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spn fic: no salvation here
Title: no salvation here
Pairing: Cas/Dean
Rating: NC17
Words: ~2,000
Summary: For my days pass away like smoke, and my bones burn like a furnace - Psalm 102:3
Notes: Inspired by this Tumblr post. Rough sex and vaguely unhealthy dynamics ahoy.
[AO3]
no salvation here
The Mark is a living thing on Dean's arm, all heat and poison and teeth. It beats faster than his heart, throbbing when he's trying to sleep, flaring up sharp and angry when he's fighting, when he's fucking, when Cas touches it, tracing his fingers over the rough, raised edges, digging his thumb into its scar-thick center.
"Don't," Dean hisses, his dick twitching in his jeans, a jolt of white-hot need zagging through him like lightning. He tries to pull his arm away, but Cas is still faster than him, still stronger.
"I want -- "
"Yeah, I know what you want." Dean doesn't know why -- if it's his rotten, broken grace, or the time he spent as a human -- but Cas understands desire now, understands arousal, the way it dries his mouth and twists his gut and thrums between his legs, enough that he keeps showing up at Dean's motel room, crowding into Dean's space, making dark, pleased noises when Dean finally snaps and shoves him against a wall, gets a hand up under his jaw and presses like a vise.
Cas leans in closer, tilts his head close enough for a kiss. "You can't hurt me."
But you could fucking hurt me, Dean thinks, with the part of his brain that's still human-rational, the part that doesn't want to twist his fingers into Cas' hair and pull, bite purple-red bruises into the long line of Cas' neck, push Cas down to his knees, shove his dick into Cas' mouth. He loves Cas, the spark of it burning underneath the sulfur waiting in the back of his throat and the constant need to watch the First Blade part flesh, see blood staining his hands, and he still will when this is all over, assuming they both survive it, but if heaven reopens, Cas will probably decide to return to it, will leave Dean alone with a brother who barely speaks to him and the memories of Cas fucking him in a series of cheap motels, raw and desperate and fueled by all the wrong emotions.
Cas watches Dean for a moment, his mouth parted, his tongue pink and wet past the well of his lower lip; he digs his thumb into the Mark again, harder, then slides his other hand up Dean's left arm, under the sleeve of Dean's t-shirt, pressing his palm to the place where the handprint used to be. He squeezes a little, his breath soft and warm as his lips brush Dean's jaw, and Dean surges forward, knotting his fingers in Cas' hair, kissing Cas hard and fast, more teeth than tongue. Cas moans into it, the lamp on the nightstand flickering, and Dean fists his other hand in the front of Cas' coat, tugging as he tries to herd Cas toward the bed. They stumble over something -- Dean's boots, maybe -- and Cas hipchecks the dresser, knocking into it hard enough that Dean's duffle tumbles to the floor and the TV wobbling against the wall.
"Dean," Cas says, all gravel and heat, and Dean crowds in closer, sucking at the skin under Cas' jaw as he pins Cas in place. He flattens one hand on top of the dresser, curls the other one around the back of Cas' neck, works his thigh between Cas' legs, nudges up until he feels the curve of Cas' dick. Cas shifts against him, his eyes wide and blue and his fingernails biting into Dean's arm. He could get away if he wants to, still has enough grace to toss Dean across the room, but the Mark flares and throbs at the thought of it, the idea of having Cas trapped, holding Cas down, his fingers pressing bruises into Cas' hips, and he leans in a little harder, until the edge of the dresser must be digging into Cas' back, but the lamp flickers again, hissing as it dims and gutters back to life, and Cas moans into the dip of Dean's cheek, tugging at Dean's belt as he grinds his dick against Dean's thigh.
Dean strokes Cas through his slacks, rubbing the long line of Cas' dick with the heel of his hand, then thumbs open the button and zipper, pulling Cas out, choking out a dark noise as Cas does the same to him. They jack each other for a few moments, kissing rough and spit-slick and sloppy, until Cas fumbles his hand around both of them, squeezing almost too hard as he works it up and down, everything damp with sweat and precome, too good, too good. Dean wraps his arm around Cas' waist and pulls him away from the dresser, trying to steer them toward the bed, but Cas turns them, growling out Dean's name again, slamming Dean back against the wall, hard, the door rattling and the picture beside Dean's head crashing to the floor.
Cas shoves Dean's jeans down to his knees, sucks a slow, achy mark into the hollow of Dean's throat, asks, "What do you want?" against the shell of Dean's ear, like Cas hadn't started this, like he hadn't knocked on Dean's door before Dean had started on his next bottle of whiskey and deliberately pushed every button Dean has. He kisses Dean then, with enough teeth that Dean tastes blood at the corner of his mouth, running his hand over Dean's dick as he thrusts against Dean's hip. "Do you want me inside you?"
"Yes," Dean says, need roiling in his gut, clutching at his throat. He likes it either way, but the Mark is beating on the inside of his arm like a drum, taunting him with being full, as content as he ever is these days without the First Blade in his hand, and he's learned that it will be easier if Cas fucks him, that he'll blame himself less, feel less guilty about this whole mess when he remembers it in the morning.
Cas flips him around, holding him face-first against the wall, one hand sweaty and warm at the small of Dean's back, the other braced beside Dean's head, his fingers catching a rip in the yellow and brown wallpaper, tearing into it with a stale, brittle sound that sets Dean's teeth on edge. He pushes back a little, impatient, desperate, wanting Cas to do something, anything, but Cas just ruts against him, his forehead bumping the nape of Dean's neck, his mouth above the collar of Dean's t-shirt; he rubs his dick over the swell of Dean's ass, then underneath it, fucking it between Dean's legs, the come-sticky head brushing against Dean's balls. He slides his hand around Dean's hip, wrapping it around Dean's dick, stroking hard and slow, enough to dig at the heat under Dean's skin but not enough to get him off, biting at the curve of Dean's shoulder before dropping to his knees and slicking his tongue against Dean's hole.
Dean moans, loudly, unable to swallow the noise down, muttering, "fuck, Cas -- fuck," as Cas thumbs the head of his dick, as Cas' tongue drags over him again, hot and wet and perfect. His thighs start to shake, and he scrabbles at the wall, knocking over another picture, scratching another tear in the ugly wallpaper. Cas slips a finger inside him, tight at the knuckle with nothing but spit for lube, but Dean hisses and bites his lip and pushes back against it, wanting more, unable to breathe, the Mark pulsing restlessly on his arm.
"Now, Cas."
The lube is in Dean's duffle, so they end up on the floor beside the dresser, Dean on his hands and knees, Cas sucking kisses into the back of Dean's thigh as he twists two fingers into Dean's body, then three. Dean rocks back against it, nearly riding Cas' hand, heat flaring in the Mark each time Cas finds his prostate, sparking orange and bright with Cain's curse. He can almost feel Cas losing it, a dim crackle in the air around them, a hint of ozone at the back of his throat. He isn't quite ready when Cas pulls his fingers out and lines himself up, but he urges Cas on anyway -- hurry, hurry -- and the rough, dull ache of Cas pushing into him only makes the Mark throb hotter, harder.
Cas bottoms out with a groan, the mirror above the dresser cracking straight down the middle, and his first thrust is like a punch to the gut, inching them closer to the bed, knocking Dean forward so hard his elbows give out. Dean stays that way, his back arched and his ass in the air, breathing in motel dust, clawing at the yellow carpet as Cas slams into him again and again and again. He'll have bruises on his hips tomorrow, and a blood-red mark on the back of his neck where Cas can't stop himself from biting. He gets his hand around his dick, stroking himself as hard and fast as Cas is fucking him, his orgasm coiling around the base of his spine like a snake, his whole arm on fire, burning from wrist to shoulder from the seething heat of the Mark.
"Does it hurt?" Cas asks, angry, his fingernails biting into the skin over Dean's hip.
Dean closes his eyes, but he can still see the Mark, orange and horrible and alive. "Yes."
"Only you would expect me to -- to pull you from perdition a second time."
"You can't." Dean's voice is raw and hoarse; he wants to laugh, is so close to coming he can almost taste it. "You're running out of juice."
Cas snarls, low and deep, his teeth finding Dean's skin again, just where Dean's neck curves into his shoulder, and a burst of grace jolts through Dean's chest like a gunshot, hot and cold at once. Dean shakes with it, coming helplessly, mumbling Cas' name around a thick, desperate noise, his dick spurting over his hand, onto the yellow carpet. Cas stills for a few seconds, then starts thrusting again, fucking Dean just as ruthlessly as before, hissing that he will find a way to save Dean, grace or no grace, just low enough that Dean can pretend he didn't hear it, that Cas never said it, isn't making a promise heaven will find a way to make him break. Cas comes with a heavy, breathless noise, the lamp flickering and popping as he murmurs Dean's name over and over, and Dean hides his face in the curve of his arm, his chest aching, his love for Cas digging into the space behind his ribs.
They stay that way for a few moments, sprawled on the floor, Dean trying to catch his breath, Cas stroking his hand up the back of Dean's thigh, running his fingers through the come leaking out of Dean's ass, until Dean sighs and pulls away, afraid he'll start rubbing back against it. He heaves himself to his feet, his breathing still unsteady and rug-burn itching at his knees; he kicks his jeans off, plans to pour himself and drink and grab a washcloth from the bathroom, but he ends up just flopping down on the bed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling as the pain in his arm dulls and fades.
Cas climbs onto the bed, the mattress shifting and creaking as he settles between Dean's legs. He's lost his coat and his slacks, his oxford is unbuttoned at the neck, and he's hard again, his dick nudging against Dean's ass as he slides his hand up Dean's chest, under Dean's t-shirt. There are a million reasons why they shouldn't, but the Mark is sparking again, and Cas is pushing back inside him, hot and thick and perfect, so Dean hooks his leg around Cas' waist, grabs Cas' hand and holds on.
Pairing: Cas/Dean
Rating: NC17
Words: ~2,000
Summary: For my days pass away like smoke, and my bones burn like a furnace - Psalm 102:3
Notes: Inspired by this Tumblr post. Rough sex and vaguely unhealthy dynamics ahoy.
[AO3]
The Mark is a living thing on Dean's arm, all heat and poison and teeth. It beats faster than his heart, throbbing when he's trying to sleep, flaring up sharp and angry when he's fighting, when he's fucking, when Cas touches it, tracing his fingers over the rough, raised edges, digging his thumb into its scar-thick center.
"Don't," Dean hisses, his dick twitching in his jeans, a jolt of white-hot need zagging through him like lightning. He tries to pull his arm away, but Cas is still faster than him, still stronger.
"I want -- "
"Yeah, I know what you want." Dean doesn't know why -- if it's his rotten, broken grace, or the time he spent as a human -- but Cas understands desire now, understands arousal, the way it dries his mouth and twists his gut and thrums between his legs, enough that he keeps showing up at Dean's motel room, crowding into Dean's space, making dark, pleased noises when Dean finally snaps and shoves him against a wall, gets a hand up under his jaw and presses like a vise.
Cas leans in closer, tilts his head close enough for a kiss. "You can't hurt me."
But you could fucking hurt me, Dean thinks, with the part of his brain that's still human-rational, the part that doesn't want to twist his fingers into Cas' hair and pull, bite purple-red bruises into the long line of Cas' neck, push Cas down to his knees, shove his dick into Cas' mouth. He loves Cas, the spark of it burning underneath the sulfur waiting in the back of his throat and the constant need to watch the First Blade part flesh, see blood staining his hands, and he still will when this is all over, assuming they both survive it, but if heaven reopens, Cas will probably decide to return to it, will leave Dean alone with a brother who barely speaks to him and the memories of Cas fucking him in a series of cheap motels, raw and desperate and fueled by all the wrong emotions.
Cas watches Dean for a moment, his mouth parted, his tongue pink and wet past the well of his lower lip; he digs his thumb into the Mark again, harder, then slides his other hand up Dean's left arm, under the sleeve of Dean's t-shirt, pressing his palm to the place where the handprint used to be. He squeezes a little, his breath soft and warm as his lips brush Dean's jaw, and Dean surges forward, knotting his fingers in Cas' hair, kissing Cas hard and fast, more teeth than tongue. Cas moans into it, the lamp on the nightstand flickering, and Dean fists his other hand in the front of Cas' coat, tugging as he tries to herd Cas toward the bed. They stumble over something -- Dean's boots, maybe -- and Cas hipchecks the dresser, knocking into it hard enough that Dean's duffle tumbles to the floor and the TV wobbling against the wall.
"Dean," Cas says, all gravel and heat, and Dean crowds in closer, sucking at the skin under Cas' jaw as he pins Cas in place. He flattens one hand on top of the dresser, curls the other one around the back of Cas' neck, works his thigh between Cas' legs, nudges up until he feels the curve of Cas' dick. Cas shifts against him, his eyes wide and blue and his fingernails biting into Dean's arm. He could get away if he wants to, still has enough grace to toss Dean across the room, but the Mark flares and throbs at the thought of it, the idea of having Cas trapped, holding Cas down, his fingers pressing bruises into Cas' hips, and he leans in a little harder, until the edge of the dresser must be digging into Cas' back, but the lamp flickers again, hissing as it dims and gutters back to life, and Cas moans into the dip of Dean's cheek, tugging at Dean's belt as he grinds his dick against Dean's thigh.
Dean strokes Cas through his slacks, rubbing the long line of Cas' dick with the heel of his hand, then thumbs open the button and zipper, pulling Cas out, choking out a dark noise as Cas does the same to him. They jack each other for a few moments, kissing rough and spit-slick and sloppy, until Cas fumbles his hand around both of them, squeezing almost too hard as he works it up and down, everything damp with sweat and precome, too good, too good. Dean wraps his arm around Cas' waist and pulls him away from the dresser, trying to steer them toward the bed, but Cas turns them, growling out Dean's name again, slamming Dean back against the wall, hard, the door rattling and the picture beside Dean's head crashing to the floor.
Cas shoves Dean's jeans down to his knees, sucks a slow, achy mark into the hollow of Dean's throat, asks, "What do you want?" against the shell of Dean's ear, like Cas hadn't started this, like he hadn't knocked on Dean's door before Dean had started on his next bottle of whiskey and deliberately pushed every button Dean has. He kisses Dean then, with enough teeth that Dean tastes blood at the corner of his mouth, running his hand over Dean's dick as he thrusts against Dean's hip. "Do you want me inside you?"
"Yes," Dean says, need roiling in his gut, clutching at his throat. He likes it either way, but the Mark is beating on the inside of his arm like a drum, taunting him with being full, as content as he ever is these days without the First Blade in his hand, and he's learned that it will be easier if Cas fucks him, that he'll blame himself less, feel less guilty about this whole mess when he remembers it in the morning.
Cas flips him around, holding him face-first against the wall, one hand sweaty and warm at the small of Dean's back, the other braced beside Dean's head, his fingers catching a rip in the yellow and brown wallpaper, tearing into it with a stale, brittle sound that sets Dean's teeth on edge. He pushes back a little, impatient, desperate, wanting Cas to do something, anything, but Cas just ruts against him, his forehead bumping the nape of Dean's neck, his mouth above the collar of Dean's t-shirt; he rubs his dick over the swell of Dean's ass, then underneath it, fucking it between Dean's legs, the come-sticky head brushing against Dean's balls. He slides his hand around Dean's hip, wrapping it around Dean's dick, stroking hard and slow, enough to dig at the heat under Dean's skin but not enough to get him off, biting at the curve of Dean's shoulder before dropping to his knees and slicking his tongue against Dean's hole.
Dean moans, loudly, unable to swallow the noise down, muttering, "fuck, Cas -- fuck," as Cas thumbs the head of his dick, as Cas' tongue drags over him again, hot and wet and perfect. His thighs start to shake, and he scrabbles at the wall, knocking over another picture, scratching another tear in the ugly wallpaper. Cas slips a finger inside him, tight at the knuckle with nothing but spit for lube, but Dean hisses and bites his lip and pushes back against it, wanting more, unable to breathe, the Mark pulsing restlessly on his arm.
"Now, Cas."
The lube is in Dean's duffle, so they end up on the floor beside the dresser, Dean on his hands and knees, Cas sucking kisses into the back of Dean's thigh as he twists two fingers into Dean's body, then three. Dean rocks back against it, nearly riding Cas' hand, heat flaring in the Mark each time Cas finds his prostate, sparking orange and bright with Cain's curse. He can almost feel Cas losing it, a dim crackle in the air around them, a hint of ozone at the back of his throat. He isn't quite ready when Cas pulls his fingers out and lines himself up, but he urges Cas on anyway -- hurry, hurry -- and the rough, dull ache of Cas pushing into him only makes the Mark throb hotter, harder.
Cas bottoms out with a groan, the mirror above the dresser cracking straight down the middle, and his first thrust is like a punch to the gut, inching them closer to the bed, knocking Dean forward so hard his elbows give out. Dean stays that way, his back arched and his ass in the air, breathing in motel dust, clawing at the yellow carpet as Cas slams into him again and again and again. He'll have bruises on his hips tomorrow, and a blood-red mark on the back of his neck where Cas can't stop himself from biting. He gets his hand around his dick, stroking himself as hard and fast as Cas is fucking him, his orgasm coiling around the base of his spine like a snake, his whole arm on fire, burning from wrist to shoulder from the seething heat of the Mark.
"Does it hurt?" Cas asks, angry, his fingernails biting into the skin over Dean's hip.
Dean closes his eyes, but he can still see the Mark, orange and horrible and alive. "Yes."
"Only you would expect me to -- to pull you from perdition a second time."
"You can't." Dean's voice is raw and hoarse; he wants to laugh, is so close to coming he can almost taste it. "You're running out of juice."
Cas snarls, low and deep, his teeth finding Dean's skin again, just where Dean's neck curves into his shoulder, and a burst of grace jolts through Dean's chest like a gunshot, hot and cold at once. Dean shakes with it, coming helplessly, mumbling Cas' name around a thick, desperate noise, his dick spurting over his hand, onto the yellow carpet. Cas stills for a few seconds, then starts thrusting again, fucking Dean just as ruthlessly as before, hissing that he will find a way to save Dean, grace or no grace, just low enough that Dean can pretend he didn't hear it, that Cas never said it, isn't making a promise heaven will find a way to make him break. Cas comes with a heavy, breathless noise, the lamp flickering and popping as he murmurs Dean's name over and over, and Dean hides his face in the curve of his arm, his chest aching, his love for Cas digging into the space behind his ribs.
They stay that way for a few moments, sprawled on the floor, Dean trying to catch his breath, Cas stroking his hand up the back of Dean's thigh, running his fingers through the come leaking out of Dean's ass, until Dean sighs and pulls away, afraid he'll start rubbing back against it. He heaves himself to his feet, his breathing still unsteady and rug-burn itching at his knees; he kicks his jeans off, plans to pour himself and drink and grab a washcloth from the bathroom, but he ends up just flopping down on the bed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling as the pain in his arm dulls and fades.
Cas climbs onto the bed, the mattress shifting and creaking as he settles between Dean's legs. He's lost his coat and his slacks, his oxford is unbuttoned at the neck, and he's hard again, his dick nudging against Dean's ass as he slides his hand up Dean's chest, under Dean's t-shirt. There are a million reasons why they shouldn't, but the Mark is sparking again, and Cas is pushing back inside him, hot and thick and perfect, so Dean hooks his leg around Cas' waist, grabs Cas' hand and holds on.