Greetings Fandom. A couple of quick things:
*Warning* This fic contains SLASH PWP. Don't like, don't read.
First, my apologies to all my normal readers, this is for a different fandom but feel free to dive in anyway! More coming on my other WIP soon.
Second, I always get CRAZY nervous posting to a new fandom for the first time and when it's one like this, well, you can imagine the pressure. I'd love to hear what you think of this and whether I should endeavor to write more SPN fic if the spirit moves me.
A few story and style notes: This is a song fic inspired by Florence and the Machine's 'Bedroom Hymns'. I felt it SO suited the Destiel ship for OBVIOUS reasons. There is another fic by this name in this fandom and I did a careful read to make sure it bore no resemblance. It doesn't. I don't often write in this style (third person-present tense) but I felt it suited the angst of this little PWP very well. Each insertion of lyrics indicates a change in POV. Hope you like it.
Thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, it's characters, etc., I am merely taking them out for a casual stroll around the block, making no profit from this adventure.
This is as good a place to fall as any
We'll build our alter here
Make me your Maria
I'm already on my knees
You had Jesus on your breath
And I caught him in mine
Sweating our confessions
The undone and the divine
Dean's not sure when this became his favorite of self-destructive addictions. Somewhere, not long after that first rainy and bloody night, desire turned to need and now the sweet slither of the angel's name across his lips as he prays is enough to get him hard, enough to set the sparks swirling low in his belly in sheer anticipation while his hands fumble with his belt, knowing his call will be answered.
Fingers at the buttons of his shirt, cold, flat disks slipping one by one against the numbness, he senses the celestial presence behind him as the hairs on the back of his neck stand up to attention.
When he turns, those blue eyes are on him, liquid and brimming with that odd mix of ancient wisdom, sadness and overriding hunger which turns his hammering heart to a tight fist in his chest no matter how many times he's confronted with it.
Each time they do this he swears it will be the last but when the angel's breath sweeps across the stubble on his chin he stops lying to himself for just a little while and allows himself to fall into the arms that will never be tight enough, the kiss that will never be deep enough.
This is the only surrender he's ever known, the only submission he will allow himself. Castiel's love is his salvation, the angel's body his alter, and in this dark, dank alley of a church, he's eager to worship.
This is his Body
This is his Blood
Such selfish prayers
And I can't get enough
Dean will never know the effect his prayers have on Cas. How those whispered devotions fall heavy on the angel's shoulders, sing in his ears and wrap around his insides to tug him toward the earthy plane, toward the source of such miraculously dulcet supplications. He's never failed to answer, has literally moved heaven and earth to freely give this human the parts of himself he's kept locked away for countless eons.
There's no need for explanation. Cas knows why he's here. He licks his lips as his eyes fall to the thick bulge in Dean's Levi's and before he remembers to suck air into his vessel's lungs, he's pushing the human back against the wall, mouth to mouth, cock to aching cock, hard and hurting just the way Dean likes it.
There's never enough time and so he's learned. Learned the patterns and rhythms to get them both going in a hurry, learned the spot just below Dean's left ear which elicits the delicious sound that travels the length of his spine and settles behind his balls, adding to the pressure that's already pulsing hard as he swells.
The senses of his vessel are magnified through his celestial body and Dean's taste is a heady blow that threatens to split the fabric of his reality if he fully lets it in. He shrugs the coat from his shoulders as usually nimble fingers stutter at his buttons and tangle in his tie, seeking his skin. He longs for Dean to touch him in his true form but as fingers fist in his hair, soft lips torture the hollow of his throat, he acknowledges that his human body has its perks as well.
His hands scramble at the remnants of chambray, sweeping it aside as the pads of his thumbs slide up to the tiny nubs of erectile flesh that he knows how to work just right, squeezing and caressing until Dean is twisting against him and fucking his mouth with an impatient tongue.
I'm not here looking for absolution
Because I've found myself an old solution
Castiel has mastered the pleasures of the human flesh he wears as if he were born to them. Dean taught him how to kiss him that first night, nibbled and sucked his lips swollen and raw as he led the dance until Cas found his rhythm and ran with it.
He's lost count of their meetings now, can't track just how many times he's felt the angel moving inside of him, filling him beyond the physical, but as his hands tangle in the impossibly soft black curls atop Cas's head, he knows it feels like coming home.
The angel's warm scent surrounds him, invades him until it drowns out even the worst of the unsavory smells in this little corner he's found for their encounter tonight. Proximity is always a driving factor in his choice of location and on nights like this one, it's often the only consideration he can afford. Tonight, the course wall behind him is exactly what he needs and as fractured mortar and broken slabs of brick dig into heated skin he's already grinding his cock into Cas's hip while he pushes the angel's hands away and forces his khakis down past his knees in one sweep.
It doesn't really matter to him where they do it, dark alleys, dripping warehouses, the back seat of the Impala, so long as they aren't interrupted. He needs to believe just for these few sacred moments that they are alone in the universe, that nothing exists beyond the hard press of flesh on flesh, the sting and the burn and the heat of it all as he loses himself beneath the smooth and knowing hands that dip into his jeans, ease his zipper open and wrap around his dick, stroking him until he's nearly ready to beg.
Giving a last tug on Cas's bottom lip with his teeth, he spins in the angel's arms, lets his jeans fall in a dark denim pool around his ankles and arches in invitation. An impossibly soft palm strokes the curve of his back, creeps up his spine and settles on his shoulder as he feels Cas's rounded head slip into his crack and slick him with thick drops of the moisture leaking from his tip.
Cheek pressed to the cool and reassuring solidity of the bricks, he bites back a moan when the angel enters him, forces in relentlessly despite the resistance of tense muscle. Dean wants the pain now, clings to the tight burn of his body opening like an anchor as his thighs tremble and quake. Palms flat, he pushes his hips back hard, fucking himself onto the cock in his ass as he lets Cas know that 'gentle' isn't in his vocabulary tonight. The strangled cry from behind him makes his dick twitch and as they quickly settle into a practiced rhythm he knows this time they're running a sprint rather than a marathon.
Jaw clenched, lip curled, Dean's fingertips bite into the mortar as Cas twists his hips and hits him right fucking there, the sweet spot that makes him feel like his dick is being stroked from the inside and makes his knees turn to rubber. He meets every thrust, relishing the sharp echoing snap that accompanies each smack of flesh meeting flesh.
Pushing him quickly toward his finish, the angel plunges in again and again with persistent, well-aimed strokes that send the heat already tightening around his hips and spine shooting up his chest. He can't possibly get any harder and the flat slap of his cock against his belly with each brutal stroke hones the line of pleasure and pain to a razor fine edge.
He wraps the fingers of his own hand around tumescent, pulsing flesh as strong arms circle his waist. Cas flattens his chest against Dean's back, molds their bodies together, sweat slicked skin sliding easily along his own. The clutching hand against his sternum feels like a brand despite the heat of his own flesh and he bucks into his fist desperately as the angel's name claws its way up his throat and tears free from his lips.
I'm not here looking for absolution
Because I've found myself an old solution
Cas is close, barely able to contain the torturous ecstasy besieging his celestial body inside his human form. The connection with Dean transcends physical pleasure, wraps him in deliciously addicting warmth as he touches the wispy edges of the human's soul. He wants to hang onto this moment for a millennium, to bathe in the glow and the power and the imperfect passion for eternity even though his skin pulses and throbs with the need for release.
He feels the stutter in Dean's hips, hears the telltale hitch in his breathless pleas and manages to slip a hand over his mouth just in time to stifle the exultant roar as tight, slick heat clamps down on him. The vibration of muffled cries sings along his arm as he rides out Dean's orgasm, sinking his teeth into the tender, scarred flesh of the human's shoulder as he pulls him away from the wall just in time.
Flattening his palm against the cool brick, Cas discharges the energy that's been building inside him, threatening to rend his flesh in searing shreds if he loses control for just a second. The heat and light are blinding as the stone beneath his palm turns to molten glass and he shields Dean's body with his own even as the initial eruption fades to short staccato spurts. Muscles trembling and burning with the simultaneous onslaught of physical release, he's got just enough power left.
This is his Body
This is his Blood
Such selfish prayers
And I can't get enough
Dean's too far gone to even notice the change immediately but as the contractions and shudders of his body ease and reality sinks back in, he becomes aware of the soft sheets beneath his cheek, the muted but crisp smell of bleach that rises from them, the fact that he is most decidedly horizontal. He can still feel the angel inside of him, feel the tiny tremors against his overly sensitive prostate even as Cas softens and begins to slip from his body.
He's begged him not to do this and most of the time Cas listens but when he feels the darkness beginning to creep back into his heart already, he's glad that the angel knows him better than he knows himself, is grateful for the soothing grace that still seeps from the body wrapped protectively around him.
Soft lips murmur impossible things as they caress the curve of his shoulder, the side of his neck, the secret places below his ear. He tried to run from this the first time, fought Cas's embrace with everything he had but the angel's arms were too strong. Now he surrenders only somewhat penitently to the gravelly voice that fosters his acquiescence.
These hours are rare and precious. Cas will be gone by morning but these stolen moments give him the strength he needs to keep moving, keep fighting, keep breathing for another day.
This is his Body
This is his Blood
Such selfish prayers
And I can't get enough
There are nights when the hard burn of whisky lancing his throat in not enough to distract him from the memories, the pain, the fear. When an ice cold torrent of water cannot calm the heat of his flesh and even Sam's soft snuffling snores bring him no solace.
Those are the nights he prays.
Thanks so much for reading. I look forward to hearing your thoughts.
Kat