Confessions (R)
Nov. 7th, 2008 09:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
acquiescenceTitle: Confessions
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this
Rating: R
Summary: Dean confesses
Characters: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 1321
A/N: I wrote the majority of this on day 6 of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
mini_nanowrimo, but it wasn't quite finished. But I was able to finish it up this evening, so yay, I like that so much of it works so well with what happened during 4x08 since I started writing before I'd gotten a chance to see it.
A/N 2: This is of course related to all the other Dean/Castiel fic I've been writing recently, their first time expanded and told from Dean's pov
It seemed like the only way to forget about hell, to block out the images that kept filling his head was to drink. And dealing with a hang over was a hell of a lot better than trying to block out the screams.
He couldn't talk to Sam about it, he wouldn't understand, and it would be too much for him and Sam had enough to deal with these days, without Dean dumping on him too. Not that Sam didn’t ask, didn’t push – like he always did. But Dean just couldn’t, there weren’t words for what he’d seen, what he’d felt, experienced there, how could he put that on Sam?
It’s just easier to drink, at least you can do that alone – Dean doesn’t have to pretend that everything is alright, he can just order a beer and ask for them to keep coming, or when it’s really bad he’ll hole himself up in a cheap motel room with two 6-packs and drink till he passed out.
That’s the way Castiel found him, askew on the still made motel bed – one foot hanging over the edge, beer in hand staring at the wall. Dean didn’t even try to pretend he was doing anything else. He’d had enough judgment from angels already.
“Time for another confession?” He asked letting his head roll on his shoulders so he could look at Castiel. He looked him up and down, same as always – it was becoming more and more apparent that he had no idea how to take care of the host he’d been given. Chapped lips, same clothes every day, he was obviously a mess.
“I can leave.” Though he’s already sitting down, hands on the arms of the chair like he’s ready to push up and run at any moment.
“No, you can stay.” Dean thought about shaking his head, but he was afraid he might end up on the floor if he tried something like that. Castiel seemed to be the only person Dean could spend any real time with – maybe it was because he knew what hell was like, knew the things that weighed heavily on his mind and heart, knew what woke him up in a cold sweat at night. Or maybe it was because he never asked, he never pushed, all he wanted to do was talk – tell Dean about his worries, about his doubts, to confess.
Dean didn’t mind listening – it was easier to deal with all this Angels, Heaven, and God stuff if he could relate to it, and he could relate to doubts. He had a whole life full of doubts.
Though it seemed tonight, Castiel wasn’t in the mood to talk, at least not right away. He kept staring at the bottle still clutched loosely in Dean’s hand.
“Did you want one?” Dean wasn’t sure if it was a sin to offer an angel a beer or not, but it’s easier to offer than to just sit there and let Castiel stare at him.
“No,” Castiel shook his head, and then he was standing. Dean thought for sure he was leaving; it must have been a sin to offer the beer. He sighed leaning his head back and letting his eyes drift closed.
The bed dipped a moment later and Dean cracked an eyelid to suddenly see Castiel sitting beside him on the bed, not sitting really, lying beside him might be more accurate. Castiel had situated himself in a rough imitation of Dean, though both his feet were on the bed, shoes and all.
Dean stared at him for a moment, eyes going to his rough lips before he closed his eyes again. If the beer thing had been a sin, it was definitely wrong to start thinking about how much he wanted to run his tongue over those too dry lips, no matter how much alcohol he’d had that night.
“I wonder,” Castiel started, startling Dean from his staring, “If you ever tire of listening to me, the doubts of an angel.” He gave a short rueful laugh, and Dean wondered if some of his own cynicism had rubbed off on him during all their time together.
“Just sounds like more doubts to me.” Dean’s voice was slurred with sleep and beer, as he rolled his head back so he could actually look at Castiel. “Have you ever been to Hell?”
He didn’t know where the question had come from, but now that it’s out he supposed he’s been waiting to ask it since Castiel had started coming to see him – “I mean have you really seen it?”
Castiel was looking straight ahead, as usual, Dean wasn’t sure whether or not he was even going to answer the question or just ignore it, though after a few minutes he opened his mouth. “I have seen hell.”
Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to ask more, if someone saw Hell, he was pretty sure they’d remember it for the rest of their existence. Instead of asking another question he just nods, it’s enough to know that someone else knows – someone else has seen it, maybe not experienced it, but he wouldn’t ask that of anyone.
If you asked him later, Dean wouldn’t be able to tell you what exactly made him suddenly close the small gap that separated them to press his lips against Castiel’s, most likely he’d blame it on the beer, but even he wasn’t completely sure. All he knew was that he was suddenly pressed his lips against the angel’s in a way that spoke less of lust and more of need.
Everything felt better though when he was touching Castiel, like maybe he wasn’t losing his mind, like maybe he really would be able to survive this, like he wasn’t just hanging on hour by hour. And once he’d started he couldn’t stop. He fisted his hands in that stupid coat Castiel always wore, pulled him close and kissed him.
“Always wearing the same thing.” Dean was surprised at the sound of his own voice, but he didn’t pay attention for long, not as he pulled himself up over Castiel, pressed him into the bed. “So tired. So tired of trying to be good - to be holy.” Dean just wanted to feel something other than scared, to let go again the way he used to. And he knew Castiel could give him that – he could be there for that little thing.
He was finally able to satisfy his urge to sooth his tongue over those too dry lips, to press his tongue into the warmth of Castiel’s mouth, to taste him. And then he moaned, and Dean couldn’t have stopped himself even if he’d tried after that, once Castiel’s moan filled his mouth he was lost.
Dean let his teeth scrape down Castiel’s throat, marking the skin, leaving angry red marks that will last long after he’s finished, and he held the angel tight like he was afraid he might disappear despite the way Castiel was clinging to him.
His hips moved frantically, thrusting himself against Castiel, not even bothering to push down his jeans to stop and enjoy it, he just needed this, needed the connection, needed to feel as much as he could right then. And when he came his teeth pressed into Castiel’s shoulder he thought perhaps everything might be alright, he might be forgiven, he might survive this as he looked into the blinding light.
Once it was over, once he lay panting beside Castiel again, staring up into the ceiling trying to catch his breath and slow the racing of his heart – Dean knew, he knew he wasn’t alone. He closed the distance between them again, to twine his fingers with the angel’s not ready to give up that connection.
This was his confession – the sins of Dean Winchester laid bare before an angel of the Lord, this is his penance, this is his prayer.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this
Rating: R
Summary: Dean confesses
Characters: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 1321
A/N: I wrote the majority of this on day 6 of
mini_nanowrimo, but it wasn't quite finished. But I was able to finish it up this evening, so yay, I like that so much of it works so well with what happened during 4x08 since I started writing before I'd gotten a chance to see it.A/N 2: This is of course related to all the other Dean/Castiel fic I've been writing recently, their first time expanded and told from Dean's pov
It seemed like the only way to forget about hell, to block out the images that kept filling his head was to drink. And dealing with a hang over was a hell of a lot better than trying to block out the screams.
He couldn't talk to Sam about it, he wouldn't understand, and it would be too much for him and Sam had enough to deal with these days, without Dean dumping on him too. Not that Sam didn’t ask, didn’t push – like he always did. But Dean just couldn’t, there weren’t words for what he’d seen, what he’d felt, experienced there, how could he put that on Sam?
It’s just easier to drink, at least you can do that alone – Dean doesn’t have to pretend that everything is alright, he can just order a beer and ask for them to keep coming, or when it’s really bad he’ll hole himself up in a cheap motel room with two 6-packs and drink till he passed out.
That’s the way Castiel found him, askew on the still made motel bed – one foot hanging over the edge, beer in hand staring at the wall. Dean didn’t even try to pretend he was doing anything else. He’d had enough judgment from angels already.
“Time for another confession?” He asked letting his head roll on his shoulders so he could look at Castiel. He looked him up and down, same as always – it was becoming more and more apparent that he had no idea how to take care of the host he’d been given. Chapped lips, same clothes every day, he was obviously a mess.
“I can leave.” Though he’s already sitting down, hands on the arms of the chair like he’s ready to push up and run at any moment.
“No, you can stay.” Dean thought about shaking his head, but he was afraid he might end up on the floor if he tried something like that. Castiel seemed to be the only person Dean could spend any real time with – maybe it was because he knew what hell was like, knew the things that weighed heavily on his mind and heart, knew what woke him up in a cold sweat at night. Or maybe it was because he never asked, he never pushed, all he wanted to do was talk – tell Dean about his worries, about his doubts, to confess.
Dean didn’t mind listening – it was easier to deal with all this Angels, Heaven, and God stuff if he could relate to it, and he could relate to doubts. He had a whole life full of doubts.
Though it seemed tonight, Castiel wasn’t in the mood to talk, at least not right away. He kept staring at the bottle still clutched loosely in Dean’s hand.
“Did you want one?” Dean wasn’t sure if it was a sin to offer an angel a beer or not, but it’s easier to offer than to just sit there and let Castiel stare at him.
“No,” Castiel shook his head, and then he was standing. Dean thought for sure he was leaving; it must have been a sin to offer the beer. He sighed leaning his head back and letting his eyes drift closed.
The bed dipped a moment later and Dean cracked an eyelid to suddenly see Castiel sitting beside him on the bed, not sitting really, lying beside him might be more accurate. Castiel had situated himself in a rough imitation of Dean, though both his feet were on the bed, shoes and all.
Dean stared at him for a moment, eyes going to his rough lips before he closed his eyes again. If the beer thing had been a sin, it was definitely wrong to start thinking about how much he wanted to run his tongue over those too dry lips, no matter how much alcohol he’d had that night.
“I wonder,” Castiel started, startling Dean from his staring, “If you ever tire of listening to me, the doubts of an angel.” He gave a short rueful laugh, and Dean wondered if some of his own cynicism had rubbed off on him during all their time together.
“Just sounds like more doubts to me.” Dean’s voice was slurred with sleep and beer, as he rolled his head back so he could actually look at Castiel. “Have you ever been to Hell?”
He didn’t know where the question had come from, but now that it’s out he supposed he’s been waiting to ask it since Castiel had started coming to see him – “I mean have you really seen it?”
Castiel was looking straight ahead, as usual, Dean wasn’t sure whether or not he was even going to answer the question or just ignore it, though after a few minutes he opened his mouth. “I have seen hell.”
Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to ask more, if someone saw Hell, he was pretty sure they’d remember it for the rest of their existence. Instead of asking another question he just nods, it’s enough to know that someone else knows – someone else has seen it, maybe not experienced it, but he wouldn’t ask that of anyone.
If you asked him later, Dean wouldn’t be able to tell you what exactly made him suddenly close the small gap that separated them to press his lips against Castiel’s, most likely he’d blame it on the beer, but even he wasn’t completely sure. All he knew was that he was suddenly pressed his lips against the angel’s in a way that spoke less of lust and more of need.
Everything felt better though when he was touching Castiel, like maybe he wasn’t losing his mind, like maybe he really would be able to survive this, like he wasn’t just hanging on hour by hour. And once he’d started he couldn’t stop. He fisted his hands in that stupid coat Castiel always wore, pulled him close and kissed him.
“Always wearing the same thing.” Dean was surprised at the sound of his own voice, but he didn’t pay attention for long, not as he pulled himself up over Castiel, pressed him into the bed. “So tired. So tired of trying to be good - to be holy.” Dean just wanted to feel something other than scared, to let go again the way he used to. And he knew Castiel could give him that – he could be there for that little thing.
He was finally able to satisfy his urge to sooth his tongue over those too dry lips, to press his tongue into the warmth of Castiel’s mouth, to taste him. And then he moaned, and Dean couldn’t have stopped himself even if he’d tried after that, once Castiel’s moan filled his mouth he was lost.
Dean let his teeth scrape down Castiel’s throat, marking the skin, leaving angry red marks that will last long after he’s finished, and he held the angel tight like he was afraid he might disappear despite the way Castiel was clinging to him.
His hips moved frantically, thrusting himself against Castiel, not even bothering to push down his jeans to stop and enjoy it, he just needed this, needed the connection, needed to feel as much as he could right then. And when he came his teeth pressed into Castiel’s shoulder he thought perhaps everything might be alright, he might be forgiven, he might survive this as he looked into the blinding light.
Once it was over, once he lay panting beside Castiel again, staring up into the ceiling trying to catch his breath and slow the racing of his heart – Dean knew, he knew he wasn’t alone. He closed the distance between them again, to twine his fingers with the angel’s not ready to give up that connection.
This was his confession – the sins of Dean Winchester laid bare before an angel of the Lord, this is his penance, this is his prayer.