Mess

Title: Mess
Rated: MA
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Warnings: Profanity, sexuality (anal, masturbation, etc), spoilers for season 5
Summary: Takes place in the Croat future. Castiel blinked, then laughed, just laughed. "Is that a trick question?" he snorted. "For a moment there, Dean..." He shook his head. What could he say? For a moment there I thought I was flying again. Maybe that's why I need this. Dean would just roll his eyes anyway.
Notes: Written for my good friend Cas, who kept throwing inspirational music at me. Initially this was just going to be mindless, dirty fucking, but somehow angst cracked through and it became a little deeper. Still, it's very much a PWP. I'm a little disappointed with it but, eh, think of it as a quickie. Also, "hot mess" is a good term for future!Cas honhon.
Disclaimer: I own nada.

The battle lasted from 12:32 PM to 2:15 PM. Fifty Croats were killed, twenty demons and seventeen men lost. Most had suffered from typical battle wounds--throats torn open, bodies ripped apart as they slowly died, gun shots, knife wounds. The usual. Then there was Porter and Kristy. Porter was possessed momentarily before his brother pumped him full of rock salt and holy water. Lina had been doing just fine, a rather tough and resilient girl. It was unfortunate she found herself infected after one small slip up. Though at first Lina was terrified of facing death, she knew it was the better fate of the two. So she knelt before the Winchester boy, leader of their demon hunting clan; she said her final words, shut her eyes and took the bullet between her eyes without so much as a squeak.

Many more had been wounded, and the amount of severity remained unknown. Castiel had scrambled through the wreckage as gun shots rocked the skies full of thunder and a haze of bullets like rain. He latched onto the weak, dragged them to safety where a small cluster of doctors were stationed and waiting. For those only suffering minor injuries, they had bandaides slapped on, a shot of whiskey then shoved back into the battle. For those Castiel was too late to save, he quickly stripped them of their weapons and valuables, the former to give to the living and latter to give to whomever was the corpse's loved ones back at camp.

The demons had eventually drizzled off to leave the fighting to the Croats. They retreated ten, fifteen minutes later, less than half of the amount they came in. Dean had ordered a barrier around the area to keep them at bay, should they come back, while the others loaded the wounded and supplies.

"I want us out in five minutes flat, people! Hurry it up and move!" Dean snarled over the scrambling hunters. He tossed his empty rifle in the back of a truck, one of the drivers throwing him back a loaded one. Everyone was working, moving fast, Dean barking and shouting orders. However, only one seemed to be sitting on their weight instead of hauling it like the others.

Dean cursed as he limped quickly over to Castiel, the fallen angel squatting next to a woman's corpse, turning something in his fingers. "What part of 'hurry up and move' do you not understand, Cas?" Dean spat. He recognized the object in Castiel's hand; a necklace and between fingers caked with dirt, a golden cross. "Something fascinating I'm not seeing there?" he demanded, impatient.

Castiel snorted. "No," he replied. He ripped the necklace from the woman's stiff throat. He stood then, shoving the jewelery into his back pocket. "Just curious as to why people still wear that shit these days," he chortled bitterly and swaggered off.

---

The routine never changed.

After a battle, the hunters would return with the dead and the damaged. Lovers, friends, relatives, they all wept and asked someone who wasn't listening why it happened to them, to "such good people." Then the bodies would be placed in sturdy, simple wooden coffins that were designed more like boxes, always in stock with more made everyday. There was a burial, a quick eulogy and then everyone went back to work. The wounded were healed and those left standing but shaking went to drown their twitchy nerves in booze at a small bar that never seemed to run out of alcohol.

Dean had since stopped joining his men for their drunken festivities. Alcohol had lost its flavor, and whenever he was drunk, reality was still too close for him to escape. So he let them bury their denial and emotions in their beer and cigarettes, using outside means and substances to fill the voids that only grew bigger and bigger as the days passed and more of their comrades died.

Of course among them was Castiel. He wasn't a social type; at least not with the men. He preferred more private parties, but was always open to sharing his stash for those who needed it. But occasionally the fallen angel would crawl from his reefer and sex scented cabin to fuck around with the boys, to shoot the shit as they drunk, and he'd pretend he knew what the old times were on Earth, he'd pretend he knew what it was like being human all along. He'd pretend he never had faith in God in the first place.

Dean stopped trying to help him years ago.

---

An hour after checking up on the wounded, with miraculously no one dead or dying, Dean had retired to his cabin. He locked and secured the doors and windows, his entire chamber coated with means of protection from both demons and angels alike. There were guns, protective sigils, holy water, rock salt, everything which Dean needed to survive an attack. Besides that, there was a dresser, rickety old bed and connected bathroom with a toilet and shitty shower.

As usual, Dean would take his guns, clean and load them until night fell. His shifts fluctuated; some days he'd work entire night shifts, some he'd sleep through them. Today was his "off day," shift taken over by his usual replacement, a man Dean hand picked himself. Even after his guns were perfect and shining, he would find himself laying in bed for hours, a rifle still in his tight fingers, staring at the ceiling with its protective pentagram painted in crude red above. He would not know how long he'd lay in the silence before finally nodding off, but his mind was constantly running like a motor. Thoughts that were hardly relaxing enough to put him to sleep.

Dean was just beginning to clean his last rifle when there came a soft creak from the door, facing him directly. The locks were turning, all of them, but Dean remained calm. There was only one other person who had keys to his cabin anyway. Still, he kept his gun cocked and waited.

When the door opened and Castiel stumbled in, Dean aimed point blank and pulled the trigger. Cas gave a small startle, but nothing more; the gun released a click, emptied. The fallen angel snickered and waved a hand at him. "Don't do that when I'm wasted," he slurred.

Dean lowered the gun, took in the sight. Castiel wore his loose khaki pants with their trims shredded, a dirty jacket over a faded blue shirt. His feet were filthy in his sandals, face sporting the shadow of a beard, his hair a complete and total mess. But it was in his eyes that Dean saw the real mess, the way they were glazed, half lidded, exhausted on so many levels.

The fallen angel limped forward. "The door," Dean said. Castiel blinked before smirking and giving a wag of his finger. You're so clever! it said. He nonetheless locked the door securely back up, then turned and continued his swaying to the foot of Dean's bed. "What do you want, Cas?" the hunter demanded. He went back to cleaning the barrel. "I'm busy."

Castiel just smirked and climbed onto the bed. Dean paid him no mind as he crawled across the mattress. It was until Cas was on his knee before his own crossed legs, and pushed like a needy child at the gun he was cleaning did Dean look up. "Come on," Cas purred, and Dean could smell the whiskey and scotch burning from his throat.

"I said I was busy," Dean stated. He shoved Castiel's hand aside, only for it to push back.

"You can clean your guns later," Castiel insisted. He moved a little closer, prodding away.

Dean scowled and pulled the weapon closer. "Cas, I don't--"

Though he was hardly anything but a mortal now, Castiel still retained amazing strength above the average human's. He wrenched the gun cleanly from Dean's tight hands and tossed it carelessly across the room. Dean hissed angrily before the fallen angel scooted to straddle his lap, knees pinned on the outsides of him.

"Come on," Castiel chuckled and took hold of Dean's shirt collar. He pulled the hunter closer, until their mouths were nearly touching. The alcohol was thick, burning Dean's lashes as he breathed hard on him. "Fuck me," the fallen angel whispered huskily, awkwardly in his drunk state taking Dean's mouth. He had about slipped his tongue in before Dean shoved him off and onto the mattress on his back.

"I said I'm busy!" Dean snarled.

"Won't take long," Castiel grumbled. He feebly crawled forward, hands grabbing at Dean's pants waist band. He met his leader's eyes, both pairs suffering in their own ways. "I'll suck you off, if you prefer," Castiel smirked pitifully.

"You're drunk," Dean said. He slapped away his hands, pulled back up his pants.

"We've fucked drunk before," Castiel reminded. He sat back, laughed as he dropped his head back. "We only seem to fuck when we're drunk. I guess when I'm stoned I only fuck with the girls."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Why don't you go do that?" he suggested. "You can still have your orgy even if Clarissa is gone."

Cas slowly shook his head and moved forward on hands and knees. "No," he murmured and let his hands slide up Dean's arms. "No." He pulled Dean closer, tried to kiss him again but Dean only relented.

"No, Cas," Dean hissed. He forced the hands off his shoulders, meant to push Castiel off the bed. But the fallen angel just leered and pulled him down on top of him, chests colliding with grunts. Dipping his head forward, he snatched a kiss from the hunter's mouth, biting onto his bottom lip to keep him there. "Goddammit," Dean snarled and wriggled himself free. He grabbed Castiel by his jacket and wrenched him off the bed, sending him tumbling to the floor. "I said no!" Dean screeched.

Castiel gave a low groan as he sat up. "Won't fuck me when we're sober, won't fuck me when I'm drunk..." he grumbled lowly, mostly to himself.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Go back to your cabin, Cas, before you puke all over my floor," he ordered, then grabbed his cloth and gun and continued with his work.

It had been quiet afterward, Castiel seemingly keeping to himself. He hadn't left, Dean knew this much. He was probably sulking, pouting in his silence until Dean felt sorry for his behavior, apologized and fucked his ass raw. Dean, however, wasn't going to stop what he was doing because the drunk ass wanted to screw. So let him sit there and whine, Dean was going to keep cleaning and eventually Cas would storm out of the cabin, butthurt for maybe an hour before he found himself twisted around three different women in some Kama Sutra position. Then tomorrow they'd be friends again and nothing was lost.

Nearly five minutes had passed, and Dean was almost beginning to forget Cas was even there. Usually he was keenly aware of anyone's presence nearby. However, having been working with Cas for so many years, it just felt normal to have him there. But just as he was about to finish the rifle, he heard a soft moan, one he heard often when he had Castiel pinned beneath him.

Dean couldn't help himself. "What are you--" He turned to regard his silent companion, before his eyes widened in shock. Castiel was sitting against the wall, looking like a goddamn hobo, with his hand down the front of his ruffled pants. It was obvious he was enjoying himself by the motions of his undulating hips and the dirty smirk on his face.

"Oh," the fallen angel chuckled. "Don't mind me."

"Cas!" Dean sputtered. It wasn't just the sheer fuckery of the situation that made him speechless and frazzled. It was the way Castiel looked, the wanton glaze in his eyes, the way his hips ground into his hand, the way his mouth parted to gape, the way he breathed so heavily his chest fluttered. This was no good, no damn good. "Stop fucking doing that!" the hunter ordered, spittle flying from his mouth.

"I'll stop once I'm not fucking rock hard," Castiel insisted. He drug his legs forward, as if to curl up. "Just... just give me this, okay?" He looked pained, head bowed as if just now he was realizing just how embarrassing he was. Yet he couldn't stop, his face contorted with bitterness and an angry frown as he found himself helpless to his fantasies, the need to fulfill them.

"Fucking can't-- Human desires are too... powerful..." Couldn't stop. "... Why am I doing this?" God, this wasn't him, this wasn't Castiel. This was just another fucking human who couldn't resist temptation, who fell under the pleasure of flesh and bone, and found himself thrust into a mixture of hate and happiness called love and lust.

The images wouldn't leave his mind. He had become almost addicted to the physical contact. The women, they helped, they got him by, they felt good when he was inside them, it felt good when they touched him. But Dean was different, Dean wasn't one of them, wasn't someone who could heal his physical desires like the females did. Dean's touch reached deeper, to a place Castiel couldn't touch, couldn't fucking jack off until he was satisfied. His soul, maybe? He didn't fucking know, but he knew others couldn't touch him like Dean did, and Dean hadn't done it for far too long.

"I need you," Castiel gulped loudly. He was about to cum, eyes dilating, spine curving, sweat rolling down his face. Dean knew the positions, knew the sounds and face he made right before he reached orgasm. "This is--this is not good enough," the fallen angel croaked. "They can't do it like you. I can't just--I can't."

Dean stared at him, much farther than what was presented outside. Those eyes, such a wreck. He was truly human now, a human lost to a sea of emotions that drowned his inexperienced heart and soul. Whenever he seemed to have control over his new found weaknesses, as he called them, the tide knocked him off his feet and he was submerged again, gasping for whatever could breathe life into him, whatever could sedate this intensity. Sex, drugs, alcohol, he was completely addicted.

Dean knew he should take Castiel back to his cabin. Knew he should ignore him until he rode this final wave off. If he had taken Castiel, if he did fuck him, it would only temporarily dull the pain, it would only feed into his addiction.

But he remembered then.

Dean had stopped trying to help him years ago.

"What do you want?" Dean demanded.

Castiel looked him painfully in the eye. "You."

"You know I can't give you that," the hunter stated calmly, "not now, not ever."

The fallen angel whimpered. "I'll take what I can get," he swallowed and cracked a sad grin.

Dean studied him a moment. Finally, he gave a loud exhale and threw up his hands. "Fuck," he scowled. Immediately, Castiel was up, painfully wrenching off his clothes around his erection, which was so close to release. Dean fished the lube out from under the mattress, went to pull down his own clothes before Castiel was towering over him, yanking off his pants and underwear with full force of a hungry animal.

As it was the many times in the past, Dean squirted a dollop in Cas's shaky hand and another in his own. Castiel obediently turned, positions sixty-nine; he rubbed the lube together in his hands to warm it first, before carefully rolling it along Dean's half-mast erection. He heard a soft groan behind him, and the more he coated it, the more stiff it got. Dean, on the other hand, had rubbed the lube along his fingers--two, as usual--before spreading the fallen angel's cheeks and hooking two wet fingers inside.

Castiel gave a soft gasp, squeezing Dean's cock briefly before continuing. Dean pried him open, scissoring and tugging at the sphincter for the best entrance. Castiel was finding it harder to concentrate on his own tasks as the fingers split him open, finding himself weakly slowing his strokes and bouncing back into those digits greedily.

"Don't come on me now," Dean grumbled with a sharp tug that made Castiel squeak.

"Not yet," the fallen angel assured. He lashed his tongue at Dean's slit, and this successfully stopped the fingers movement within him. He wriggled, feeling both empty and uncomfortable. Finally, Dean removed his fingers much too fast for Castiel's liking, before he was shoved forward, chin planted into the old mattress as Dean slipped out from beneath him.

Castiel managed to switch himself onto his back, Dean's hands on either sides of his head, digging into the blanket. For a moment, they merely stared, breathing heavily, sweat beading their foreheads. The space was becoming too hot and far and Dean closed it, leaning down to anchor one of Cas's legs over his shoulder, forcing it up and back as he rested it there. Castiel bit hard into his bottom lip, waiting, then screamed when Dean entered him, pulling him farther apart.

"Oh God," Castiel heaved. He bucked, grinding his cock against Dean's stomach. His free leg bent, toes cramping open and closed. Dean began with slow strides, warming him up first, filling him, then pulling out nearly completely, before repeating the process. Each time earned a higher gasp from the fallen angel, who kept pounding back, wanting more and more.

The speed increased half way through. Dean went faster now, and Castiel's hands shot up to wrap around his back. His claws scratched into his shoulderblades, leaving behind streaks of burning red as he held on for leverage. Dean dropped his face into Castiel's shoulder, kissed and suckled a patch of moist, tanned flesh.

"Harder," Castiel groaned and quivered.

Dean complied, amping up the speed. Castiel cried loudly, Dean taking a quick bite of the tender, purple skin before moving his lips to the fallen's. It had been this instant where the hunter hit that sweet spot, the same one that sent Castiel into convulsions, shrieking with need and want, clinging to him for dear life. It was enough to drive Dean closer home to his own climax. Cas dropped his head back, neck arched and taut, allowing Dean to press a kiss to the bobbing Adam's apple but leaning forward to bite his lips. Castiel parted his mouth from the small gape, letting Dean's tongue invade the heat inside, taste the lingering scent of alcohol along his teeth, cheeks and tongue.

With time running out, Dean pulled back, separating the kiss to grab Castiel beneath each knee and force his legs up and back, until his ass was in the air and his knees nearly at his shoulders. Dean was moving faster now, painfully so, and Cas was struggling to hold on, legs wrapping themselves around his back, teeth grinding and nails tearing at the mattress.

It was Castiel who came first, snarling as his seed spilled along his chest and at the tip of his chin. It rolled down his torso, slow, thin lines of white, as Dean continued fucking him until he reached his end. Cas was clearly tired, the booze finally kicking in. The world was spinning and he found it was getting more painful waiting for Dean than usual. Still, he hung on, let Dean continue until he reached his own orgasm.

A few minutes later, Dean finally stiffened above Cas and came with a low husky growl. He could feel the warmth encircle him and for a moment he merely knelt there, hands weakly holding up Castiel's legs. The two synchronized their breathing, sweat and heat pouring from their bodies. Finally, with a small shiver, Dean pulled out, letting Castiel's legs drop back onto the mattress. Once free he slipped back and rested heavily against the head board.

Dean looked down at the end of the bed. Castiel laid there, just breathing, knees dropping together as his muscles convulsed. Hot cum dribbled from his ass, puddling beneath him. Dean could see his face, so worn and torn, tired and lost in a heat of sex, afterglow and indescribable things. His body was scarred from wounds no angel magic could heal, ribs pressed against skin splotched pale and tan, cheekbones slightly sunk, bangs hanging over once azure now rusted blue eyes. With that semen dripping from his ass and coating his chest, he was a total, complete mess.

Dean wiped the film of sweat from his face. "Satisfied?" he snorted.

Castiel blinked, then laughed, just laughed. "Is that a trick question?" he snorted. "For a moment there, Dean..." He shook his head. What could he say? For a moment there I thought I was flying again. Maybe that's why I need this. Dean would just roll his eyes anyway.

And so Castiel tilted his head back, let his hands cover his eyes as he laughed and laughed and laughed until he damn near cried.

END

o-one day i'll write IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD LET'S FUCK HOT AND DIRTY BEFORE WE GO GET OURSELVES KILLED FIGHTING LUCIFER sex.