Author: sangre antigua.
Rating; Title; Pairing: M; The Affliction, the Substitute and the Remedy; Dean/OC, Dean/Castiel.
Summary: Dean is in love with Castiel, but has sought out a way to relieve his desires. [Dean/OC, Dean/Castiel]
Warning/Disclaimer: Do not own Supernatural. Slash. If you don't like it, don't read it.
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Dean Winchester didn't enjoy paying for sex. He had only done it once or twice, when he had been having a dry-spell, and it always left a bad taste in his mouth. But he had to do it. Not doing it would certainly end in him losing his mind, thus going off the deep-end and getting himself killed in a job.
No normal hooker would do. The hooker he had to have needed blue eyes; large cerulean pools that engulfed Dean's whole being, big enough to swim in and blue enough to be mistaken for the afternoon sky. The hooker needed an innocent face and smooth skin, the kind almost too pure to touch but at the same time too supple not to stroke adoringly. The hooker needed to listen to everything Dean said during sex, taking each hint to heart and complying obediently. The hooker needed to be a little shorter than him with a tan tint to their skin and wild, cow-licked black hair.
The hooker needed to be male, and he needed to look like Castiel.
He had shopped around as they traveled, picking up articles of clothing that looked like the set Castiel wore day in and day out. They were kept in a trash bag in a compartment in the trunk of the Impala, a compartment secret from even Sam. It required a key to open, a key which was stored away in the glove box. It laid in small cut-out space in a manual that had yellowed from lack of use. It was an instruction manual for oil changing, and, seeing as Dean could change the oil of damn-near anything with his eyes closed and a bad case of lobster-claw syndrome, he hadn't any purpose for it. The only flaw with that arrangement was that Sam didn't know how to change the oil. Of anything. If he borrowed the Impala and Dean had just-so managed to forget to change the oil of his precious baby, leaving Sam to change it himself, then the key would be exposed and Sam would nag him until his death about its purpose. About the lock that sat in silence, waiting for the piece to make it whole. Thus, the key would be moved if the hunter felt paranoid. It would rest beneath the pad in his shoe. The imprint it left was a reminder to keep Dean from losing it.
If the impression felt empty, then Dean would worry.
The fetish he had developed for the angel had to be kept secret at all costs, and, as far as he could tell, no one had caught on yet. God forbid they did. The angel didn't act anything shy of normal around him, and Sam was as clueless as ever when it came to Dean's emotions. The hunter went to extreme measures to keep it that way, though he had slipped up several times. He tended to hit on girls with so much fervor that it frightened both parties if their names even remotely resembled the angel's own. Blue-eyed girls were had quickly become his favorite, and sometimes he found himself hitting on lesbians he knew had no eyes for him, solely because their hair resembled Castiel's. It was a sickness; the most perfect affliction Dean could ever ask for. If only he didn't have to hide it from everyone the way he did. That was for the best, he deemed, keeping it hidden so far away from the light of day that not a soul else would ever find out.
The thought of Sam and Bobby's reaction to his "lifestyle choice" made Dean visibly cringe. The epitome of all things manly; the definition of "lady's man". That was Dean. If word got out about his bisexuality, his sexual reputation would not only be altered completely, but he feared his reputation as hunter, as well. Hunters weren't exactly known for their acceptance to things of that caliber.
What to expect from Sam, Dean couldn't hazard a guess. The other hunter disliked to hear about his brother's sexual endeavors when they involved women and whether or not Sam was homophobic was beyond him. But better safe than sorry.
"Where are you going?" Sam lay stretched out on his motel bed, his arms behind his head and his long legs spread beneath the comforter. Shampoo and Dial soap perfumed his body, the pillowcase damp due to his still wet hair. They had had a long evening, once again investigating the recent deaths of five women in an apartment mainly inhabited by immigrants. The women had all been gutted and sown back up, their bones decorated in a sadistic manner. They had no good leads as to the culprit, though they had been on the job for almost a whole week. Bobby was working on it, his coffeepot full and his phone charged and ready to use as necessary.
Dean shrugged on his leather jacket before giving himself a once-over in the motel-room mirror. He had just showered and smelt like Old Spice, his mouth as minty as the tube of toothpaste insured. He looked perfect—distinctly himself.
It had taken him three nights to find a hooker that looked like Castiel. His eyes were blue, but the shade was much murkier. The color was more of hot water than cool, crisp pools. Though they were nearly as calculating as Castiel's own, there was a corruption in them that could never be hidden. It was the dark flame keeping the pools hot, the intensity of all he had seen birthing blushes in even the most... "learned" of persons.
Besides his eyes, he was a little shorter than Dean, and he was lean.
The only major difference, other than the lack of the cute little quirk Castiel offered when something didn't register, was the hair. The male's hair was a dark brown, not black. The difference didn't bother him at first, as he figured they would be in the dark. But as the seconds ticked by, it ate away at him. He wanted the lights to be on, as to explore the body to his fullest abilities. That would cause the light to shine in his hair and Dean's dream to fade away with the blinding, bleaching realization that, no, the male beneath Dean's body was not his angel.
"Out," was Dean's answer, short and sweet and curt, to boot. He tossed the keys in the air a few times before snatching them back. "I'll be back before you wake up, don't worry." A genuine, award winning smile was offered to Sam as proof to Dean's words. That smile could melt the panties off of almost anyone, and Dean knew it. But it wouldn't work on the one person he wanted it to. A twinge of sadness plucked at his heartstrings and Dean clamped his jaw tightly. Best not think about that before the big event. "Sleep tight, Sammy. Don't grow a vagina, move into an immigrant apartment and have your insides ripped apart and carved into."
Dean walked slow enough out of the motel-room to watch his brother bitch-face. His chuckle echoed, following him quietly all the way to the Impala. Sweat coated his palms and his lips never seemed to stay wet enough. Nerves wracked through Dean's body, yelling at him to stop what he was doing. At the same time, anxiousness surged through his veins, compelling him to keep going. He silenced them both and went with his plan. He had already given over the clothes and had already paid for the hotel room. This was happening, no matter what.
If this didn't end in sex, Dean had a trunk full of liquor to console himself. The hunter had never, ever thought so far ahead before. Unfortunately, if that happened, he would be breaking his promise to Sam.
Fortunately, it wasn't as if Sam was expecting him back.
The motel was nice, with lush comforters and that freshly cleaned smell. It had cost him an arm and a leg, but nothing was too good. There couldn't be such a thing as "too perfect" tonight. Even if things were deemed "perfect", Dean would strive for more.
When he got there, his "date" was pacing about, just as Dean had instructed. He turned around upon hearing the door open, his face styled as if he had learned it straight from Dean's angel. Everything Dean had solicited had been taken to heart, and it was beautiful.
"Dean," he said, taking a step forward. The trench coat he wore gently lapped at his calves.
"Castiel," Dean whispered back.
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Lobster-Claw Syndrome is formally known as "Ectrodactyly", just so you all know. More whenever I get around to it. Feedback is love.