10. "I break my car into the bridge"
Constant changing locations from one abandoned ruin to another takes its toll on Dean. It's not like being on the move or even on the run is a problem – of course it's not. He's disturbingly too used to that already. It's just that jeez, these freakin holes are just a whole new level of unsanitary and unsanitary isn't something that Dean would ever consider his friend. But this, as always, is just the top of Dean's iceberg because it gets worse on the subject of accommodating. Not only his Baby is still on lock down, but they keep changing from one shitty car to even a more shitty car. The blue, shamefully neglected Challenger was a doable temp, Dean admits, but now, they're back on the unscheduled schedule crap and this time – Bobby is in charge of providing means of transport. Each time they swap, of course, it gets more difficult to get into the trunk with Cas's coat unnoticed and obviously the Leviathan keeps advising then bitching and then advising again to get of rid of it, but no, the fucker is not going to get it. Speaking of which, here's the worst thing on Dean's list: he's gotten himself used to the guy. It's not like they're besties or anything, oh hell no. It's just that after all this time, Dean stopped giving a fuck about getting pissed on the subject. He's there – that little clingy bitch, and that's it. And he's going to keep trying to do his daily and nightly 'hey let's make Dean uncomfortable' thing. But for quite a while now, Dean notices, it isn't not working because he's that strong and all that jazz. It's not working because it's not making him uncomfortable anymore. He doesn't play along, but he doesn't care. And this awareness is probably the last thing on Earth that still makes him tick because, for the fucking love of everything, he knows he should care. He just can't force himself to do that any longer. It won't change anything, won't undo the past, won't bring the real deal back. This way it's just easier. Easier to focus on the job, on Sam, on the other angry mothers who, thank God, don't want to be their nagging fuck-friends.
So when the little scum wants to put him off his game again by petting his neck and trying to sing along with the really, really shitty radio station while Dean drives, the only thing that's getting him honestly pissed is actually the totally uncalled for Steve Miller Band in his ears right now. And if Dean's going to hear "I wanna reach out and grab ya" almost whispered in a sheer profanation of Cas's low voice one more time, he swears to fuck, he's gonna slam this piece of rust into a tree for the sole reason of it being that particular line. He's not even sure if he hates the song alone or does it simply get ugly like that when a stupid cunt keeps teasing him as a revenge for however unsuccessful Vegas or having to stay in the backseat. Because it's always about the trunk and the backseat these days, isn't it. Dean lets out a heavy breath, but he becomes aware of having that done only because he gets it deliberately pointed out with a murmured quotation.
"I hear the magic in your sighs" he coos, laughing bitterly. "Just when I think I'm gonna get away, I hear the words that you always say –"
"Fuck you" looking at the radio panel and pretending that it's supposed to be the recipient of his sudden snapping, Dean finally cuts it in resignation, but doesn't put enough effort and malevolence into it to mean it.
"Oh, those I hear too" the chomper muses. "Always empty promises, Dean" he sighs.
Dean ignores it and proceeds to change the radio channels until he finds something that has zero chance of pissing him off. Sam stares at him concerned from the shotgun, but he doesn't say a thing about it. He's probably already used to him insulting any kind of music that doesn't come straight out of his Baby. Good. Or maybe he's just still too confused to react after the grand Air Supply mishap, which is not that good, but what can he do? That's right: squat.
So he does nothing aside of feeling angry about the fact that all of his cassettes are left in his Impala and angry about his life in general. Last thing he finds playing is Stones' "Satisfaction" and that's when he just shakes his head in defeat, turns the whole radio off with a locked jaw and speeds up, focusing his eyes on the darkness of the road before him, earning dumbfounded glares from both Sam and the Leviathan, but he doesn't feel like responding to any of them. He doesn't feel like anything at all.
Hammonton, New Jersey is probably the most sucking squatting place they've been to so far and Dean can't help but bitch at it fervently. He feels like a Woodstock dirt hippie, which maybe, just maybe, would have made him happier fifteen years ago in a different life. But he's got his own and he's far too old and too sober to think about the perks of living in an architectonical embodiment of a puddle of mud. So even though he fixes the electricity and reluctantly agrees to stay, he won't drop the subject.
"Weeks, guys. Weeks. We've been living with cold showers, cold Hot Pockets, cold freaking everything" he counts.
"I offered to warm you up, Dean, hadn't I?" The chomper interjects, rolling his eyes, but Dean elects to ignore that input entirely.
"I mean, this is the bottom that we're living in" he rants on. "You guys get that, right?"
"It's not that horrible. It's got this nice, watery and musky smell. We could just nest here, Dean" the Leviathan tries, but Dean dismisses the suggestion wordlessly. That's exactly why he hates this particular place. He's already got enough of musty water drilled into his memory to fill a fucking lifetime.
"How many bigmouths are out there, running card traces, like Chet, or hunting us down God knows what ways?" Bobby starts, but Dean never really gets to listen to the rest of it because off all things, a figure of speech just had to get the monster's attention.
"Bigmouths?" He ponders and Dean can already hear the amusement creeping into his voice which tells him even from here that whatever the word of wisdom is going to be – it'll be bad. "I like this one. Do you think I have a big mouth, Dean?" He asks, pointing at what was originally Cas's lips while locating himself so close in Dean's space that it becomes one hell of a struggle to pretend he's not there and not punch him in the face to stop him from going. And boy, does he go, Dean sighs in his thoughts as he tries to remain unaffected by the tirade for as long as possible. "This one is very capable, too. The things it did to you, Dean. I only wish you remembered how much a mouth like mine can endure and give." At this point Dean sends out the head-shake universal signal for "don't" but of course it remains unnoticed because the Leviathan has already gotten himself genuinely far too deep into praising his cock-sucking skills to be able to listen. "I improved it in ways nothing, not even an Angel, can make a vessel work. At least the difference is something you're partially aware of" he smiles, nudging Dean subtly with his elbow.
Dean stands there with perhaps the most done with everything expression that has ever found a reason to land on his face and he tries all he can to get the general idea of what he's being told out of his fucking head because of course, his imagination always has to be this damn respondent.
And then the light goes out, which is good because it's a distraction enough to get that sights and thoughts out of his heavy, tired head, too. But the darkness is immediately followed by the unmistakable flick of a forked tongue right on the fucking spot marking the border of his ear, jaw and neck, which is something completely different than good. It's infuriating and dizzying, fueling this fucking pon farr shit he's got going ever since that yellow can of worms incident. And now that he's got no idea how to react to that at all, not to mention in public, he just gives up and pukes out all of his entire general-themed frustration onto unsuspecting poor Bobby and just as unlucky Sam, swinging all of into a nice, neat bus metaphor, because yeah – if he had a fucking bus, throwing himself off a cliff in it would be the best thing to do right now.
"Stop trying to wrestle with the big picture, son. You're gonna hurt your head" Bobby sharply huffs at what Dean knows was a bitch-fit. Not getting a nick of compassion on his fuck this life problem, he just gives up, opens up a beer and lays down on the sofa that he suspects is filthier than the nethers of a ninety year old economy class whore. The lying part isn't easy, though because the Leviathan saw a chance and took it, nesting himself comfortably in Dean's legs, mounted on both sides of them. Dean is grateful for once that he's being completely ignored by his brother and Bobby who quite reasonably chose discussing a potential case over his hurt, existential feelings because while he's not exactly sure what, he sure as fuck knows something's about to happen on this stupid couch and due to his current situation, he's gonna end up filthier than the damn furniture.
Asswipe in the stolen body and suit doesn't waste much time. He leans into Dean's space, whispers something about cheering him up directly into his ear then retreats with a chuckle on his lips and straddling Dean's knees, he places a hand on his crotch and begins to slowly rub him through his jeans. Now Dean is not exactly thrilled that the whole event takes place at all, but it would be pointless to pretend that physically it is just as annoying – it does feel good. Doesn't technically feel right, but just good on the most basic biological level. Emotionally though, it hurts so much already that it dulled him. So if there are any perks of feeling dead while you're not – it's that: the numbness. So he allows it. He's in public, kind of. He's seen, anyway. There's no point in even having an opinion on what's happening. It has to go as it goes.
Smooth, diligent circles made by that palm become an echo in Dean's blood and gradually, steadily set his muscles and nerves on fire, one careful move after another and if Dean weren't that tragically skilled in keeping everything inside, he'd soon be in trouble. He places his spare hand on his hip, not yet sure whether he wants to smack the Leviathan's paw away or if he's about to make it press him harder, he stops, and since he knows he still can, albeit with already a weak, misty and distant expression, he makes a comment on the case as an excuse to breathe.
"Of course the sketch looks more like a Chewbacca-head" he says and the Leviathan shakes his head and fails to hide a tiny smile before the increases the intensity of his touch a little.
"Sounds kind of mixed up" Bobby admits.
"Yeah, kind of like it should be fighting a Japanese robot" Dean retorts, mixed up himself, voice hoarser and he takes a sip of his beer, stealing a glance of the chomper while he's at it. The monster gazes back, purring proud and content with himself, finally makes the decision to stop teasing and get serious with his strength, tempo and slips his hand directly on the flesh after undoing Dean's fly. Dean masks his reactions with a tired sigh, wipes a hand across his face because he's not sure if he's sweating already or only feeling like he is. The next comment, Dean makes with some effort is about a piñata and dizzy-headed enough to see a comparison, he conjures a thought that he feels like one, too and he vaguely begins to wonder if there's many strokes left for him to take before he shamefully falls into pieces in his own pants. That's probably gonna happen rather quicker than later, like he's fourteen again, therefore he decides to call it a day and persuade his unaware family to go to sleep as fast as possible, hopefully before he comes undone here like it's some national TV or something.
With a slightly strained voice he prods Sam to present the definition of a glamper because as of now, spitting out two sentences in an inconspicuous way is above his limits. He takes another swig of his beer and exhales gruffly with hidden pleasure under the pretext of enjoying the taste. The Leviathan hums softly and licks his mouth as if that sound alone was a delight in itself, putting even more raw force into giving Dean solid reasons to discontinue breathing. Luckily, a moment after Bobby and Sam agree to drop the case for tonight and they go off to find a manageable place to sleep. Dean exhales with a groan and bites his lip, finally convinced he's safe now. That's when the least expected thing happens, which is the chomper stopping everything he's doing all at once only to get off the bed with that fucking basic instinct's Sharon Stone's sort of cock-aching nonchalance.
"Sleep tight, Dean" he says warmly and places a soft kiss, brushing Dean's parted lips with his own.
And then he just fucking goes, as in: for whatever malevolent reason by design he leaves him hard, confused and confined in his pants then goes to be a dick somewhere else. Sleep tight, he said. For that pun alone, Dean is going to kill that bitch.
Needless to say, the next day is rather tense. Of course, it' s much of a help on Dean's part – because now not talking to that asshole could go even smoother. But the downside is that he can't use physical violence now that he really wants to, disregarding the fact that it's pretty much pointless, objectively speaking. The second downside is that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, stopping the Leviathan from talking and he's very happy to make use of his upper hand on this one.
"What's this? Suddenly unhappy I'm not touching you, are we?" He coos mockingly first thing in the fucking morning after receiving a deadly stare from Dean the very moment he reentered the room. "Having problems making up your mind?"
"Look who's talking" Dean hisses almost unnoticeably. "You know damn right I want none of your crap. But what you've pulled is just being a dick."
"Oh, I'm much, much more than just a dick" the Leviathan cackles sagely.
"Really? Then act like it!" Dean huffs.
"Dean, I just wanted to make you finally understand how you make me feel every single day. Words failed to convey every time I tried to tell you, you still would not listen" he sighs.
"You think I'm cock-teasing you?!" Dean blinks, offended. "On purpose?!"
"And you're not?!" The chomper spits angrily in disbelief. "You can lie to yourself all you want, Dean, but I can smell you" he hisses through gritted teeth. "You reek of neediness when it comes to him, it's mind-blinding. Maybe you don't want me for me, but whether you like it or not, I am the main recipient of your suppressed needs and they do affect me. You think it is fun that I'm having? Now you know how much fun it is. So we're really equal and you can quit being so hurt about it."
"No, we're not equal, you jackass" Dean shakes his head bitterly. "Whatever there is I might be doing, I doesn't happen cause I want it to."
He receives a matching head-shake in reply, but if anything, it's disbelief mostly, as it turns out right away.
"You think I love you because I want to?" The monster snorts, stopping himself abruptly from adding whatever he was meant to continue with in the first place. "You think I've had a choice, Dean?" He sighs in defeat after a painfully long moment.
"What the hell did you just say?"
"Just do your usual thing and pretend you didn't hear me" he cuts in.
"How the fuck am I supposed to do that, huh?" Dean groans, taken aback by the sudden revelation that might only fit in the "what the fuck" category because, well, what the fuck.
"I don't know" the Leviathan shrugs. "Maybe do your other usual thing and forget it" he groans. Upon having this said, he abandons the room, leaving Dean in confusion and drowning in a river of questions that he doesn't know how to put into words or what even their fucking point is. He just doesn't know. One thing he knows though, is how it's like to spill the most of your guts despite of having shit unrequited. So he decides to try whichever of the above. Might actually be best to all of them.
The Leviathan doesn't reappear until they're halfway through questioning the funny guy at Biggerson's. The ranger – or more like – Ranger Rick – isn't much of a help, but he's stoned like he's Mardi Gras on two lean legs on a pretty butt and the things that come out of his kind little mouth are so much bullshit they're actually adorable and Dean can't help but await new golden words of wisdom with almost childish excitement. Overall, Ranger Rick despite his age, does have this childlike innocent appeal and Dean for a second there thinks that he could ruffle that dark hair of his upon taking his leave and he would so get away with this. But he doesn't even try because the thought gets distracted as quickly as it just came – seeing Bobby enter the diner, Dean forgot what he was even thinking about a moment ago. That's also when he finally notices the chomper leaning against the front door wall, looking all like he's got wasps in his panties. Dean regains full control of the track of his thoughts and bids his farewells to Rick, leaving him an FBI card with his number on it, though he really doubts this harmless little stoner might be of use on the case.
The three of them get their orders and an additional set of insults from the inexplicably angry waiter that probably does want to look like a hostess, anyway. His personal equally angry companion doesn't walk up to their table until that Brandon asshole leaves and Dean wonders if there might be a common source of the PMS thing that's apparently going on here. Or maybe the conversation that they technically did not have was the issue, but for crying out loud – Dean didn't even get to insult him properly this time, so why would he want to behave like a bitch in this particular moment is beyond him.
"Brandon's got his flare all up in bunch" Bobby notices.
"Yeah, there goes his 18 percent" Sam huffs.
"I can eat him if he offended you and your kin too far" the Leviathan sighs and finally lets words come out of his mouth in some kind of fucked up attempt in offering a reunion.
Normally, Dean would really like to say something witty on the subject of a dumb asshole, but now he thinks it might be best to actually drop it, so his moody personal assassin wouldn't get any stupid ideas.
"Anyway, chief ranger" he decides to cut, then. "I don't think he believes in the Jersey Devil."
"Yes, Dean. Do tell me more about chief ranger" the chomper snarls venomously with an even more solemn face. "I'll eat him instead."
And Dean really fails to get why something so innocent would cause this much of a bitch-fit. He really hopes to find a minute or two to talk this out in private before Ranger Rick ends up as a pack of m&m's for the grumpy lady here.
"Oh, and by the way" Sam asks, "did he seem a little, um, stoned to you?"
"Yes, Dean" the Leviathan hisses mockingly, "did he seem, um, a little too appealing to you?"
Now Dean at least knows what's the fucking problem. He is. Well, his monster should totally high-five Brandon on this one, even though their reasons hopefully differ. Dean chooses to address the issue with biting into his sandwich and whatever Sam says next – he misses because, Jesus, that is an awesome sandwich and this is something he feels the need to share with the rest. When everyone is busy inquiring and judging Dean's meal, the Leviathan leans into Dean's immediate space to smell the unholy diner-creature. His face contorts with disgust.
"This reeks worse than the things you shun me for eating, Dean. And I eat corpses these days."
Good for you, Ramsay, Dean thinks and digs deeper into his captivating TDK.
In fact, Dean's sandwich keeps him very happy and newly fascinated with the joys of the universe for a while. By both of these Dean really means uncaring, but it makes him feel as light at heart that he actually supposes it can pass as happy to some extent. And even it doesn't – well, he won't be the one to care.
Right now, he's with Bobby, Sammy and his invisible asshole in the woods, hunting things. And he's content. He knows he's being constantly observed by the chomper, but well, he kinda got used to that already so he doesn't bother with asking what's the fucking problem. Oh, right, it's him, isn't it. Suddenly Dean thinks he might actually prevent the bitching for once and he gets an idea how to achieve it. They're slightly behind Bobby and Sam now, but just a little, so Dean remains subtle and quiet. He grabs a thin branch off some bush and punches the Leviathan on the arm to get his attention.
"Have a plant" he announces quietly but proudly as he smiles and pats the clearly dumbfounded monster on the back and marches forward to catch up with the rest.
Not long after, they find something hanging above their heads and it sure ain't mistletoe.
"Well, looks like we found Phil" Dean states.
"Looks like your sandwich" the monster retorts. Shouldn't have shown sarcasm to this one, Dean thinks more amused than actually offended.
Maybe an hour later the ranger truck arrives and out of it emerges the frowned upon in some Leviathan societies Ranger Rick, which Dean decides to call Bambi from now on because why the fuck not. Just as predicted, the Leviathan frowns upon the arrival and Dean is trying to figure out how to shush him down without actually having to do so. Maybe another plant. Maybe a blowjob. Never mind that, neither is an option since he's clearly in public and wait, did he just -
"Special agents" Rick greets and the chomper begins to hiss. "Listen. I got your call. But I'm not sure I got what you were saying." Well ain't that cute, Dean ponders.
"That's because you are an idiot" the monster groans.
Dean just points upwards and says nothing.
"Hey, I think we found Phil" Bambi says.
"That's what I said" Dean smiles, proud of himself and happy to have something in common with the guy.
"One more word from either of you and I'm eating that" the Leviathan warns still smiling Dean.
"I should probably call this in" Rick notices and Dean nods at him, because he'd better do that before Bambi really says a word too much and shit happens. Dean likes Rick. Rick is awkward, maybe, but he saves things and he's kind. Even his face alone is kind – kind, big eyes, kind smile, and there's that neat I don't care hair and a little stubble. It's a familiar thing. Dean looks back at the Leviathan. Man, if only Dean could have these two in one cool dude, it would be awesome. The monster notices Dean smiling at him and returns the gesture. It's cool.
A moment later, someone broke the fucking rule and killed Bambi.
"Man, I liked Rick" Dean whines as an afterthought and earns himself a handful of equally concerned and disturbed glares coming from his brother, Bobby and the Scar equivalent of this Disney story.
"You were alone in this opinion" the chomper comments because he's a bitch and because he didn't get to rule over Pride Rock due to being a bitch.
"Gee, thanks, Spock" Dean murmurs back the moment Bobby makes enough noise with the shot to muffle his words.
Everything's awesome but kind of boring, too. Bobby and Sam aren't laughing at his jokes cause all they do is poke at the not fat-fat dead guy and ask him a checkpoint are you okay phrase every now and then. And each time as well Dean has to explain that wow, he's pretty much never felt better and what not. Still, they won't listen and honestly, a dude can only go so far with this constant bullshit, so at some point he just kinda shrugs it off and goes to the other temporary bedroom. There, his whiskey and meanie Bambi await his return. First one on a counter and the other, sprawled all over the wretched, dirty mattress with his fine limbs and the somewhat less fine slimy ones, Bambi eyes staring back at him intently with something that can only be confusion that high it actually becomes a mutated form of awe.
"What – you want me to paint you like one of my French girls?" Dean laughs and instantly really finds himself picturing the chomper Kate Winslet-naked. For whatever reason he decides to hold that amusing thought. Funny cause it's a fucking royal sea monster queen and that's a movie about fucktons of water. Yeah, funny that. It's totally that.
"Dean" he begins cautiously.
"Fine" Dean throws his hands in exasperation. "So maybe I can't draw. Sue me."
"Dean, will you come over here, please?"
Dean does what he's told and once he walks towards his companion, he thinks that, if you take additional anime tentacles out, he's pretty much got the second best thing around. He sits down and nods to himself. He doesn't need to feel anything. He's here, he doesn't feel at all, not even that numbing ache and, well, he's just here. It's possible. It's manageable. It's doable, he realizes as he nods once more. He's doable, too.
"You know what?" Dean finally begins with a mischievous smile, but fails to find the strength to continue with his plan. "I'm going to need a drink" he tells more himself than he actually says it to the monster and he gets up again, takes the bottle and a glass with and leaves for the kitchen to rethink his choice once without risking any distractions. Because on one hand, the fact that he's just like Cas but not him is an advantage – like, it's a crash test ride with no need of commitment, so maybe, just maybe, he should try the damn thing out before he gives it a name. But yeah, on the other side – Dean counts on his fingers – after all this time, he just fucking knows what's up, doesn't he. Every time he looks at that copy and every time he opens his fucking trunk – he reassures himself with the painful truth. He loves the dumb, dead son of a bitch, maybe he didn't always do, but now he certainly does and sleeping around with a lookalike carrying his ashes like glitter won't bring him back. Well, but frustration and chastity won't do that, either. See, and that's why he should have gotten laid in Vegas: a one night stand with something that does not look or sound like someone he just lost can make things easier. And this? This can't do rat's ass. This can do his ass and that's pretty much all it can, isn't it. Whiskey betrays him and doesn't give him neither courage nor answers. Maybe he should get another sandwich. At least that made him happy.
"Are you hungry? I'm hungry."
But everyone's treating him like he's air. Or stupid. Or like he's stupid air.
"Okay, guys. Seriously? Time for dinner."
He gets two disappointed frowns but he's quite sure dinner goes in pair with that. So he goes to the room once more and whispers to the monster, winking at him while he's at it.
"We're gonna have a sandwich, so get into the car."
Dinner it is.
Dinner it so isn't. They stole his sandwich, forced him back to the dirty ruin and took the turducken as some kind of swan-wrapped hostage. And this is stupid because making that much of a fuss over two slices of bread and cheap poultry is not worth the effort. As for the sandwich itself, well, at least it made him feel better and braver to not care – which is something that they kept saying they wanted him to be and now, they took it away and proceed to insult both him and his meal. What's even the point, Dean muses.
"This is stupid" he slurs as he leans impatiently against the counter, more in fact to the Leviathan than to his family, since they're not listening to his explanations, anyway. "My sandwich didn't do anything. I don't know what you think you're gonna find" he turns to face them again because the monster didn't say anything at all, busy staring at the damn aluminum wrapping. No support on this one, then. Always chatty in the wrong moments and quiet in the right ones, isn't he.
"There's something wrong with you, Dean" Bobby explains.
And, Jesus, Dean is so fed up with this already. No, there isn't. For fucking once it actually isn't and yet, it seems that all everybody wants to do is to swing a post-mortem on his golden ticket. Thanks a lot, guys.
"Are you kidding?" The absurdity of his situation almost makes him stutter. "I'm fine!" He snorts and sits down on the counter. "I, I actually feel great!" Dean adds as he adjusts his position to let the copy-Cas slide himself in between his now open legs. "The best I've felt in a couple of months" he admits while staring enthralled at the black-suited waiting, far too palpable, silhouette which is already eyeing him whole and threatening with a luscious smile, but still remains strained from making a move. Well, maybe he needs some form of extra incentive, so Dean goes on, swinging his legs just as excitedly as carelessly. "Cas? Black goo? I don't even care anymore" he says cause at the moment it's fucking true. Here he's got both in this filthy, messed up masquerade configuration, but for now, for as long as the turducken keeps working its charm, it's still better to at least have a good lie than suffer with idiotic intervals of jumping from inexplicable physical frustration into voids and their nothings and God, as those words finally fell, they dropped on the ground heavy. Dean feels like's had a ball and a chain and suddenly he's floating. Either this or the Leviathan is now pulling him towards himself by the belt loops strong enough it's gonna lift his restless ass. "And you know what's even better? I don't care that I don't care. I just want my damn slammer back." And he wants to go, now, cause the adrenaline is making his blood boil wild. Then Sam makes a stupid, Bambi-related comment and it makes the chomper's black ooze hot, too. He roars into Dean's face with unhidden jealousy and grabs him possessively by the ass so hard that he's sure it's gonna leave a mark. And it's cool cause Dean doesn't care. He only cares about what's hopefully coming next. So after a few boring, worried looks and partially insulting comments, he decides to excuse himself out of the conversation. The sandwich, however, takes offense on those words that slide off Dean just like those calloused, greedy hands now slide all over him, and the sudden eruption of snot distracts him for a moment, enough to actually get off the counter and take a look at it. The Leviathan, unruffled, chooses to focus his palms on Dean's back for the time being and begins to draw shiver-inducing lines across his spine.
"If I wasn't so chilled out right now, I would puke" Dean comments. "So you carry on with your fascinating meat-vestigation, cause for me it's bedtime" he adds carelessly.
Bobby and Sam seem to consider it for a moment and they agree, cause – as Bobby puts it – maybe it's gonna wear off faster if Dean sleeps it through and it's either way safer cause there's a smaller risk Bobby's gonna shoot his idjit face if he actually stops talking. And Sam admits Bobby's got a point.
"Sammy, you and Bobby can take the mattress and the couch tonight, I'm gonna crash my ass in the van, okay?" He suggests as they have the first issue clear.
"Why?" Sam inquires with knitted brows and a disbelieving face.
"Cause I don't care" Dean cuts it merrily, leaves the old house and the Leviathan happily follows.
As soon as Dean opens the car, he pulls the Leviathan in by the lapels of his suit and with shaking, adrenaline-driven hands, he attempts to take it off. The monster doesn't even try to help him out with that little task, passively, with pride shining through his mischievously squinted eyes, he takes the time to observe the ferocious hunter at work and lets out a low chuckle.
"You suddenly low on libido or do you think you're gonna get a lap dance if you keep me struggling like this long enough?" Dean huffs, as he's sat across the Leviathan's thighs, fighting off his tie and trying to undo his shirt's buttons, but the longer and more fervently he tries, the harder Dean's hands continue to shake and the case of the white collar shirt becomes even more hopeless. The comment doesn't earn any cooperation – just as Dean secretly hoped it would do. Instead, the monster only leans back on the seat and lets out a very pleased groan.
"None of the above, Dean. I just want to let you unwrap by yourself the prize that you dreamed of for so long" he purrs. "How long, Dean?"
Dean wants nothing more but his favorite fuck it then drop it sort of lay, not a heavy heart to heart, not now, not with this guy.
"In the kitchen, a moment ago" he deflects, "how did you know what I was about to do? How'd you know I'd let you in between like I did?" Dean inquires, to some extent actually curious about the answer.
"Dean, Dean, Dean" the Leviathan chants in a gravel, well known note, sending thunders and lightning to Dean's dick each time it's being said like this. He chooses to dive into the space of the unveiled skin of Dean's neck as he murmurs into it, moist of his breath falling heavy on Dean's senses.
"I smelled it all over you" and the words, as they almost brush against his skin with the mouth that bears them and their ancient, heavy, long syllables sunk in their unforgettable sound of power and promise, make new worlds unravel in Dean's loins in a whole new and unholy act of creation.
"You smelled it" Dean begins hoarsely and pauses to find the courage to proceed with a broken voice, "good, cause some of it's for you" Dean licks his mouth and swallows, equally sure and unsure of what he's about to offer. "So come and get it, big boy."
And as much as the Leviathan probably even intended to keep this whole chivalry baby steps and self discovery promise, those unexpected words just end it. A curtain falls heavy on his mind, cutting away any last threads of self-control like guillotine blade and awakens the old, hungry beast that he is. With a triumphant roar he forcefully pushes Dean down on the back sofa and entangles his lean fingers painfully in Dean's hair, pulling back, forcing the throat to uncover itself. He digs his mouth into it rampantly and sucks on Dean's pulse, flooding him with the obliterating wetness of his tongue and lips, marking him with that stubble and Dean moans hopelessly, thoughtlessly into the contact as that mouth continues to cry out incoherent, satisfaction-brimmed whimpers into his thrilled, revealed and desecrated throat. Then the monster decides to respond to Dean's needy moans with aiming at his waiting, beggarly parted lips and dives into its moist depths like the ageless sea monster that he always was and always shall remain and he conquers it whole as he once conquered the grand ocean. And he loves this even more than he loved that. With the sharp edges of his teeth, he leaves passages of poetry on the pink canvas of Dean's swollen lips – tales of completion and promises of possession. He groans into Dean's skin and the echo of his voice makes Dean lose himself and shudder.
"The thoughts he had of you, in that car" the Leviathan whispers wetly into Dean's neck, "corrupted and almost as beautiful as we are now" and Dean trembles in awe at those words. "He dreamed to rip you apart ungodly, he wished to lie as we lie and it haunted him and haunted until he was blind to everything that is not the orchard of your loins" he says and causes Dean's breath to stop halfway in. "But here I am, the first among the blossoms" he triumphs. "The first and the only" he repeats in a warning and sealing another brain-dimming kiss on Dean's red, aching neck, he swiftly removes Dean's pants and Dean bucks his hips welcomingly at the sudden touch while attempting to kick off his boots as well to get those fucking jeans out of his damn way to paradise. His skin is a hot sea and the Leviathan bathes his hands in its warm, open waters, becomes the omnipotent whisperer in control of its impatient, longing tides and he causes Dean to let out pathetic, begging whimpers as he grips him firmly as if his flesh were the scepter of a god-like king and teases him sharply, but unfulfilling in those craving-hardened fortress he so cruelly abandoned on the night before. Dean sinks his nails into the fake leather of the conjugal backseat and with luring thrusts, he tries to beckon the monster to finally lock them both down irreversibly – like a river falling into the sea, like cats conjoined by needs of their nature in the weak spring mornings. The Leviathan's eyes follow these movements with hungry delight and who is he to dismiss such a praise, such a prayer-like plea?
All at once, he releases dozens of his tentacles and before Dean closes his eyes in weary defeat of the painful wait, he sees the monster and the thin branches of his ancient form spread behind his back proudly like a peacock's tail, like a crown. Those cold, boneless limbs lift Dean upwards as the Leviathan quickly throws off his suit and unbuttons his sleeve to reveal the brasslike glowing skin of his forearm. Without a word of warning, he forces the soft meat of his hand into Dean's mouth, and in shock, Dean opens his eyes once more and responds with a confused look.
"Bite" the monster commands sharply, staring back into Dean's eyes, tainting his mind beyond recognition with the desire-heavy, wide darkness that takes over their blue, cold surface. And Dean compels, without a second thought he sinks his teeth into the lake-reeking, salty flesh and he presses until he begins to fill thick, bitter liquid filling his mouth. The monster hisses in a mixture of spiritual joy and physical pleasure and it's so loud it fills Dean's head like the noise of empty static. The hand is taken away from him and he can see black ooze dripping from his bite-wound. The monster-Cas begins to undo the forever secret and too confining universe of his paints and the noise that unfastening the belt and unzipping make, are a heavenly horn's roaring in Dean's ears. It's the sound of an old prophecy that Dean shall finally get to fulfill. Finally.
But when the obscure nudity of that abdomen and its ripe fruit is revealed for Dean to see, he can't find the strength in him to look. Rather than that, he focuses his heavy eyes on the Cas-stolen hands. The monster with a content hum proceeds to smear the thick, dark blood all over his palms and all over his fully awaken flesh and Dean swallows his breath somewhere along the way because it becomes clear to him and to his needy hips that tonight, he's falling apart in black. And he's falling from the start. Within the first contact that the intrusion provides, his body jolts in waves of painful, breath-taking electricity. He doesn't get enough time to adjust and reach the level of full comfort, because due to the unfathomable sensation of their bodies meeting one another like this, the monster too, grows impatient and wastes no time to replace his lean fingers with the ripeness of his length the moment he senses Dean's delightful, trembling body has stopped fighting enough to let it in. And he waited so long for Dean to let him in. He waited from the start. As Dean cries out in pain, he dulls the hoarse wailing with his thunder scream of victory and nearly paralyzing pleasure. When he begins to move, keeping the courtesy of careful, slow motions at first, he forces his mouth down on Dean's as equally to soothe and distract him as just to shut him down. Dean responds to the kisses, but his mouth's replies are shaky, weary and weak as he's fighting with his lungs not knowing whether he should keep the burning air in or would it all hurt less if he let the lingering wave all out and he's stuck like a rabid animal, all trembling in the firm embrace of those dirty hands and tentacle wreaths.
"Dean" he hears whispered against his lips among the noises brought by the pain of that slow, but determined coming and going tidal waves of burning flesh in flesh, alien-like collisions. "Let go" the murmur tells him. But Dean can't let go. He never will. He breaks himself even more and opens his body wider. Right now, he wants to forget. But he will never let go. So he grits his teeth and grabs the small of the Leviathan's back and pushes him all, all of the lie in as he forsakes the remains of his clarity with a hoarse, shattered moan.
"Just…" he tries, but he doesn't even know what he wants to be just done.
So the monster with the perfect-fit mask made of his Cas hushes him down with the one last kiss and does everything to him. At last, he does everything he desires so he parts and rejoins his hips with the Canaan of Dean's body in frenetic, thoughtless thrusts time and time and again, getting a variety of moans, groans and pained, heavy sighs as response to the raw song of his intoxicating flesh. And he loses himself in the sweet wilderness that Dean is he forgets about the roses and forgets that he is the one made of thorns. His moves are swift, all-shattering and he writhes inside of him so smoothly and greatly as the hectic, boneless serpent he was made as. He stops his stolen lungs from going only to listen to Dean's heavy, broken breathing and he feeds on it greedily, but only gets more and more hungry and more he wants to take out of Dean. He bites into his clavicle and draws blood, sucks into the small wound until his mouth goes numb, until Dean's hoarse groans reward him, but it only makes his thirst grow. Without even knowing it, he increases his pace and the force of his blissful intrusions and the closer he comes to completion, the less he knows about anything. He becomes his own hunger and the noise of Dean's blood rushing beneath his hands and on both sides of his hips is the only thing he can hear. He wants to open that body in new places and bathe in the warmth of its insides, so he grips it tighter and pulls in harder, the vessel aiming to rip through this trembling, whimpering human delight without the Leviathan beneath even being aware of that anymore. His teeth are aching to manifest and consume, his eyes are targeting Dean's fragile chest rising and falling beneath his touch like a cat stalks his prey before killing and the tired moans of the small form swaying and bucking below his weight only keeps beckoning him to cut in and devour. And when in the very end, blinded by a mind-breaking flood of highest pleasure, he goes so far he forgets everything he ever tried to be but wasn't, he lets his mouth reemerge from the depths of his façade, but when he's midway diving into the sea of Dean's arterial, he catches a glimpse of Dean's eyes. And he stops.
Because Dean, exhausted, dizzy, pain, pleasure and adrenaline mad, seeing that monstrous mouth opening up on him with hundreds of teeth, lets out a soft, broken sigh with which he is relieved to welcome his death and knowing that he's just about to die becomes the catalyst of his release.
"I'm sorry" he mutters almost soundlessly into the suddenly sunken, terrified face of what once was Cas, but because of him – became this.
Dean isn't the only one who is sorry. The Leviathan removes himself carefully and caresses Dean's temple softly as he pulls his wet hair away. He just stares into Dean's tired, lightless eyes and shakes his head breathlessly with a shattered and pained expression already swollen on his once more humanlike face. He says nothing. He lifts Dean's exhausted, boneless body again and proceeds to put his pants back on. He says nothing. Slowly, he spreads him on the backseat. He retrieves a blanket from above the seat and covers Dean with it. He doesn't say a word. Dean slowly drifts away when his breath finally steadies. He doesn't say a thing. He fixes his clothes and leaves.
Yeah, Dean thinks before the rest of his consciousness wears off, Cas used to break him then leave him, too.
Everything gets darker.