Iatytily
Dean/Castiel
Rated M for Language and Sexual Content
Angst/Romance
Summary: Dean's only distraction from his angel, his shattered, broken angel, is sexsexsex. POST 7X17, PRE 7X21. Songfic.
A/N: Dean/Castiel, but also hinted Dean/Garth (Hey, I've wanted to include Garth for a while now. This was the best way to do it!) Major OOC Cass, and slight OOC Dean, but it was called for. Also, I wrote this after 7x17, but way before anything else, so yeah XD
Based off Papa Roach's "I Almost Told You That I Loved You"
[YOU KNOW I LOVE IT WHEN YOU'RE DOWN ON YOUR KNEES]
Fists pulling into hair, swollen lips, and the sweet cry of release has never felt s s wrong.
[AND I'M A JUNKIE FOR THE WAY THAT YOU PLEASE]
"Don't stop –" A command, almost, an order, falls from his tongue, barking, biting at the ears of the one in front of him, the one touching and tasting him all wrong – he wants to tell him that, too, how everything he's doing is wrongwrongwrong. But he doesn't, because he needs this.
[YOU SHUT ME OUT WHEN YOU SWALLOW ME DOWN]
Even if he was to tell the one on his knees that everything's all wrongwrongwrong, he doesn't think he'd hear. No, the cock virgin's far too busy focusing on the task at hand than anything else, and they're both so drunkdrunkdrunk, that, really, it doesn't matter anymore.
[MY BACK TO THE WALL, YOU'RE GOING TO TOWN]
He can feel the rough valleys of cement cutting into his shoulder blades, a stinging kind of pain accompanying them, but he can't really bring himself to care. Not when all the blood in his body has rushed downdowndown, and all around, warming, hardening, like ice, more than anything else, because ice is all he has left. And it's all just so wrongwrongwrong.
[I HATE TO SAY IT BUT IT HAS TO BE SAID]
"I'm sorry."
Sorrysorrysorry, echoing in his bones, fifty times over, each syllable pulling his muscles taut. "I can't."
Won't.
" . . . It's cause you said Cass, right?"
CassCassCassCassCas wait, what?
"I did?"
"Yeah, and you cried a little, but I, like, always cry when I get laid, so I figured that –"
A hard punch in the fragile flesh of a smirking face makes all conversation cease. "Leave."
"Dean?"
"LEAVE!"
[YOU LOOK SO FRAGILE AS I FUCK WITH YOUR HEAD]
He doesn't see Garth for a very long time after that.
More so, he leaves a (finally) sleeping Sammy and steals into the night, old fucking bullshit car roaringroaringroaring into the cautiously placed silence as he drives on and on and just plain on until he reaches his destination with the weight of more than that just the world on his shoulders.
And as he picks of his leaden feet and walks through those damned doors, a part of him just breaksbreaksbreaks.
[I KNOW IT SHOULDN'T, BUT IT'S GETTING ME ON]
They're all drooling and sneezing and sreamingscreamingscreaming, everyone in this place, and he wants to crawl into a corner and hide himself away, like he used to when he –
"Hello, Dean," that bitch smiles at him, like she's got every right to. But she doesn't – she's wrongwrongwrong – all wrong fo him.
He growls back her name – "Meg" – and gives him a "Not-in-the-mood-for-your-bullshit" glare.
So she chuckles and leads him away, into a dark room with a single bed and a crying man.
And he's so beautifulbeautifulbeautiful.
[IF SEX IS THE DRUG, THEN WHAT IS THE CAUSE]
"Can you leave us alone?"
The demon bitch doesn't respond, but he knows she's gone with the click of the door. And then he faces the source of all his pain.
Slender, alabaster limbs are curled in on themselves, dark hair tangled and shaggy, a mess, un-brushed, so different then everything he's ever known. He can't see his eyes, not yet, and for that he's grateful, because as soon as he does, he knows he'll shattershattershatter.
But he's gotta see his face at least – "Cass?"
The sound of choking causes him to lurch forward, father the fragile body into his sturdy arms and weepweepweep – "Oh, God, Cass I'm so sorry." He can't see the face he's dying to, not beyond the blurry mess of tears engulfing everything in smeared water colors.
"Dean?" Weak, grasping hands cling to his neck. "You came back."
He can almost hear Lucifer laughing at them.
[I'M NOT THE ONE THAT YOU WANT]
They're both crying now. Cryingcryingcrying.
"Please don't leave." Pleasepleaseplease.
"Cass," his hands run through the insane angel's hair, drowning in a sea of soft. "You know I gotta go back to Sammy. I have to – to look out for him, Cass. Make sure," he swallows, "Make sure you're efforts don't go to waste."
Heart wrenching sobs follow, and that's when he knows they're both just so shatteredshatteredshattered.
[NOT THE ONE THAT YOU NEED]
He places both hands on his angel's face, peering into too-tired, too-fractured, too-deep blueblueblue eyes, a story unfolding, a tragic story. He whispers more apologizes, each syllable closing the already minor space between them further and further, until it's vanished and all that remains is a chaotic kiss of tears and teeth and passion.
[MY LOVE IS A FUCKING DISEASE]
It's nearly morning by the time they pull apart, mouths dry and lips swollen, and Dean's settling his angel back onto the bed, his falling-asleep angel, kissing his forehead and walking the fuck away . . .
Like he always does.
"Dean?"
He stops, mid-step.
" love you."
And he dissolves into a million pieces of glass.
[YOU CAN GIVE YOUR COMMANDS, YOU CAN MAKE YOUR DEMANDS]
"Keep going –"
"Don't stop –"
"Again –"
"That was amazing, Dean –"
[I'M THE HARDEST MOTHER FUCKER TO PLEASE]
"Leave."