Hands press against broken ribs, tracing the details of split bone beneath taught skin. He can heal this – all of it. The scars, everything, all the way down to the ones signed in blood, the ones labeled Alistair. He can fix the broken pieces and restore the hunter to his original state, except not really. He will never be that powerful, never be able to heal what doesn't want to be healed.
Dean says, no.
So the bones stay broken.
Please, let me do this. I can fix you.
I'm not a busted toy. Dean flinches as the last word stumbles off his tongue. Shakes his head and arches against Castiel's trembling fingers. I don't need to be rewired.
Dean…I… Castiel can't finish his sentence. Doesn't know what he had planned to say beyond that. So he bends his head to kiss dark purple bruises shaped like fingers. Castiel hears the hiss and the sharp intake of breath, and something in him dies a little. Because he swore he'd never cause Dean Winchester any pain. Not ever.
And Castiel is slowly realizing that some promises were never meant to be kept.
Please, Dean begs. And a small flutter of hope rises in the angel's chest. Castiel lifts his hand, ghosting his fingers across Dean's ribs.
The hunter shakes his head almost violently. No, no fucking angel mojo. Just…
What? Castiel asks, almost whispering the words for fear that he just might be dreaming this.
Dean, what do you need? Castiel chooses his words carefully, says need because Dean never wants. Never acts on blatant desire, not anymore. Dean needs Sam. He needs family. He needs to feel like he isn't a mindless soldier being handed a gun and told to shoot anything that moves. Dean needs a lot of things, yet he seldom receives them.
So Castiel licks his lips and repeats himself, enunciating slowly, Dean. What do you need?
The hunterbreathes deep, ragged breaths. Sweat dots his skin and for a moment Castiel thinks Dean might be sick. Thinks the wounds might really be infected, so he wishes Dean would just let him heal them. But Dean curls his fingers in Castiel's hair, holding his head in place.
You, he says, his voice pained and pleading. I want you. Fuck, just…please…
Castiel runs his lips gently across the flushed planks of Dean's belly, kissing each abdominal muscle individually. Another hiss leaves younger man's mouth. What do you need, Dean?
No. Fuck.
Castiel sits up, shakes his head. Watches green dart around like a laser pen teasing a cat. No, Castiel says, determined, now, to make Dean realize that he is second to no one. Castiel wants him to see that it is okay for him to have something for himself.
It's okay for him to have Castiel.
Just tell me what you need and I'll give it to you. He hooks his fingers under the waist of Dean's jeans, stroking the button with his thumb. All you have to do is ask.
Dean groans, a heavy rumble in the back of his throat. And Castiel's mind jumps to mudslides and twisters and an old movie he watched with Dean about the love affair between a girl and a scarecrow. Castiel thinks of how Dean might be the scarecrow here, confused and unsure; unable to make up his mind because he's never been given the right to choose. Castiel thinks this must make him the girl, because he is still just trying to find his way back home.
Please. Touch. Me.
Where? Castiel moves his hands up Dean's thighs, two-stepping his fingers across the sensitive skin still covered by way too much fabric. He rests an open palm against Dean's steel-like erection. Here?
The younger man chokes out something resembling a sob or a moan, Castiel can't tell, nor does he care. Because Dean is saying yes, he's gritting his teeth and grinding out a response.
Yes, Cas, right there. Shit.
Castiel smiles as he bends down to trace his lips along the contours of Dean's dick, feeling Dean shudder beneath him. Castiel undoes the hunter's jeans and tugs them down so they cling to his hips; cock still carefully hidden, but just barely.
Dean squirms, grabbing his pants and trying desperately to shove them off. The angel catches his wrists and clicks his tongue. Not until you tell me, Castiel says as he threads their fingers together and brings his mouth to the head of Dean's cock, sucking him gently through denim. What you need, he finally adds.
He knows this shouldn't be difficult, Castiel has seen Dean demand things before. But for some reason, right now, with him, Dean won't do it. And Castiel believes it's because Dean still sees himself as unworthy, like he isn't allowed wanton desire. Like he is still back in the Pit being told how he's supposed to feel instead of actually feeling anything.
The thought hurts. It makes Castiel's stomach clench right along with his jaw, because he's getting tired of this routine. Castiel doesn't know how many more times he will be able to tell Dean he's more than just an instrument without ever moving toward conviction. Because every time they get close, every time it looks like Dean might actually believe him, the hunter finds a new reason to jump three steps behind square one.
Tell me, this time he begs, pleads, because Dean has only so much as whimpered the last time he asked. And Castiel needs this, needs to know how to fix things before they get worse. So the angel darts his tongue out and licks a line up the tented cloth, hoping to somehow make Dean give him some kind of request or demand – something more than this.
And he does. God help him he does.
Dean bucks his hips up off the skeevy motel sheets and whines like a child being neglected a toy. He stumbles over his words, inarticulate and pleading, creating a language all his own for just this occasion. Castiel wants to smile at the way he draws a hiss from the hunter's throat as he peels the younger man's boxers down his thighs, finally releasing his cock to the world. But Castiel keeps his hands working and moves up Dean's body, kissing everywhere he can reach. Ribs, chest, collarbone, lips – every piece of Dean like a treasure map waiting to be explored.
Castiel wraps his hand around Dean's cock, stroking the head with his thumb, waiting for and answer to his question. He's not exactly frustrated, just anxious. Cause he needs this, needs Dean to give him some direction. To take the lead and make him go left or right, forward or back.
So when Dean finally reaches up and touches him, he knows what's coming, knows that their needs are finally in sync. The hunter rakes his fingers over Castiel's scalp, pulling their mouths together in a supernova styled kiss. Explosions fight each other behind Castiel's closed eyelids and they march until they have found just the right outline of Dean's face. They paint him with beautiful injustice because nothing can ever match the intensity of the real Dean.
Need – fuck! Suck me off, Cas, please.
Castiel doesn't hesitate as much as he thought he would. He almost jumps at the chance to fulfill Dean's request, almost. Instead he crawls slowly down Dean's body, licking a stripe from his collarbone to his belly button, then kissing the younger man's hips in turn. Left then right, right then left. Castiel dots Dean's thighs with purpled song notes to match the bruises mapping his skin. And he only feels a pang of regret when his thumb sinks into a Colorado sized discoloration evoking a hiss and a string of curses from Dean's mouth.
Dean's mouth.
It reminds Castiel of his own mouth, of what he is going to with it. Because Castiel has never done this before, has never pleasured a human the way his about to pleasure Dean. But he's thought about it. Fantasized about this very moment so many times, all he has to do is play his part, repeat every line he's memorized so carefully.
Dean is shifting his hips from side to side, up and down, restlessness setting in. Castiel expects him to tell him something, demand him to hurry up, but all the hunter does is groan from deep in his throat. And Castiel decides that he has waited long enough. Because as much as Dean needs this, needs Castiel to take care of him, Castiel wants it that much more.
Castiel darts his tongue out, lapping up the bitter pre-cum and smiling to himself. He cups Dean's balls in his hand, rolling them in his palm as he whispers, Sing for me, then takes as much of Dean into his mouth as he can.
Dean moans loud, bucking his hips and pushing himself further into Castiel's mouth. The angel can easily stop Dean's movements; make him lie still so Castiel can do all the work. But the way Dean fucks his mouth feels so good. So good.
Castiel moans against Dean's cock, vibrating the flesh and pushing the sound up Dean's body and out his mouth. They are that in tune with one another – inhaling when the other exhales. And Castiel can feel Dean's orgasm building, can feel the tension rising as the hunter grabs fistfuls of Castiel's hair. Holding him in place as Dean speeds up then slows down, thrusting one final time before he loses control and comes down the angel's throat.
Castiel swallows what he can. Dean pulls out of Castiel's mouth, grabbing him by the neck and once again crushes their mouths together. Dean can taste himself on Castiel's tongue, the angel is sure of it because Castiel can still taste the hunter. If Dean minds he isn't saying anything, just licking up what slipped down Castiel's chin and kissing the corners of his lips.
Dean moves his kisses down Castiel's throat. He sucks purple hickeys down the angel's skin and Castiel wonders if their bruises match, if they are compatible in that respect too.
Castiel doesn't have a chance to assess their images, to see how wrecked Dean looks because Dean whispers, heal me. Dean fits his mouth over Castiel's borrowed pulse point and says, Okay, you can take them away now.
Castiel hesitates. He pauses and tries to understand what Dean has asked of him. It's what he wants to do, heal Dean. What Castiel needs to do to feel like he's bettering at least some part of the world. But it's different now, changed in the small span of time that has passed since Castiel was first told no. Castiel still wants to fix the broken bones and make the bruises disappear, but he sees them clearly now, he understands what they mean.
Dean needs the bruises like he needs his brother. He needs their confessions of vulnerability, the way they remind him of just how broken he is.
The epitome of humanity.
Dean takes hold of Castiel's wrists and places the angel's hands on his ribs.
Heal me. Please.
Castiel nods and says okay. He says, I will, Dean.
He can heal everything with a thought if he wants to. But he doesn't. Castiel wants – needs – to feel everything align beneath his fingers. Bones coming together perfectly, skin softening and regaining its original coloring, Dean becoming Dean again.
And when everything is fixed and back to the way it's supposed to be, Castiel pushes his forehead against Dean's shoulder. Dean wraps his arms around the angel and just holds him for what seems like an eternity. Castiel feels a sharp stab of regret for the things he just lost. But Dean is Dean and pain is his remedy. Bruises are his staple and Castiel will have to heal them again. Soon.
But for now, Castiel is content to just be here.
To be with Dean.
Always with Dean.