Day 05: Kissing
Title: Distractions & Doubts
Summary: After failing to prevent a seal from breaking and causing a whole town to go up in flames, Dean desperately needs a distraction from the guilt that plagues his heart. Castiel seems willing to provide.
Notes: Sorry if this came out all awkward and forced. It's kinda hard writing a kissing scene in only one day (well...for me it is, anyway). Important: this oneshot is set in season four.
Dean Winchester stood in the middle of the charred, ashy remains of what was once a town full of alive, hopeful people that had foolishly depended on him, self-hatred plaguing his heart and guilt swimming in his lungs. The haunting sound of children laughing at the playground just twenty-four hours ago danced around in his head, another cruel reminder of his tragic failure that made his veins overflow with rage and shame. With a broken sound released in his throat, Dean crouched to the ground and picked up the burnt remains of a tattered teddy bear—a teddy bear he'd seen with a smiling little girl that had all her childish ambitions and bright potential ripped away from her by a poisonous demon whore. The stuffed animal mocked him with its disfigured, broken body, and before he could get himself under control, he launched it as far as he could, teeth clenched and eyes glassy.
"That fucking bitch!" He shouted, his trembling fists itching for the chance to slit Lilith's throat not only for the preservation of Earth but for the burning need of vengeance that boiled in his lurching stomach. Sam had left him alone hours ago, somehow knowing Dean needed to unleash his frustration and despondency in privacy. He didn't know where his brother went (probably to talk to Ruby, his new BBF), and he didn't even give a shit at the moment. Even his playtime in Hell was nothing but a distant echo of a memory that resided in the back of his mind as he let himself stir in his overwhelming guilt.
The only thing that dragged him out of his stupor of despair was the sound of wings and Castiel's low, gravelly voice behind him, "Dean. Are you alright?"
A hysterical resonance that sounded vaguely like some form of sour laughter bubbled in Dean's raw, scratchy throat, "I'm just peachy, Cas. How've you been letting everything down here go straight to Hell while you and the other dicks with wings sit on your asses up in Heaven?"
Castiel paused for a moment before replying in a softer, more consoling tone, "Dean, not all seals can be preserved—"
"This isn't about your goddamn shit-show at Sea World," Dean scorned, spinning around to shout and scream at someone just as guilty as he was, "People died today, Castiel; people I could've saved!" He sneered, "But A for effort, right?"
The angel pinned him with that intense, unsettling stare of his, faint hints of actual emotion brewing in those cold, inhuman eyes, "This is not your fault, Dean, nor is it ours. You mustn't allow this to get to you."
"News flash, Cas: I'm not like you," Dean snapped, voice thick as he took a step towards him, "I can't turn off my emotions and bathe in my sickening sense of self-righteousness like you high and mighty angels. I'm human, Cas."
Blue eyes regarded him with an undecipherable glint, "I'm well aware of that."
Dean let out a scoff as he stared up at the sky and vainly wished for sweet, blissful numbness. He felt himself drowning in an ocean of fury and despair, and his bones were blocks of cement, dragging him under as the vicious waves of guilt rushed down his throat and filled his lungs. He needed a life-jacket to save him from this treacherous haze that engulfed his body, a distraction to get lost in so he could preserve whatever remnants of a heart he had left that Castiel molded back together the day he gripped him tight and raised him from Perdition.
More specifically, he needed a distraction that had pretty blue eyes and scarred wings.
Before even he could catch up with his own rapid thought process, Dean felt himself grab Castiel by the tie and smash their lips together. At the sudden contact, the angel stilled and seemed on the verge of pulling away, so Dean blindly knotted his fingers into his wild, mussed hair and held him in place, pulling their bodies flush together.
Ever since he first caught sight of him in that warehouse months ago, Dean had imagined Castiel to be as hard and cold as a marble statue, that not even his vessel could conceal the raw power and pulsing grace that thrummed underneath the misleadingly human flesh. But to Dean's surprise, Cas felt almost...human, full of warmth and possessing firm planes of skin that was just as soft and tender as a peach's delicate flesh. But there was something otherworldly about him as well—something that smelled faintly of ozone and ethereal; something that was both corporeal yet unearthly.
During the first few seconds, Castiel's body was as taunt as a bowstring, his mouth entirely unmoving and unresponsive. But as time went on, with Dean's mouth sliding against his chapped lips roughly with strong undertones of thinly concealed desperation, the angel's body gradually became boneless, his lips parting either out of pleasure or pity, Dean couldn't tell (and frankly didn't care). As if that were permission enough, Dean's tongue slithered into the other's mouth as his hands released their tight grip on his hair and slowly slid down to cup the angel's face, taking advantage of their ability to angle his face for Dean's own blasphemous needs.
Finally, when the need to breathe became too insistent, Dean jerked away and buried his head into the angel's shoulder, panting hard and feeling just as fucked up as he had to begin with. As he waited for his breathing to even out, the realization of what he'd just done slowly sunk in. Well, shit.
With a silent gulp of fear and shame, Dean leaned back and stared up at the angel, his acidic smile tasting like cyanide on his lips, "Back to the Pit, huh?" It was almost disturbing how much he welcomed the thought of returning to Hell, almost as if he knew he deserved it this time around. After all, letting a whole town go up in flames and mouth-raping an Angel of The Lord weren't really things that put him in God's good graces.
If the circumstances were different, Dean would have laughed at how debauched the angel looked—his cheeks flushed, his lips red and swollen, his hair even more ruffled than usual. But with the promise of another forty years of Hell in his future (or just thirty-five, if Cas was feeling generous enough), no form of guffaw would fly past his lips. Though despite his rumpled appearance, the angel's gaze was as steady and intense as ever, perhaps even more so. Looking deep into those piercing, unreadable eyes, Dean swallowed hard, the taste of ambrosia still burning in his throat.
For a minute that seemed to drag on to the end of time, Castiel remained silent and just stared at him, an undertone of raw, foreign emotion darkening those bright blue eyes. Eventually—just when Dean was beginning to believe he was already in Hell and this was some form of sadistic, humiliating torture no one but Alastair could cook up—Castiel reached out and touched his cheek, the graze of his fingertips so light and gentle that if Dean's eyes had been closed, he would have never even felt it. Dean furrowed his brow at the action, but before he could untie his tongue and speak, the angel disappeared, leaving only the brief sound of ruffled feathers in his place.
The absence of his presence was like having a bucket of ice water dunked on him as Dean slowly slid to his knees and could only focus on his own breathing, wondering how this baffling shit-storm ever became his life.
Unknown to him, Castiel stood behind him as an invisible observer, the first seeds of doubt sprouting in his mind.
Author's Note: Next entry will be entitled "Weird Sex Thing." That sounds vaguely enticing, doesn't it?
As usual, I must shamelessly beg you to review, follow, or favorite (or all three if you want to be an overachiever).