Chapter Text
“Do you know what Castiel really wants, Dean?”
It isn’t real. This isn't real. Dean digs his fingernails into his palms, hands clenching so tightly into fists that they tremble, knuckles white with effort. He feels the jagged, bitten off edges of his nails breaking his skin, drawing several pinpricks of blood, and that’s good. Grounding. The pain, the blood…they remind him of what is real. The chair he is sitting in. The bunker. Sam, off somewhere in the bowels of the bunker, likely poring through yet another dusty old book for answers that it won’t have.
Yes. These things are real. Dean’s troubled relationship with Cas? Real.
The meatsuit straddling his lap right now, whispering into his ear? Not real.
Even if his body wants it to be. Wants the hot weight grinding down against him to be Cas, his Cas. Dean wants it so desperately that he has to push his nails deeper into his palms, tear at the open bits of skin until they’re coated in blood, until he can feel it dripping along his fingers, hot and viscous. He welcomes the sting of it, the messiness; anything to distract himself, to distract his body from what it wants, from what he wants.
Because pain? Pain is real.
“Get off me,” he manages to grit out. His fingertips slipping in the wet mess inside his fists is enough of a distraction to keep his dick from hardening any further, thankfully.
“Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean,” the devil wearing Castiel’s face chuckles above him and presses their foreheads together. Those plush pink lips curl into a wry smile, transforming that familiar, beautiful face into something utterly foreign. “Whatever am I going to do with you, hmmm?” He rocks his hips forward so that Dean can feel the hard line of his erection—Cas’ dick, hot and thick and hard, fuck—against his own. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious what your little pet angel would like to be doing to you.”
Dean sucks the sensitive flesh inside his lower lip between his teeth and clamps down until his mouth floods with the taste of copper. Little Dean may be a traitorous motherfucker, fattening up and straining against the confines of his jeans all unbidden, but Dean reminds himself that his upstairs brain is still in control here. He will not let Lucifer pull the groan from his throat; he absolutely will not. It’s not Cas doing this to him, no matter what Lucifer says; the devil lies. The devil is tempting him with what he wants more than anything, with who he wants, and Dean will not give in to that temptation.
“Fuck you.” Dean spits at him, actually fucking spits—a spray of blood droplets hitting Cas’ chin, the corner of that luscious mouth—but the tremolo of his voice belies the false bravado of his words. Dean sucks in a ragged breath as Cas’ tongue darts out, licking up what it can reach, fucking tasting Dean’s blood before dragging, slow and teasing, along the seam of his lips. Lucifer rolls Cas’ hips in languorous circle, teasing Dean’s hard-on with his own—well, Cas’? shit. Dean can’t keep track—and it makes Dean pant, shallow breaths coming out of his nose in harsh little puffs.
“Is that what you’d like, Dean?” The question is a throaty growl against his ear, followed by the tip of a tongue gliding along the shell of it. “Because that’s what my little brother would like.” Lucifer takes Dean’s earlobe between Cas’ teeth—no pressure, no biting, just holding it still, taunting Dean with the moist heat of his breath. “More than anything. He’s fucking screaming for it.” Those teeth clamp down, and Dean can’t swallow back his whimper.
Because pain is real, and that’s Cas’ mouth on him and Cas’ dick rocking against his, and Dean wants so desperately to believe Lucifer’s words, to believe that Cas could want him the way that he’s wanted Cas for so long, for so goddamn long. After all, Dean’s never been able to hold out completely. For all his talk and swagger, he always gives in, eventually. He gave in to Alastair in the pit; he gave in to the Mark when it called out for blood; at least this time, when he gives in, he’ll be left with the memory of this moment, of getting what he wanted, right?
Almost.
The hollow laugh that echoes through the room isn’t Cas, nor is the surprisingly smooth voice coming from his mouth, or the wicked, teasing smile. As much as he wants to give himself over to the fantasy, to lose himself in the touch of Cas’ body, the smell of him, Dean knows he can’t. Knows he shouldn’t, because the devil lies, and the devil tempts, and Dean cannot, abso-fucking-lutely cannot do this to his friend, to his angel. To the man he lo—.
Pull your shit together, Winchester. This ain’t Cas. This ain’t real.
“Oh my fucking daddy issues, the two of you are insufferable.” This time, there’s no mistaking it, no mistaking him for Cas. Lucifer jumps to his feet so quickly it throws Dean off balance, tipping him and the chair ass over teakettle. The fall leaves him dazed and staring up at the bunker ceiling before he realizes what has happened. Dean shakes his head, blinks a few times, all the while tracking the frantic pacing of the trenchcoat-clad figure looming above him. “Do you know how impossible he is in here? All the pining and worrying and whining. ‘Is Dean okay?’ ‘I need to watch over Dean.’ Dean Dean Dean. Marsha Marsha Marsha. It’s exhausting.”
Dean presses himself up to a seat, freezing at the sight of blood smearing on the floor. He wipes his palms onto his jeans before he rises to stand. “Ya know, if you’re that miserable, I got an easy solution.” Sneering, he levels his gaze on the smug motherfucker wearing Cas’ meatsuit.
“Oh Dean, baby, shhhhh” that wrong, too-smooth voice coos, Lucifer pressing a long finger to Cas’ lips. “I know exactly how to get poor little Castiel to shut the fuck up with all the pining, all that tedious ‘I know he likes me, but does he like like me?’ bullshit.” Lucifer prances into Dean’s space with a wicked smirk, another serpentine flick of tongue across those sinful lips. Then, he leans in close, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “We’re going to give him exactly what he wants.”
What. The. Fuck? Dean swallows, thick and audible, feeling his Adam’s apple bob, struggling in his throat. And Lucifer laughs at him. He fucking laughs, forcing some sort of high-pitched, schoolgirl giggle from that perfect throat, and that’s it. Dean’s arm is pulling back, ramping up before he’s conscious of what he’s doing; yes, he’s throwing a goddamn punch at Cas’ face, but Cas ain’t home right now, and Dean’s had too damn much of this.
It doesn’t land, of course; no way could Dean’s weak-ass attempt at physical violence land against any goddamn Archangel, let alone Lucifer himself. Dean stumbles forward with the momentum of his punch, while Lucifer simply twirls out of his path, smooth and graceful as a choreographed dance. Dean, on the other hand, lands hard on his hands and knees, the impact of bone on the unforgiving concrete floor jarring as it echoes through the room. He’ll definitely feel that later. But even with the pain, with the awareness that he’s totally whiffed that punch, there’s still a satisfaction in the failure. At least he tried to shut the fucker up. He needs to do something to dissolve that tension coiling around his spine and tugging deep inside his gut. Anything’s gotta be better than this deep, unquenchable longing for what he can’t have, for what he shouldn’t let himself even want.
By the time Dean realizes that the low-pitched grumble at the edges of his awareness is Lucifer chanting in Enochian, it’s too late. The spell has already been cast.