foolintherain | DEERINGTON INBOX

[ Whatever happened to Dean in Deerington that could possibly be considered as bad (or worse) than the world of zombies and hell they've arrived from, Cas isn't sure he wants to hear about. He frowns at Dean as he wipes the last traces of grease from his palm, waiting for an explanation, but of course, one doesn't come. Nothing good comes from reopening old wounds, and so Cas lets it lie, putting the dirtied supplies back into the kit in his lap and then setting the whole thing aside next to him, and pulling Dean's hand back into his again. He lays his thumbs with firm, gentle pressure along the scar in Dean's hand, watching his face to gauge from his expression if it's fully healed or if there's something nasty simmering beneath the surface, because he doesn't trust Dean at all to tell him. ]

You're alive. So yeah, I'd call that better.

[ Also Lucifer is MIA, Sam is adorably young, and Croatoan isn't running rampant, destroying the world, but Cas is shameless about where his priorities lie these days. ]

[ Dean won't elaborate, not unless Cas pries it out of him. Even then, at most, Cas would get a watered down version to spare the trauma Dean had experienced. Dean isn't great at 'sharing' and emoting, especially not anymore.

He tips his head, watching Cas, letting him press on the scar. It aches a tad, in the way newly healed wounds do, but it isn't vicious or sharp like the raw wounds in his heart that will not mend. ]

So are you.

[ They're both alive, and there's something to be said for that, and it's all he can think about as he curls his fingers over Cas', covering them with his free hand. ]

[ No infection then, just another lovely pink scar added to the other fades scars and freckles of Dean's skin. That's the best they can hope for: healed scars. Maybe it's not possible to heal the ones that run deep, but at least they can numb them for a little bit. ]

Am I? It's hard to tell sometimes where that thin red line between living and existing is drawn.

[ Cas only encourages Dean's touch, linking their fingers like the tendrils of a jellyfish, drawing Dean in. He tugs Dean closer by the arm and angles his head, leaning in to whisper against his mouth. ]

Prove it to me?

[ He makes a noise in the back of his throat in agreement; living and existing are sometimes two very, very different things. Still, Cas is real, tangible - warm as he pulls Dean in, lips brushing so softly, a ghost of a kiss. ]

I'd be happy to.

[ His voice is low, warm - a rumble in his chest, need bubbling back up to the surface, fingers tightening on Cas' hand as he reaches with his other to cup the back of his head, slide his fingers into soft dark hair, guide Cas in the rest of the way.

A proper kiss - they're exposed, but it can't be helped, Dean can't stop himself, denying any of this is stupid when they were granted this almost hallucinatory second chance.

They're real. This is real. It is and isn't a dream, but Dean feels in the pit of his belly that regardless the terminology used, this is real. Cas is real, he's warm, he's here - Dean can still hardly believe it.

He kisses him like it's their last, tasting his lips, hand sliding free of Cas; hair in favor of cupping his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. He kisses him again and again, devouring him, stealing Cas' breath, barely allowing either of them to breathe before he's diving back in, tracing his tongue over soft lips, hungry, ravenous, desperate. ]

[ Dreams can be so vivid, but it's always obvious that you've been dreaming after you wake up. There are details that don't hold up, realities that would never happen in the waking hours. The problem is, Dean feels like one of those impossible things, that it's hard to accept that this dream is real, whether Cas is awake or not. The rasp of his voice and the warmth of his mouth are beautifully corporeal. His fingers are calloused but gentle as they cover Cas's fingers and sink into his hair, and whether this is a cruel dream or a kind reality, Cas leans into it, welcoming Dean's hands, his tongue, his warmth, and everything that makes Dean Dean inexorably closer.

Doubt is a creeping, poisonous thing, but Dean's hands and overwhelmingly deep kisses chase it away. Cas's fingers tug at Dean's shirt and slip under it to find more skin to touch, and Dean's warmth is a weapon against the world that Cas clings to. He kisses him back, blissfully breathless. He slides forward towards Dean, starved even as he's being sated, and the hood pops under the loss of his weight, and Cas remembers why they're out here making out like teenagers on the front lawn to start with, and why they shouldn't, and what he's risking.

It's enough of a fear that he pulls his hands out from under Dean's shirt and leans away from those sweetly addictive kisses. His eyes track Dean's lips and his voice is breathless with Dean's kisses, and all Cas wants is to lean back in and inhale him more. But— ]

Mn... The hood's nice, a real workout on the abs, but when do I get my tour of the backseat?

[ Dean follows after Cas when he leans back, his hands sliding free of hair and hands. He aches for more, lips cool and damp from where he'd tasted paradise. Cas is speaking, but it's muffled under the roar of need in Dean's veins, skin pricked with gooseflesh from where Cas' fingers slid over his body. ]

What? [ Dean's already reaching for Cas again, uncomprehending at first, mirroring the desire for touch. He slips his hand under Cas' shirt to pass over his belly to his lower back, eager to bring him in ever closer, because Dean cannot get enough and even the press of flesh on flesh is not good enough. He wants to crawl into Cas and stay there, so deeply ingrained, sand under skin.

Some of the fog clears, though, and it registers what is actually being said and Dean remembers himself, eases back with great reluctance and lets his fingers trail over Cas' skin, lingering at his hip. Cas is a bright star in Dean's dimly lit universe, a beacon of light glimmering in the twilight. He can't look away, can't pull away from his gravity now that he's allowed himself to be caught.

A deep breath, one, two. ]

Right now.

Edited 2021-06-03 13:03 (UTC)

[ Reality is the space between them, the cool air saturated with the sharp smell of fog. The dream world is Dean's hands on Cas's skin, lighting up his senses, flaring up heat under the wake of Dean's fingertips on his sides, his back, and sand underneath skin sounds terrible, but if it's Dean, Cas would welcome the painful itch, wrap a protective shell around it, and squeeze, and lave, and love Dean's grit to smooth, righteous pearl.

Parting from Dean's touch is not sweet, all sorrow, and as soon as Cas is slid off the hood, he wraps his hands up in Dean's flannel and tugs him towards himself again, kissing Dean's mouth but only fleetingly, making him chase as he walks backwards around the side of the car, dragging Dean along with each step. ]

Right now is perfect. Show me.

[ Cas leans back against the door and pulls Dean against him, kissing him deeper, drinking from his mouth, and it's a little counter-intuitive to the whole get inside the vehicle idea, but kissing Dean and holding him like this is a dream, and if they're lucky, maybe dream logic will take over and they'll phase right through the steel, hit the leather, and never have to part to do it. ]

[ Cas backs up, teasing Dean, and Dean easily, eagerly gives chase. He reaches for Cas, fingers light on his hips as he goes after him, seeking kisses only to be denied. The angel keeps just out of reach; Dean moves to close in and Cas slips away, until he managed to pin him up against the car, hips pressed flush, noses brushing. He doesn't kiss him again, though - not yet.

Instead, he reaches around, fumbles with the door handle to open it, pulling Cas with him as it swings outward. The backseat of the Impala is startlingly roomy, and the leather has been lovingly, carefully restored, parts salvaged from a strikingly similar Impala he'd found in the scrapyard.

A remnant from a previous stay, maybe. There's certainly been a revolving door of Winchesters in Deerington. He won't complain though, because the parts were needed and the leather was still intact. It'll hold up to the weight of two men, because Dean is easing Cas into the vehicle, pinning him down, and closing the door behind them.

Now he will kiss Cas again, teases at that pretty mouth, tongue tracing over lips. Dean is a selfish, greedy thing, and now that they've started whatever this is, he doesn't want to stop. ]

[ The rotting of the Impala had been a gradual thing. Dean stopped driving it, and it sat like a gravestone in the grass by his cabin. The wheels went flat; the whole thing was covered with leaves and pollen as remnants from past season, but it was still drivable, back then. Still salvageable. Then a transport vehicle needed a new battery. The fluids were drained. The seats were repurposed, and a door, the license plates, and the steering wheel. The next time Cas remembers really looking at it, it was a husk of a thing, irreparably damaged. A corpse rusting away. Cas knew better than to ask Dean about whether he planned to repair it; the answer was obvious, back then. But he sat on the hood sometimes, watching the stars and the lightning, the helicopters and bombs whistling away in the distance.

He's surprised by the leather under his hands, how supple and undamaged it is, no longer cracked and stripped of its shine, but new, the way it used to be. Cared for. Dean kisses him again and Cas's hands immediately seek out Dean's skin instead, pushing Dean's shirt up above his ribs, shameless about exposing him now that they're relatively concealed. He kisses Dean again and again, just as greedy and selfish, and he arches up against Dean, not to shove him off or direct him to do anything more than what he's doing, but just to feel the press of his weight, and the slide of their bodies together.

Dean's done so much work to restore his beloved car, and himself, that Cas feels used up and grubby in comparison, but it doesn't keep him from pressing up against Dean and kissing him breathless, from sliding his hands wide over Dean's back or shoving a thigh between Dean's legs and grinding up to feel everything he can through soft, worn denim. Really, it only encourages him more, knowing what he lacks, how ruined he let things become for them and all the time lost that they have now, here, to make up for. One drunken time he barely remembers wasn't nearly good enough to fill this corroded emptiness inside of him. He needs more of Dean's hands, his skin, his mouth. A full resortation. ]

[ Either Dean didn't realize the Impala he found in the scrapyard here belonged to a previous version of himself, or he didn't care - though of the two, the latter is far more likely. As the years wore on on Baby, so they also did on Dean's soul. The passage of time and utter deterioration manifested physically in the form of Baby's demise, the warmth of his soul fading to icy blackness as the Impala rotted a few feet away.

Dean let Baby die, as Sam so accurately stated, but it wasn't because he wanted to, it wasn't because he enjoyed the decline. With every part stripped away from his precious vehicle, the one thing in life he loved as desperately as Sam or Cas, a piece of himself was stripped away, too. The battery was needed, the glass in the back windshield, the tires. She became a husk, a shell of what she used to be, a dying star - much like her driver.

If she could speak, she would say that it was alright, that she understood, that there were more important things that her parts were needed for. Dean cried when he pulled the battery out, when he took the doors off, but after that he hardened, and it became routine to strip her down when something was needed. She'd forgive him anyway, if asked, but then again - nobody ever did.

He grew colder and crueler, more and more selfish with every passing day; it's little wonder that he didn't bother to mention the Impala's existence when he found it to his other self - much like he never bothered to outwardly tell Sam or the other Dean that they existed. If he could keep these things as close to his chest for as long as possible, he would. He was irritated enough when Cas slithered over there, and while Dean recognizes that he cannot control anyone, his anger doesn't abate. It's stowed instead, carefully plugged in a bottle, combustible and fragile, and locked away. It's not a new coping mechanism, not really, but the volatility of his anger has tempered somewhat. There are new chances here, he thinks, and people that show him there is more than the life he left behind.

He's changing, slowly but surely. And the new seats in Baby's backseat mirror another sealed up fracture in his heart, molten gold shining in the multitude of cracks. Dean eases Cas back against them, the seats smooth and supple like new, smelling of leather. Hands smeared in grease slip up under Cas' shirt, skirt over his skin, trace and count his ribs as Dean meets his kisses. He breathes Cas' name against his lips; already this time is different, less urgent, less drunken fumbling, less frantic. Dean takes his time, palming Cas' ribcage, dragging his fingers up, taking his time as he savors the feel of warm skin under his fingers. ]

Edited 2021-06-05 10:57 (UTC)

[ Combustible, fragile things are the kind most likely to explode and destroy a great deal of everything around them, but then Cas isn't in a place to lecture Dean about his anger. Cas was lightning in a bottle like that, once. Now he's a drained wine bottle with the bottom broken off: empty and sharp and incapable of being filled. But oh, how sweet it is to feel whole for a moment here and there, when Dean touches him gently and breathes Cas's name against his lips, a reminder of who he still is.

That lightning is gone, but the smell of motor oil and leather seats makes him feel high on nostalgia for a time when it wasn't. He sighs Dean's name into the next kiss, a reminder of who Dean always will be to him, and though there's no urgency or need to rush, Cas feels greedy for more of Dean, anyway. He traces the curve of Dean's back and his sides, his chest and his stomach as he kisses him again and again, inhaling the scent and taste of Dean with soft, oiled leather, and when Dean's shirt gets in the way of his hands, Cas tugs it up, and up, over Dean's arms.

He drops his head back to the seat and smiles as he watches, because Dean's always been, and still is, lovely to look at. Mostly though, it's just as nice to see Dean right now as it is to touch him. Cas's starved touches turn gentle as he traces Dean's high cheekbones, his plush lips and rough chin, before tugging him down again slowly and arching up to meet him in more leisurely, deep kisses. ]

[ For all of his bravado and bluster, the simmering rage under the surface and the ease in which he can plug someone infected with Croatoan without hesitation, Dean is soft, fragile - delicate in a way that's hidden under a carefully constructed macho persona, unwilling to let the gentleness in his heart free for fear of being hurt.

No one likes being hurt, and yet he and Cas have destroyed each other more times than they can count. Words like sharp steel, sex as a weapon. It's been an unhealthy tango for ages, a battle that couldn't be won, not when each party was foolishly reacting to the others bad decisions. He tugs at the hem of the angels shirt in kind, shoving it up his sides, encouraging him to lift his arms, get it off, because Dean wants to see and touch and scrape his teeth over the planes and valleys of Cas' body. ]

Here, though, in the backseat of the Impala, fresh and smelling of oiled leather and the whiskey on his lips, it feels like a new start. Dean's shirt is easily removed, shoved down on the floorboards of the car and immediately forgotten. All that there is to worry about now are Cas' plush lips, the fingers tracing over Dean's jaw and cheeks.

[ There are so many mistakes between them, evident in the scars on their skin as Dean's shirt is pulled off and dropped in the footwell and Cas's shirt is shimmied upwards and lost between the bench seat and the passenger door. They're not whole as they used to be. They're damaged, broken in sharp pieces that stripe their skin where bullets and debris had gotten close enough to leave lasting injuries that still ache during the rain. They're older, worn, and honed by violence and hopelessness.

And yet here they are, touching one another and kissing each other like gentle, treasured things. It's ridiculous to think about, but when Cas thinks about it, instead of laughing, desperate and unhinged, he sighs against Dean's mouth. More than whatever kind of purgatory this place is or whatever Heaven or Hell or emptiness awaits him: this feels like absolution. Being wrapped up in the leather of Dean's car, tasting whiskey on his mouth and smelling motor oil on his skin feels like being cleansed of the last five years. His hands wander from Dean's jaw to his shoulders. His fingers trace Dean's ribs and slide forward across his hips, conflicted in his desires to move things along and feel Dean as thoroughly as he'd like to or to draw it out and enjoy making the moment last. Cas nips at Dean's lips, teasing between kisses. ]

How long can we stay here?

[ How long before someone comes looking, before Dean has other plans, before he gets bored of Cas pawing at him, whatever. ]

As long as you want.

[ There are no duties tonight, no perimeter patrol, no responsibilities that will take him away from this.

There are probably things he can think of that he needs to do; there are guns to clean, repairs to be made to the house and finishing touches to be lovingly bestowed upon the car they are currently christening. There's dinner to be made, preparations to be thought out and put into place, safeguards, the salt lines checked, the wards repainted, the demon trap under the front mat checked. But you know what--

Someone else can worry about it, tonight. Dean is done, today. His priority is right here, underneath him, tracing sacred lines over Dean's skin. ]

I want to take my time with you.

[ The words aren't simply generous; they're completely alien. Dean has spent years putting up walls, metaphorically and literally, and every opportunity Cas has taken to scale or tear them down has been met with frustration, anger, and resistance. So, being let in under Dean's guard for any amount of time is deeply touching, and this is... indulgent. Cas shivers under the caress of the words like they're Dean's hands or mouth. He isn't deserving of so much of Dean's attention, but fuck is he greedy for it. ]

Good. What I want is for us to last like this as long as we can.

[ He encourages Dean, voice gone a little higher with breathlessness as he rocks against Dean again, grinding a thigh between his legs, pulling Dean down by his hips as he arches up to feel the slide of naked skin together. He kisses Dean eagerly but restrained with the ghost of wet, warm lips against Dean's mouth again and again. ]

Make me beg for it.

[ He tips his hips against Cas' thigh with a little groan, breathy against the angel's lips, savoring the taste of him, the heat of hands on his hips. Cas is like a drug in his veins, pulling him in, twisting him up in a new addiction.

Dean finds that he's just fine with being swept into Cas' chaos, reveling in it, finding purpose in the loss of sanity. ]

You'll be singing hymns by the time I'm done with you.

[ He shifts his weight to brae against the backseat, sliding a hand down between them, roughly tugging at Cas' pants, pulling at the waistband. ]

Take these off.

[ References to God and angels and what Castiel once was are always going to sting, but of all the people Cas has known, Dean is the only one who really understands him: what Cas was, what he lost, who he is now. It doesn't make the reminder any less painful, when Dean says it. In some ways, it hurts worse. But it's a good kind of pain. Cleansing. Purification by fire. Cas laughs from his chest, breathless and quiet against Dean's mouth. His fingers slide from Dean's hips to his lower back, dragging him in close, and he sucks in the groan Dean makes like oxygen. ]

Hallelujah.

[ Dean's hands are already tugging at his pants, so Cas braces his arms against the car door over his head and uses the momentum of Dean's hands and the friction of his body to wiggle out of his pants and kick them out of the way. Much more satisfying that way. There's almost no space to breathe, cramped in the backseat as they are, and that's wonderful. All there's room for is huffing against Dean's mouth and grinding against him, and if Cas weren't already achingly hard from all those deep kisses on the hood earlier, just rubbing against Dean like this in close quarters would be enough for him. It's bliss.

His pants dangling around one shin, as close to gone as they're going to get at the moment, Cas arches against Dean with a satisfied hum, threads his fingers through Dean's hair, and pulls him back in to luxuriate in more of those slow, deep kisses. ]

[ The Impala's backseat is only so big, so they're treated to a lot of grinding against one another in the shuffle to remove clothing. There's no complaints from Dean - he has to admire the view, watching intently as Cas wriggles out of his pants, lifts his hips and presses right against Dean as he drinks in the sight below him.

His own jeans are annoyingly snug around his cock, so he does some moving around himself, yanking at the zipper and shoving at them even as Cas drags him back in for slow, lapping kisses that leave Dean's head spinning, heart pounding sharp and heavy in his chest. He doesn't want to break from the kiss, too hungry for soft lips he's just now getting a taste of in Deerington.

His own stubbornness over the years is infuriating, because Cas hasn't made his interest any secret, not really. Dean was just too blind and stupid to see it.

Once he gets his jeans shoved down, he's pulling back just to take a moment to look down at Cas and marvel, run his hands down over his chest and belly, touch light, almost reverent. ]

You...are incredible. [ It slips out before Dean can stop himself and he looks embarrassed, because talk about being soft and lame as hell. ]

[ Language between people has always been complicated to Castiel. People lie, they're sarcastic, they use references as metaphors, they joke through sensitive issues, they say what they don't mean. He's spent so much of the last five years trying to adapt in myriad ways. Now he understands sarcasm and brandishes it as weapon. But lies and hidden truths, he still struggles with. "You know why," Dean has said, but Cas doesn't. There's nothing incredible about him. He is the personification, the very essence, of failure. The two possibilities, "You know why" and "You needed release; I was familiar," vie for attention in Cas's mind, and he shoves the thoughts violently away. His chest presses into Dean's hands as pulls Dean back down by the neck and lifts himself up to hush him and demand more kisses, instead. ]

I know... what I said was, "make it last," but...

[ Cas peppers the words softly between kisses to Dean's lips, and the corner of his mouth, and his jaw as he drops a hand to the seat and slides back, just a little, for leverage. He kisses Dean's neck and drags his teeth over his pulse gently as he slides his hand over Dean's chest, his stomach, and down between them to stroke his cock. ]

Dean... Please, I need you.

[ Yeah, it's not difficult to make Cas beg, apparently. ]

[ Humans are masters at nuance, at saying one thing and meaning another, at half truths and hidden meanings. An entire conversation can be held with just body language and eye contact, the brush of fingers over skin, a shy smile. You know why, Cas. You do. Maybe you're not admitting it to yourself, maybe Dean needs to grow a set and make the words happen, but deep down, you know.

Dean looks down at Cas and he sees him in new ways every time; his head in Dean's lap, the brush of his fingers over Dean's lips, how Cas pulled him down for a kiss, and Dean didn't resist.

He resists now, though, shivering at those warm fingers wrapping around his aching cock, tipping his head so he can catch Cas' lower lip briefly between his teeth before letting go. ]

Not yet. I want to make this last.

[ He sure hopes Cas packed some lube in that kit he brought out, cause that's what he's fumbling for, groping along the floorboard for cold plastic. HE doesn't need it quite yet, but he wants it handy for later. ]

[ As obvious as Cas has always made himself where Dean is concerned, there was never any doubt in Cas's mind that Dean cared about him. Dean is kind. He's infinitely loving, and that Dean is the closest thing Castiel has ever had to a friend is a real, inarguable truth. But anything that Dean could consider "incredible" about Castiel is a relic of the past.

Anyway, sex is honest, and it's easy. It's naked affection, blunt intimacy, and whatever reasons Dean has for allowing it— kindness, pity, or even love— Cas doesn't care, as long as he keeps getting it. He knows better than to take for granted the good things in life, because those good things never last. He makes a grunt of displeasure against Dean's mouth at being denied, but he's not really displeased at all. He's warmed, whole-feeling in a way he isn't anymore, except when Dean is touching him, or sleeping beside him, or smiling at him.

There is lube in the first aid kit dropped to the floor: Dean's, actually, since Cas hasn't managed to get ahold of his own yet. Don't mind Cas borrowing that, or making assumptions, but well. Dean was pretty obvious about his intentions earlier, and Cas isn't generally optimistic, but he does like to be prepared. He grins against Dean's mouth once he feels him reaching for it, glad at least that he won't have to wait as long as he would otherwise, and he keeps stroking Dean's cock slowly between them, twisting his wrist and thumbing the tip on the way up and teasing the wet of Dean's mouth with his tongue. ]

Afraid you won't be able to hold off once you're in me?

[ If Dean didn't want to kill half the camp for sleeping with Cas to begin with, he'd probably thank them for teaching Cas everything he knows about sex, because the way he twists his wrist and thumbs the tip of his cock has Dean groaning into Cas' mouth, sliding a hand up his side, over his chest and shoulder and up into his hair where he grips, tight, a full body shiver rolling down his spine. Goddamn. ]

I know I won't. [ Be able to, he means, because he's barely got a lid on now, let alone once he's buried balls deep inside his angel, hips flush. Cas is warm and supple, pliant under Dean and he meets the angels tongue with equal hunger, devouring him, committing the taste to memory, how it feels to pin him against the backseat, the scent of leather and sex hanging in the air.

He finds the little box and flicks it open, digs around until he finds what he's looking for. He doesn't open it though, not yet, instead he puts it within reach on the floorboard and slips a hand between the angels pretty thighs, wrapping his fingers around Cas. warm and strong. ]

DEERINGTON INBOX

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do i have to cw: smut this same thread again because like it should be obvious by now

just be like cw: dean and cas, that's it, that's the warning

exactly

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