those hips toward Dean again, the kid allowing the angel to break the kiss to throw his head back and moan.
This kid, feet splayed, I can imagine the grip he's got and when I think it, there's the thought in my mind of his fingers wrapped around angelic cock as I watch the angel rock back away then forward again. Then there's a hand, Dean's moved up into the angel's hair, fingers dragging through a haphazard trail. He continues down the angel's back then around to wrap his fingers over one of the angel's clinched fists. Dean shakes the angel's arm, gently coaxes the fingers open, and smiles.
Dean's hands are busy between them, but it's the distinct sound of his zipper, then he's moving his shoulder in a way that I know he's stroking the angel again when I see him guiding the angel's hand between them.
It is a moment of pure pleasure, when the angel finally touches Dean, and I can taste it all around us as it crashes through the air.
He says, "Yes."
He says, "Oh, Yes."
He has a hand gripping the angel's shoulder, fingers digging into the dirty fabric and I'm watching them both move together.
Dean's voice like an unexpected thorn bush capturing sensitive flesh, deep and painful, as he says, "Cas." The kid, his hips rocking into the angel's grip as the angel presses into Dean's.
Finally, the angel let's loose this growl, there ain't a better word for it, and he's got himself pressed up on Dean just as close as two mostly clothed standing men can get. His mouth is at Dean's collar, his neck, his jaw, his lips and it's nearly angry how hungry the angel is for this kid. Dean's moving quick, his hips near bucking when he whimpers and it's a tiny sound escaping between their mouths. The angel pulls away, near glaring into Dean's eyes and the kid returning the hostile gaze unfazed then the angel leans in, laying his head on Dean's shoulder, pressing himself into Dean's grasp. Dean mirrors the movement, pressing his forehead against the angel's shoulder and they're both hot breath and fisted dicks and fevered thrusting peppered with animalistic grunts then I hear Dean.
"Fuck, Cas." He says.
"Fuck, yeah." He says.
But it's Cas, turning his face toward Dean, pressing his lips to Dean's cheek, then saying "Fuck you, Dean." that's the moment the air around us in a fifty mile radius tastes like volcanic ash. These two, pressing their bodies together as they come, each holding the other like they are all they each have in the world.
There's ragged breathing and a moment of near calm. The angel pulls his hand from between them and I see him drag his hand across his coat. Dean nestles his face into the crook of the angel's neck and murmurs something I can't hear. The angel laughs.
"I don't think he'll care, Dean." The angel says.
"Yeah?" Dean asks, his voice muffled, face still nestled in.
For the first time since we met at the river side, the angel turns his gaze on me, eyes right on mine where I'm ducked behind this tree and I can feel my stomach drop down fifteen flights of stairs. The angel smiles, "Yeah. I'm sure Benny won't care."