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Chapter Ten

It's not unusual for things to follow them. Dean imagines they must smell different. They smell like the world; the stench of mortality must follow them everywhere they go, making everything they meet insatiably hungry and, thankfully, dumb with lust at the scent of it.

He wonders absently, walking along through the brush, machete in hand, what Castiel must smell like to them. He regrets not having been able to smell the angel when he himself was a fresh vampire. Dean would wager that he is addictive, impossible to describe, bliss for the senses of any monster, having come straight from Heaven. Maybe he smells sweet and clean and impossible. Dizzying.

It's a shame not to know.

But he'll kill anything here that wants a closer sniff. And it seems like that's everything here. So hell, he'll kill them all. They don't get to know if he can't.

Dean also imagines, that the traces of earth that cling to he and Castiel must be waning with time. Things seem easier to sneak up on the longer they are here.

He almost caught the little shit that's been following them. Doubled back and caught it between he and Cas. But, the thing managed to get away.

Dean knows it won't be long now, before their little follower makes his move. The small ones, they're tricky - they move fast, and quiet. They don't talk or roar or make a scene. They come up on you, quiet like. Dean has no intention of letting this thing study him, so blatantly, to then turn around and eat him, or Cas.

For now the thing is scared. When it gets bold, Dean'll put it down. Or Cas will. Either way, it'll die.

Castiel is amazed at what he is willing to put up with, only for Dean. No one else in existence would ever have been allowed to infuriate him so frequently and live. But, as with everything, Dean is one of a kind in that respect.

Even now Castiel longs for his former power, if only to put the spoiled brat to sleep.

Dean flicks him for the unkind thought.

Castiel narrows his eyes to make the point. Dean shoots him a pretend-smile and Cas recognizes it - the heartbreaker, Dean had joked once, back in the world. Turned any girl into butter he claimed. Castiel pretends to be not as impressed.

Dean sneaks his hands further inside Castiel's shirt, up his sides.

Castiel himself doesn't dare move, due to the looming threat of the Leviathan rummaging around through their camp, mere feet away. He levels a glare at Dean that should have run his blood cold, but the man is unhindered.

They are laying in a stone culvert within the base of the great razor-sharp cliff-face, their hiding place being the only smooth part. And still, a small jut of stone poking into Castiel's back is leaving him wincing uncomfortably as Dean lounges relaxed and heavy between Cas' legs, as if there isn't a near-invincible murderer out for their blood just outside their closet-sized hideaway. He scratches is fingernails down the skin of Castiel's sides lightly, and Cas grips Dean's biceps to keep from making any sound.

Dean smiles as though he'd like to laugh.

Castiel reaches forward and places his hand around Dean's throat, none too kindly. Dean raises his eyebrows at him, but is otherwise undeterred. He flattens his palms against Castiel's skin, smoothing over the angel's abdomen, and sliding lower.

Castiel's hand is tight at Dean's throat as the man reaches first one finger inside his scrub pants, then two. Dean undoes the drawstring in a hurry before Castiel can stop him, staring at the angel with a wicked grin.

Dean starts slipping his hand inside, slowly, a taunt, and Castiel gives Dean's throat a squeeze. But Dean's eyes only glint with challenge, and that makes Castiel start to harden despite himself. He jolts the man by the throat a little bit, causing a sputtered grunt of surprise - It's a warning - Not now. Not here.

And they both freeze, listening to make sure the Leviathan didn't hear their sound.

When they are both convinced they weren't detected, Dean looks up at Castiel, feigning a reprimanding look, as if to tisk tisk that it was his fault. Castiel's blood boils. But Dean simply flashes his teeth. A smile so sinful, Castiel wishes he were a painter, just so he could paint it over and over again for forever.

Castiel's other hand is holding one of Dean's wrists, but it is a small hindrance to the man, who Castiel assumes (correctly) has removed many an article of clothing one-handed.

Dean strokes him slowly and loosely, getting an infuriating amount of joy over Castiel's struggle to remain still and silent through the exquisite torture.

Castiel is just on the edge, just about to come, he just needs a little bit more...

But then there's nothing. He opens his eyes to see Dean's wolfish grin, obviously toying with him, obviously denying him, for his own amusement. He's leaning his chin to rest on his hands, simply watching Castiel as if to say, I'm sorry were you saying something? Too innocent. Too not touching him.

Castiel's hand comes back to Dean's throat and Dean's eyes flutter a little bit at the pressure, something which Castiel realizes Dean knows will only make the angel suffer further with want. Then Dean smirks and brings his finger to his lips, miming for Castiel to shh.

Castiel's head thuds backward in frustration in place of the groan he can't let out, smacking against the smooth stone.

Dean winces and slithers up Castiel's body, placing his hand behind the angel's head in apology. He scrapes the stubble of his jaw over Castiel's cheek, sinking lower to scrape against his neck, the base of his throat, slipping his hand back inside the scrubs and finishing the job quick, getting Cas the relief he needs. He offers his hand to Castiel, the juncture of his thumb and forefinger, for the angel to hold between his teeth, to stifle himself. And he very intentionally does not reprimand Castiel for biting him.

They kill him together, the follower. He fights, but he's no match for them. After all the tracking and observation, Dean is somewhat disappointed in the ease of the fight. The thing does give Dean a good shiner though, and a split lip which Castiel appreciates the strangely magnetic aestheticism of. They burn the creature, not wanting it's dead flesh to bring any others calling. And they spend the night hidden away, mildly safe, Castiel tracing the darkened shapes and raised patterns of Dean's injuries with his fingertips. Dean winces, when Castiel touches his swollen lip, skin split, blood hardening over it, but he doesn't draw away. He merely closes his eyes, and feels the light touch.

There are things Castiel has hated no matter what state of mortality he is in. Namely, being made a fool of.

As an angel, he hates having one pulled over on him by his superiors, or worse, by humans. And now, in purgatory, he hates mortality. Not because he's afraid to die. He isn't. Part of him still believes he deserves that, and worse. He isn't afraid of pain, or emotion. No. What Castiel detests, is his own clumsiness.

As an angel he was impossibly fast, invincibly strong, and inhumanly smart. Now, he feels slow, weak and kind of like a jackass.

Castiel has never had to watch his step. Angelic instinct and knowledge kept him sure footed even if he was walking through fire, through battle, through space and time. Now he trips like an idiot walking through the forrest. It is despicable and it makes him livid. A damnable tree root surprises him as he's trudging along. Dean had told him, a million years ago it feels, to pick up his feet. But Castiel is tired and hot and distracted, and the root trips him up, sending him sprawling down a little leaf-covered slope and landing at the bottom dirty and bruised and off-balance.

He hears Dean coming along behind him, unconcerned. Dean goes to lift him up by the shoulder, and prideful Castiel shoves him off. He goes to get up from his knees on his own, and Dean knocks him down again before he can. Castiel falls clumsily back down to his knees and shoots Dean a look of fire and ice and impending payback. But Dean simply smirks down at him, his stance cocky, his eyes dangerous.

Castiel cannot deny, it is a startlingly nice look for the man.

Dean throws down his weapons and stands before Castiel, settling into his boots, looking like he plans to stand there for the foreseeable future. He reaches forwardpressing the pad of his thumb to Castiel's lip, smirking at the new dirt on his face thinking, sardonically, something akin to how cute. Castiel does not take kindly to being mocked. He bites Dean's thumb and Dean lets out a grunt; Castiel frankly is shocked the man didn't expect it.

Dean grips the hair at the top of Castiel's head hard, and wrenches back, leaving the angel wincing, the pale column of his throat vulnerable. Castiel's hands close over Dean's wrist in an instinctual reaction, even though his jaw sets, strong and unforgiving. Dean steps forward, bringing his body in close to the angel's prone form. Keeping his hold on Castiel's hair, he brings his other palm, rough against Castiel's soft skin, to drag over his neck and cheek, tracing the lines of his bones, and then the seam of his lips. Then, of a sudden, he releases. Castiel can see that his eyes have gone dark.

Dean's hands go easily to his own jeans, and he pops the button, lowering the zipper and reaching inside to pull himself out. And when he's standing there, towering over the angel with his half-hard cock out, Castiel looks up to meet his eyes, and sees the man looking down at him expectantly.

He knows what Dean wants. It's something he's never asked for before. Something Castiel himself has wanted, but not asked for. And he knows he shouldn't, he knows they're vulnerable here - visible, audible - but he wants it so badly, if only because he didn't expect it would ever happen. They've been good, about not getting carried away.

Well, he's been good. Dean is incorrigible.

But hell, none of that matters because Castiel wants to and Dean already knows it. And there is no deep debate about what it means, or whether it's wrong, whether they shouldn't. Want is all that counts.

Castiel grips the base and wraps his lips around the head carefully, sinking onto Dean. Dean lets out a sound that Castiel is sure would be a curse, if Dean still talked.

Dean doesn't wait for Castiel to adjust. He clamps his hands into the hair at the back of Castiel's head, hard, and jerks forward, sliding deep into his mouth. The wet heat enveloping him almost up to the root. Castiel chokes, but it feels too good for Dean to be worried. He knows Cas is ok.

And he is. But for the obvious lack of concern Castiel digs his thumbs into Dean's hipbones until he can hear the man hiss and Dean doubles over a little, instinctually. Dean's hands loosen their grip and Castiel pulls off with an impressive pop.

Dean smacks his head playfully in retaliation and Castiel comes forward and bites the divot of Dean's hipbone none too gently, earning himself another hiss, sweeping over the soon to be bruise with his tongue.

In his mind, Castiel can feel Dean fretting about his obvious pension for biting and use of teeth. Castiel merely smirks up at him. He hasn't ever done this, but he knows a thing or two. His wife, from so long ago (he's almost forgotten her name actually) had done this to him. Only twice. It was seen as a sinful thing, to her. And it only happened that first time because she was feeling devilish and carried away, and the second, because she could feel Emmanuel drifting, drifting away from her. Castiel can't help but think she was an odd creature, contradictory in nature - lust versus virtue.

Even then, deep down, he must have known there was more.

Castiel meets Dean's eyes again, seeing the man looks frustrated, brow furrowed oddly. He taps Castiel's cheek as if to say, Stop thinking about her. And Castiel bites the flat plane of Dean's hip once more, so that Dean knows he can't tell him what to do. And then he sucks him into his mouth, as much, as deep, as he can.

Dean groans, and his fingers thread through Castiel's hair, gently this time.

Castiel is new and unpracticed, not having much in the way of technique, but still it doesn't take long. Dean's twisted lust and objectification of the angel on his knees is enough to end it almost as soon as it starts. It feels to him like a twisted fantasy come true. And he knows it does to Cas too. It feels impossible and perfect and so good.

His hand fists in Cas' hair (not pushing or holding this time) and the other clamps on the angel's shoulder, Dean nearly doubling over as release hits him, and he juts up, shallow and quick, into Castiel's mouth. Castiel tastes him, swallows him, and feels oddly like this is something they should do. Since they are already so much inside each other, possessing of each other's essence already anyway. It makes sense. And he wouldn't mind Dean returning the favor.

With all that going through his mind Dean starts to slow down, groan and exhale deeply, and Castiel knows he's done. He pulls off, almost regretfully, and wipes his hand over his mouth and chin and looks up at Dean.

Castiel expects him to smirk, and tuck himself back into his jeans and tug Castiel along to their next place.

But he doesn't.

Instead of smiling, he simply stares at Castiel, with wide, green eyes, focused and oddly innocent-seeming. Instead of pulling Cas up, Dean falls to his knees. And instead of carrying on, he pulls Castiel's lips to his own, kissing him fiercely, as though they had been apart for a long time, as though they might not get to do it again.

He presses his body into Castiel, suddenly needy, and runs his hands all over him, pulling him close by the back of his neck.

And when they finally pull apart, and Dean's eyes are trained on him, childlike in their wonder, as though he has never truly seen Castiel before, Castiel is shocked to find that however much their essence has mingled,

Dean Winchester is still a beautiful mystery.