Hands on Dean's hips, this is the closest Castiel finds himself to wanting. In a bitter way, the blade sheathed inside of him makes him almost human. His eyes, his palms, they aren't celestial intent anymore. The thing, it connects him to the body he wears, it makes him want Dean in the ways he craved his skin, his smile, his mouth on his lonely human nights. But this is stronger, much more primal. It wants to claim Dean as its property, tear him apart and possess him, make him into whining, needing nothing, make him solely its. Castiel touches Dean with fear, he begs his grace to withhold it. He navigates himself between Dean's legs with surprising ease. He knows this body well. Somehow, the blade knows it better.
He doesn't know which one of them Dean is welcoming with so much fire as he pushes Castiel closer and traps with his strong calves and hungry hands, but for their own good, he hopes it's him. He doesn't have a proof. He never knew if Dean wanted him like he wanted all these women, all the other bodies. He's desperate to find out. Even more desperate to make Dean need him in a whole new and fully carnal way.
So maybe there was something selfish in the act of taking the blade inside. Maybe it made him do it. He kept staring at it and it kept calling, tempting, offering ideas until he gave in, until he found an excuse.
But when Dean tells him (touching, crying), "It has a mind of its own, why did you listen," Castiel denies.
"It's just me," he promises.
Dean shakes his head. "Not anymore," he says as he forces himself down on his cock with no preamble hot, tight and hissing in pain (and Castiel is afraid of how much everything he wants to do to him right now). Having Castiel buried inside of him to the hilt, he leans in towards his face and he whispers, "You're already dead."
Then Dean begins to move. The blade sings with fire. Castiel's hips find the melody, the rhythm, the core at which they want to claw. And Dean, he howls, burying fingernails into Cas's stomach, searching restlessly for the hidden treasure. His breath is hot, Castiel feels it echo over his face, as Dean foretells and promises, like the otherworldly drugged prophet he is, "You're dead and I killed you." He rolls his hips and takes him like a wave of an ocean as he repeats, "With this I've killed you." To prove his point, he retreats and slams back down, yanking an ungodly groan out of Castiel's throat. "Cause I should've kicked you out, begging for you to spit it the fuck out," he explains, voice swollen with pain but burning with need. "But I sure as fuck won't," he snarls, fucking himself onto Castiel's dick with shameless abandon. He's never seen him looking so debauched, not even in his dreams and he so, so deeply regrets he hasn't made him come undone like this before (so many wasted years, his mind supplies, disappointed).
And he's beautiful like that. So beautiful something in Castiel wants to tear him apart, eat him until he breaks his teeth on Dean's bones. But the need in Dean's body, the inhuman craving that makes him moan and melt, it has Castiel maddeningly jealous. Dean isn't fucking him. He doesn't know how to compete with the power of the blade, with the blood and barbwire bond Dean shares with it. Livid and driven by the malicious thing (he knows, but denies for the second time), he punches Dean in the face to what Dean bites down his broken lip and moans as if it was the highest pleasure ever given to him. Scratches harder, draws blood. Castiel hits him again.
"Dean," he demands. "Focus on me." No reaction. Another blow. "Focus on me."
"There is no you," he sighs.
Third time, Castiel denies.