Beware, I am drunk. But...writing is happening. Oopsie. Planned plot event contained within.
Castiel has never kissed like this before.
He remembers being kissed when he was ill, lips brushing his forehead and his cheek. Some kind soul caring for him while he lay in the grips of fever. He has felt the kisses of young girls, when he was himself five years old.
Dean kisses like he wants to be inside of him. As if, like the wolf in the old stories, he wants to slide down Castiel's throat, into his belly, and hide there.
Castiel opens his mouth to him, and feels Dean's lips dip between his. Tugging on his own and sliding over them. When Dean's tongue searches out his own, Castiel finds the feeling so surprising, so strange, that he does not think to oppose it. Dean's hands find his, and raise them over his head, laying them out on the stone floor.
Still Castiel does not rebel.
He thinks he would let Dean do anything he likes with him, as long as he will kiss him like that. As long as he will touch all of his skin to his own, so warm and smooth.
Dean removes Castiel's shirt, busy hands stoking over his chest as gently, as purposefully as Dean had once liked warmth back into his frozen skin. Castiel shivers, a warmth settling in him like a strong drink.
When Dean drops his mouth to Castiel's chest, between his collar bones, in the place that would be the space between his breasts – had he possessed them, the warm upper of his belly, the dip in its centre and down. Castiel can only lie on his back, feeling taken over, as if by wildfire, only, a fire that burns wet, and deep and hot – rather than bright and dry. He feels saturated, throbbing, low, and filled with undercurrents.
All his life he thought he was a spring, clear and clean and characterless. When beneath there were subterranean caves of dark rocks, and deep, mineral rich waters.
He doesn't even jump when Dean's crude hand touches him where Castiel has never been touched before. A place he himself only touches in the most commonplace of ways. But under Dean's fingers, the mundane, base instrument of excretion sends such waves of heat and pleasure through him, that Castiel cannot help but arch from the floor, pressing himself into Dean's willing hands.
He had no idea his body was capable of holding this much feeling – this much sensation. He has experienced the rise of physical excitement before, fortunately in private, on his lumpen tick, under his sheets. It was a shameful thing, quickly dealt with. But now...he revels in Dean's touches, that seem to be wherever he most needs them, changing second by second.
He must cry out Dean's name, because the other man murmurs, 'Cas' as if it's something like a curse, and a forbidden rosary prayer, meshed into one in the dark.
Dean's fingers touch under his body, under the twitching, desperate flesh of his member, brushing the ripe swelling of the lower organ, tickling between his legs, and beyond, until Castiel gasps, and bends his knees, slipping away from the touch.
Dean shushes him, one hand petting his thigh.
He removes his hand, lifting it to his mouth long enough to spit on his fingers, before returning it to its former location.
It's such an ugly thing, and Castiel's mind struggles to make sense of it.
Dean looks at him, "So it will hurt less. The mating." He explains.
Castiel wrestles with the idea, trying to find the logic of Dean's words, a difficult task with wet fingers caressing his backside, and Dean's other hand once again pleasuring him.
Several facts clash together in his mind, and Castiel experiences a jolt of realisation.
"You're going to..." His voice cracks, and he forces his traitorous hips to cease their continuous shifting, pushing his aching hardness through Dean's curled fingers. "...enter me?"
Dean nods, fingers moving with more purpose, pushing alarmingly.
Castiel jerks a little way from them, even though it loses him the delightful stroking of Dean's hand.
"Dean...I am not a woman...I don't have..." Castiel blushes. Despite his current undress, his arousal, which is currently drooling an alarming fluid over his stomach, it is the mention of the female body that forces the blood to his cheeks. "...I am not possessed of a woman's virtue." He explains, primly, using words learnt from the old spinster that served as village midwife.
A smile flickers over Dean's mouth, and for a second Castiel is lost in it. Dean is...almost a work of art. He reminds him of the stained glass windows in the catholic churches, before they were broken by his fellows – vivid green eyes, golden skin, like the sun has just come out from behind the clouds, gilding him like a saint.
"I know." Dean tells him. "Sam...he told me. This. This is the men's way."
Castiel had known, the theoretical, dark golem of sodomy. He knew that it was men, lying with men, committing acts of sin, of carnal lust. But he had not contemplated the actual act itself, beyond some half imagined, half dreamt fantasies that had not been over burdened with physical detail. But Dean...has apparently gained the knowledge of this act, from Sam. For a second Castiel feels almost betrayed.
"He told you to...to do this?"
Dean looks at him, as honest as a wolf sitting beside its kill, showing no remorse, nor shame. "I wanted to do right, with you. A..." he struggles for the word. "...mistake, could hurt you."
Dean slides his body lower, until he can kiss Castiel's belly, and Castiel realises that once again he is exposed, submissive to the alpha.
Then Dean's mouth moves lower, and Castiel is partly shocked, partly lost, in the feeling of lips – of the tongue that had embraced his so little time ago...now caressing his intimate flesh, as hot and ardent as if it were merely kissing his lips, with no trace of aversion.
His body goes limp on the floor, then tightens unexpectedly, until he is held in the grip of a spasm that builds, tensing his every muscle, until Castiel feels he might die if it finally grips him – and that he might die if it doesn't.
Finally, with a fresh touch of Dean's smooth, wet mouth, Castiel loses his weak grasp on the world around him, loses everything – his name, his memory, his sight and awareness, save for the feel of Dean touching him.
Dean's fingers, wet and strong, slide under him, wriggling for a second of blunt pressure, before intruding into him. It's a sensation unlike anything else, feeling his body, and a part of him he has never considered before, gripping Dean's finger, so tightly that he's almost afraid Dean will have to remain there indefinitely.
Yet, Dean finds some way of moving inwards, deeper, and Castiel closes his eyes, feeling Dean's lips gently brush his spent organ, lapping curiously at the jism on his stomach. Without the intensity of pleasure that had previously fogged his mind, Castiel feels his shame creeping back – mentally shaping the picture they must make together, Dean with his finger probing his body, licking the remains of Castiel's shattered control from him.
"Cas?"
He opens his eyes to find Dean looking up at him. His perfect mouth is reddened, swollen, Castiel thinks with a twinge of regret, from his efforts on his arousal. The finger inside of him twists, and is joined by another.
"Hurts?" Dean asks, seemingly having no need for the words that would make the rest of the question.
"No." Castiel says, truthfully, for it doesn't hurt, but feels strange, and wrong and strangely compulsive – like when he was a child, and he'd dip his tongue into the raw-tasting grooves of lost milk teeth.
Dean looks at him, as if trying to decipher him. "Doesn't hurt...but...?"
"It feels..." Castiel swallows. "I don't know..." and then he admits something that he hadn't even fully thought to himself yet. "I don't want to like it, but I don't want you to stop."
Dean frowns, confused. "Don't want..." his fingers absently seek within Castiel, and Castiel abruptly grunts, body pushing down on the fingers inside of him, before he can fully decide what it is that he should be doing. It just feels so good, better even than what Dean has just done to him.
He loses the words for 'want' and 'don't stop' and 'please'.
There's only one that he can force from his mouth.
"More."
The third finger squirming into him makes him shout helplessly, it hurts, but it's a good hurt. He doesn't know how, and he doesn't care. Dean's hand is more brutal now, responding to the urgency in the way that Castiel's body moves.
Then, suddenly, it's gone.
It's just all gone, and Castiel is cold, and untouched. The space between his legs still burning a little, feeling wet and open and...
And Dean pulls his legs up, and open, and Castiel lets him.
He isn't even conscious of the sound that uncoils from his throat as Dean joins them together, but Dean hears it, the long, loud sound, so similar to the mating calls he's heard in the forest. He lets his body fall over Castiel's deeply rooted in him, experiencing at last the feeling of being fully mated. Possessing, joining the one who's scent had already claimed him. Claiming Castiel in return.
Clumsy, demanding hands grabs at his back, and Castiel's heart drums as if it's pressed between their slick chests.
"I'm..." Castiel starts, and he could say that he's on edge again, that he's about to fall apart again. That he's not hurt. That he's confused, and knows he will be so, painfully shamed by this later. "I'm yours, aren't I?"
Dean kisses him, deep and wet, satisfied that Castiel – so slow and so very, very human – thinking with his busy mind, rather than with his cunning ears, quick feet, heart and urgent sex – has finally caught up to what Dean's known all along.
Castiel is his.
Having mounted his mate, Dean wastes no time in pursuing his own, long delayed pleasure. Castel buries his face against Dean's neck, whimpering in a way that Dean knows does not come from pain. His blood surges, and he can feel the gathering of his body, the way it starts to move without his intention.
The ear-splitting noise around them makes them both jolt, and Dean barely has time to collect his senses before an arm wraps around his throat, dragging him backwards.
Castiel shouts his name, and Dean clings to him, fighting the hands, many many hands, that are pulling at him. He smells gunpowder, horses, leather and strange food and plants. He fights still harder, knowing that he is outmatched, that there is no time. He lunges for Castiel, and sinks his teeth into his mate's arm.
Castiel cries out, shouts his name again – more hurt this time, more afraid.
Then the stock of a rifle strikes the back of Dean's head.
And everything goes black with the sound of Castiel's voice – pleading with the strange men around him to spare his life.
