peter-pantomime:

deans1911:

What if I don’t want to be anyone’s blunt little instrument anymore?

Dean’s not going to remember his response to Castiel’s broken voice, his shattered blue eyes, because he’s too busy surging forward and claiming the man’s mouth in a bruising, inexperienced kiss.  He’s not going to recall anything other than the strong hands slip-sliding down his back and pulling him closer, the vicious way Castiel bites into the angel’s lower lip as they kiss, the desperation in the rough arch of the hunter’s back.  Dean’s too distracted by the black ink over Castiel’s heart, the blue ink along his side that spells out his mother’s name, the red ink across his shoulder that marks the date of his father’s death, the handprint scar on his arm.  Castiel’s body is a canvas of loss and sacrifice and one million other things that Dean couldn’t erase when he remade this body, undid all of the physical damage wrought and scars earned.  But God, is it responsive.  His charge is twisting his slender fingers into the sheets and panting loudly as Dean drags his teeth down Castiel’s stomach, slides his arms around the man’s hips and bites into the soft skin below his navel.

I’m not expendable.

There’s a charged moment where Dean stares up into haunted blue eyes and makes the decision to yank Castiel’s jeans down his legs, reveal more bare skin and hard muscle than Dean really knows what to do with.  He bends down and traces the cradle of Castiel’s hip with his tongue.  There are hands in his hair now, pulling and urging him lower, and Dean bites down on the sensitive skin where thigh meets groin just to hear Castiel hiss through gritted teeth while he watches like a man staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.  The way the hunter’s ribs seem to slide beneath his skin as he shifts against the mattress is fascinating, but Dean decides that licking his way up the inside of Castiel’s thigh is way more interesting.  Dean’s laying propped on his elbows in the vee of the man’s legs and staring up at miles of smooth, slightly-tanned skin and Dean can’t remember how he got here or why he isn’t in this exact position all of the time.  He lets Castiel fist his hair and guide his mouth to where they both really want it, and the choked groan that Castiel lets out as his head falls back and hits the headboard with a solid thunk is better than prayer.

I’m more than a weapon, Dean.

The angel’s not going to be able to say much of anything about this at all, because Castiel’s dreaming again, and never in the accusing light of day do they discuss the dangerous dependency, trust, and slow rolling boil of tension that’s been building between them since Dean claimed his charge’s soul in Hell.  The sex isn’t even all that important to Castiel—it’s the fact that an angel is willing to touch him at all that lets him convince himself that he’s actually worth something after all.  It’s the fact that in the morning, when he wakes up with tear tracks drying on his face and an impressive erection raging at the waistband of his underwear, Dean’s still there where everyone else in Castiel’s life has left him.  Dean can’t leave him.  He’s got nowhere else to go.