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When the tugging in his gut starts, Castiel considers fighting it. These things never seem to come at any sort of reasonable time, which, he supposes is part of the price one pays for power, immortality, and an unearthly level of attractiveness, whether in human form or otherwise.
Castiel sighs and removes his hands from where they’re buried in damp, luscious dirt, reluctantly shifting back from where he’s been repotting some Amaryllis into raised beds. Despite the fact that his grotto sits deep, deep in the depths of the underworld, a place where the earthly sun doesn’t even exist, nevermind shine, his many plants nevertheless prosper and flourish.
All of them—flowers, creepers, fruits, vegetables, perennials, annuals, even evergreens, from the rarest and most delicate, to the painfully invasive and hardiest—the spectrum is fully-represented. Castiel very proudly boasts the greenest thumb the Underworld has to offer, though it’s undoubtedly helpful that said thumb is also powered by ancient magicks.
The undertow pull intensifies, and Castiel growls as he grabs a towel to wipe his hands clean, irritated at being both rushed and interrupted. Flexing his True Form outside of his vessel’s physical constraints, Castiel’s tail thrashes and his several heads snap angrily at the vine-covered walls of his cavernous den.
He could resist. It would hurt, but a Summoning isn’t completely indomitable.
Experimentally, Castiel tugs against the linked thread doing its best to drag him away to the mortal coil. His guts feel like they’re ripping apart and rupturing inside his belly, and one of his particularly fragile plants, a lovely Stromanthe Triostar, begins to wilt. Her leaves curl and turn brown, threatening to die right in front of his eyes. The succulents surrounding her base and the middle-aged, autumn-personifying Croton to her left also wither.
Infernal, needy things.
“Curses,” Castiel grumbles, stumbling a bit over his feet and leaning against his favorite rainbow eucalyptus tree for balance. It’s clear that today, resisting will cost him more than a bellyache. Frustratingly, the Triostar took over a month in Hell Time to cultivate properly, the temperamental bugger. It’s enjoyable to look at, and Castiel is not in the mood to lose it and have to start over.
Again.
Sighing, Castiel shakes his head and quickly readies his vessel for the trip. Upon a bit of introspection, he is hungry. It’s been a while.
While relaxing in his home realm, Castiel typically remains nude—wearing a vessel is covering enough—since he enjoys communing with his plants as authentically as possible. However, a bit of tact is in order for Summonings. One never knows what may need to be negotiated (or fought) for. As swiftly as possible, he dons a pair of low-slung jeans and straps the sheath holding his consecrated dagger around his thigh.
Aside from his magicks, the deceptively small and simple blade is simultaneously the only weapon he’ll ever need and the most important item he owns.
Settling his True Form back into his body as if shrugging on a comfortable, worn-in jacket, Castiel plants his tingling hands on his hips, closes his eyes, and allows the tide to sweep him away into the void.
Darkness. The totality of it, not simply the absence of light.
Darkness, because ‘nothing’ is hardly an adequate portrait for the experience of traveling through the emptiness between realms. Despite that, Castiel would be hard-pressed to do any better trying to explain it to a mortal—the sights, sounds, and sensations aren’t anything the constraints of humanity are equipped to process. The ordeal itself is akin to being ripped into a trillion pieces, dismantled down to an atomic level, but never scattered to the wind or even at risk of losing any singular part.
As for the sounds, howling might be the most apt descriptor, if somewhat necessarily reductive. The void is an in-between space, and the veil is thin in the spots where it brushes against the adjoining realms. Passing as close as one does, the wailing, moaning, and gnashing of proverbial teeth from souls trapped on other sides permeates, even if only in passing.
Castiel finds it comforting, actually. Familiar. It helps that he’s entirely used to the ride. It’s like the New York City subway during rush hour, only far less horrifying.
He has a bit of time to contemplate these things, as the mortal coil is the farthest removed from his part of the underworld and the punishment realms in general. Moving through time and space, the rules governing his being twist and shift, and Castiel transforms with them. He readies his body to appear before whatever entity has commanded his presence—gathers power in his fingertips, and tenses his muscles in case of a fight.
It’s doubtful that today’s Summoner is any sort of threat. Natural enemies aren’t something that Castiel is even aware of having at the current moment, and Hunters are rare in this day and age. The ones who persist and are privy to his existence should equally understand that challenging such a creature wouldn’t be productive (for them). No, Castiel suspects that the being on the other end of this spell wants what most beings want from him—a granted wish.
The real question is, what will they be open to giving up in return? What will they be willing to sacrifice to get such a thing? Unlike others of his kind (both sorts), Castiel happens to possess the undeniable luxury of having multiple options and copious leverage with which to negotiate a mutually beneficial deal. Sure, he could just stun and eat his victims—and sometimes he does—but after thousands of years, that approach has become, simply put, very dull.
He wonders if this Summoner knows what they’re getting themselves into. Skilled, savvy ones do have a shot at walking away satisfied, but the majority of them are greedy and underestimate his thrall.
Their mistake.
Either way, the Triostar will flourish tonight, and Castiel will return home sated. The human (presumably), while vaguely interesting, is just a distraction. A surmountable obstacle planted between him and his goal.
Something occurs to Castiel as he’s approaching his destination—gathering his atoms back into some semblance of order as best he can and visualizing the way he wishes to materialize—and the realization makes him anxious to land. Everything he’s thought about is true, unless—
The infinite nothingness of the void disappears abruptly as the undertow reverses, slamming Castiel roughly and at full-force into the mortal coil. Gone are the endless stretch of space-time and the vague soundtrack of lonely misery wailing in the background, absent is the incessant, unpleasant tugging in his gut. Both are replaced in the blink of an eye with the somewhat dizzying physics governing the Earthly Plane—gravity, atmospheric pressure, ugh—and…a house.
Well, a structure, anyway.
Crouched close to the floor, Castiel clocks smooth, wooden boards beneath his bare feet, registers a roof and four walls surrounding him on all sides. Additionally, he senses before seeing the presence of another being—possibly more than one—somewhere nearby in the room, and is surprised to discover that there’s power there. That’s unusual. Creatures with their own power don’t usually seek his.
It’s jarring, to say the least, transitioning from inky, comforting blackness to solid, concrete fucking everything. Castiel swears under his breath in a long-dead language, moving slowly as he straightens to try and appear intimidating, rather than let on that he’s thrown. He closes his eyes and concentrates, prompting the swirling, intricate, blue-tinged tattoos covering his entire body to take on an iridescent glow.
“I am Castiel,” he begins, pivoting slowly and spreading his arms wide, “Qafsiel, Cassiel, Cassael, Kasiel, Kafziel. I am the Wish-Granter, the Witness, the Guardian, and the Ruiner. Who calls on—oof.”
Right in the middle of his practiced spiel, Castiel takes a single step forward and runs headlong into what feels like a glass wall. He opens his eyes and scrunches his face in displeasure as he stumbles instinctively backward, rubbing at his nose, mostly in embarrassment. “What—”
“The Ruiner, huh?” From the depths of the shadows, a deep voice chimes in, drifting enticingly to his ears. Whoever it is doesn’t seem shy, despite the apparent hiding. “Gotta tell you, I’m praying that one ain’t false advertising. Shit wasn’t on the label, but still.”
The voice doesn’t become anything more than that, so Castiel glances quickly around, cataloging the space and noting it to be nothing more than a small cabin constructed from felled trees. Plenty of windows, but night has fallen outside, so they’re no help in identifying his current location in time and space. No modern lighting either, but plenty of candles, which Castiel would typically approve of greatly. There’s an earthy, herb-infused scent pervading the air, and he’s starting to put the pieces together.
A glance down toward his toes confirms the working hypothesis: the circle he’s standing inside isn’t solely meant for summoning. It’s also a trap. Detailed, with sigils selected specifically to hold him, meticulously recreated and drawn in blood. Perhaps he should be flattered.
“Label?” he echoes absently, probably a second slower than social convention would dictate, but he’s formulating.
Reaching out casually, Castiel trains his eyes on the wall-to-wall shelving packed with Lucifer-only-knows-what, endless jars and containers housing suspicious ingredients and would-be magical herbs alike. He makes a show of visually scanning the collection as he discretely tests the magical boundary of the trap with his fingertips. It’s well done, but not unexploitable—the boundary, not the shelving. It’ll take him a bit, but Castiel will get it down.
Flexing both hands, he begins wearing away the wards from the inside. No judgment on the spellcaster, but factually speaking, the forces that power his ancient magicks simply don’t have veritable competition from what’s available on the mortal plane.
“Hell yeah,” the voice replies, and this time, it’s accompanied by a hooded figure stepping far enough into the light that Castiel can finally assess his Summoner. At least, somewhat. Tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, perhaps two inches of height on his own build—Castiel’s not remotely worried. Aside from being superiorly equipped in all ways to fight, his current imprisonment doesn’t bestow the advantages this would-be captor seems to think it might. Nonetheless, Castiel isn’t about to let the Warden in on that.
Rather abruptly, a book gets tossed down by his feet, landing with a thud, and Castiel can’t help the way his lips twitch at the sight—it’s familiar, indeed. So ancient, the bindings are loose and the pages are certainly not from tree pulp. It’s lying open, showcasing the chapter bearing his name-symbol as the header, which answers several questions Castiel’s been harboring in short order.
Placing both hands on his hips, Castiel snorts. He dips his head and shakes it, sighing before admonishing, “If you’ve read that, then you should be aware that trapping me is unnecessary. You’ll find that I’m entirely responsive to requests—you can have nearly anything your heart desires, providing you’re willing to pay the price.” Castiel conveniently leaves off the bit where if he’s bored and hungry enough, he’ll simply send any annoying Summoner off to sleep and take whatever he’s owed for the wasting of his time, or that being held hostage makes him exponentially more likely to do so.
Inside his hood, the as-yet mysterious Summoner makes a noise of his own that suggests he finds the suggestion funny, or that he’s not buying Castiel’s sanitized version of the story. “I’m not trading my soul,” he says flatly.
“There are other—”
“We’re not gonna act out ‘Sleeping Beauty and the Blood Kink,’ either, sunshine.”
Narrowing his eyes, Castiel folds both arms across his chest, opting to hold the remainder of his cards close. Research was definitely done here, and he needs to remain both sharp and wary. Fortunately, the barrier has already weakened significantly where he’s been chipping away at it. His will can make short work of the rest, and he’s good at multitasking.
“No free rides,” Castiel remarks. “Everybody pays.”
To his surprise, the Summoner barks a laugh and turns around, removing the hood of his cloak and unfastening the clasp around his neck. “Ass, grass, or cash? Sunshine, I got all three and you’re welcome to whatever strikes your fancy.”
There’s a witty retort on the tip of his tongue—and a sincere one, because Castiel has no use for mortal currency—but it dies there, turned to ash in the revelation that is his Summoner’s almost shocking physical beauty.
He is radiant. From the glimpses Castiel can grab of the man’s soul, he’s the opposite of pure, and yet, somehow, he’s practically glowing. Dressed in a plain black t-shirt and blue jeans, the clothes only accentuate a body and face that would make Adonis seethe with jealousy, and Castiel would know—the deity was an obnoxious fool in person.
His eyes, though. A god-like body is one thing, but this human’s bright, verdant green gaze that dances with life and amusement can’t easily be compared to anything Castiel’s ever seen before.
“Cat got your tongue, gorgeous? ‘S’okay. I uh, dig the tattoos. Friends call me Dean, by the way. Since we’re exchanging names and everything. Just tossing out power plays like that—I have all six of yours, you should get at least one of mine.”
Castiel tips his head to the side and regards Dean carefully, not remotely missing either the casual threat or the way Dean’s gaze lingers on his bare chest—he wasn’t willed into existence yesterday. It’s becoming clear what he was summoned here for, but that doesn’t mean that he should take the threat of weaponizing his name lightly. He should kill Dean just for thinking it.
Still. It’s been quite some time since another being was interested in him the way Dean appears to be. Most are put off by his diet, his abilities, his inability to make small talk. Most are afraid to touch, lest they become his next victim.
Just to test his theory, Castiel uncrosses his arms and sticks his thumbs into the loops of his jeans, tugging downward and exposing the glass-cut “V” of his hip and pelvic bones more fully. Dean’s eyes follow like magnets, glazing over a bit at the implication.
“Interesting,” Castiel says dryly. “What is this?”
Shrugging almost shyly, Dean rocks back on his heels and bites at his bottom lip suggestively. “C’mon, Cas,” he says. “You’ve been around the block a millenia or two. Thought you’d be smarter than that. You really need me to spell it out?”
“Yes,” Castiel replies. He’s not unwilling to give someone as beautiful as Dean what he’s looking for, but he’s not terribly pleased with being manipulated. Nor is he in the mood to make this easy for the—admittedly enticing—man. Castiel has a certain reputation to protect. He is curious, though.
Dean raises his hands and plants them on his hips. “Whaddaya wanna know?”
“Hmm.” Gesturing towards the pendant tied around Dean’s neck—a cork-stoppered vial filled with spelled protective items (he’s assuming) and accentuated with an evil eye charm—Castiel asserts more than asks, “You’re a witch.”
“Damn straight,” Dean replies proudly, lifting his right hand and sparking a bit of electricity between his first two fingers and his thumb. It’s a cute parlor trick, but it’s carefully not very revealing or indicative of anything he might truly be capable of doing. When he’s finished showing off, Dean also tugs at the collar of his t-shirt, yanking it down to reveal an anti-possession tattoo slightly off-center on his chest. “Best one you’ve ever met.”
“I haven’t met many,” Castiel demurs, skeptical. “And I haven’t liked any of them.” Dean’s smile only widens, as if he’s taken that statement as a challenge. “Regardless,” Castiel continues, “I came here hungry, and I still need to eat. So, as lovely as you are—”
“Lovely?” Dean interjects. “We can definitely work with that.” He claps his hands once and then rubs them together excitedly. “What are you hungry for?” Castiel frowns, lifting both hands to indicate the circular trap he’s still stuck in (by choice, mostly, at this point), but Dean raises his own palm as if to tell him to relax. “Just answer the question.”
Perhaps Dean didn’t do all of the reading, after all, or skipped over certain details. “Nothing that you can whip up in that abysmal kitchen over there,” Castiel replies, making a face. “Are you offering your blood? Your soul? What would you do if I asked for both? If I demanded one or the other in order to spare your life?”
“Feed you,” Dean replies plainly, patently unbothered, which leaves Castiel unsure what to do except stare blankly back at him, confused. Admittedly, while he’s experienced his share of games and trickery over the course of this life, he’s never had a Summoning go quite this route before. At this point, he’s not entirely sure which one of them is steering the conversation. That’s…interesting.
He doesn’t reply.
“Cas,” Dean says with a sigh, a note of frustration (but more of humor, which is strange) lacing his tone, “Just answer the fucking question. You know, or don’t, I guess. We can fight it out instead. That could be fun, too. I got a kiddie pool full of Jello in the back, and—”
“You have gelatin in a pool?”
“No,” Dean says pointedly, stepping back into the shadows and wrapping a hand around the edge of a heavy, floor-to-ceiling curtain, one that Castiel hadn’t notably registered as hanging there at all, and he wonders vaguely if its appearance has been cloaked.
When Dean pulls it back, Castiel immediately understands why that might have been, nearly forgetting himself at the revelation and revealing his interest. To be fair, he’s definitely swimming in brand-new territory, here. Shark waters, and bloody ones, at that.
“See anything that looks tasty?”
Castiel just stares, thankfully remembering to close his mouth and keep his face neutral. Thousands of years interacting with humanity and not much surprises him, but this human is…an anomaly.
Hanging from the ceiling behind the curtain are two additional humans—both conventionally attractive, one male and one female, at least at a cursory glance. Castiel again reverses course on whether Dean has adequately educated himself on The Rules, as both humans are meticulously prepared, exactly the way Castiel would do it himself, were he to be in the mood to harvest blood victims. Locked-off IVs are inserted, ready to be utilized for his pleasure, and the male victim has even been partially-drained.
Dean’s expectant, somewhat proud expression has Castiel realizing that at some point, he’s become aroused.
More aroused than he’s felt in years, actually. It’s just that—people use him constantly, but no one likes him. No one does anything in return that isn’t explicitly required to fulfill their deals.
Dean doesn’t have a deal to honor.
Instead of voicing the obvious, Castiel simply asks, “Who is he?”
“Hmm?” To his credit, Dean appears genuinely surprised by the question, as if he can’t imagine why anyone would wonder. “Oh, an ex.” He glances briefly, uninterested, toward the unconscious duo but doesn’t elaborate further, so Castiel raises his eyebrows. “What? You wanna know about her, too?” He jerks his head towards the thin, curly-haired brunette woman hanging by her wrists. “Dude, if you only knew. This bitch has tried to off me like seventeen times just this year. Trust me when I say—the world is better off, baby.”
Tipping his head to the side, Castiel says thoughtfully, “And I’m sure you did nothing to deserve such vitriol. Regardless, what if it wasn’t?”
“Come again?”
“What if it wasn’t?” Castiel repeats patiently. “Better off. The world, I mean. That factor is irrelevant to me—consuming her soul, draining her blood, these aren’t moral acts to a creature such as myself. They’re predatory ones.” Castiel leaves off the part where he’s mostly interested in maintaining his garden, since he doubts very much the intimidation value that would add, but it’s not as if what he’s saying is untrue. “I would feed regardless. I’d feed on you,” he adds, and Dean grins.
“Hot,” he declares, shaking a finger in Castiel’s direction. “Listen, snack away, just don’t send my soul to one of those crappy eternal Hell dimensions. I don’t wanna end up playing the Watergate board game with Nixon for the next three centuries.”
“That’s your opposition to selling your soul?”
Dean spreads his arms like the answer should be obvious. “I mean, duh. Look, I’ve fucked enough creatures to know that most of Hell is boring, and everybody’s little hidey-holes are as weird as they are. You, though? You’re devastatingly handsome and dangerous enough to make a roll in the hay seem kinda scary, which is right up my alley. But if you think I’m trading one blackout orgasm for an eternity of repeat scaphism, or like, watching the same episode of Caillou on repeat, you’re off your damn rocker.”
Flattered, Castiel’s tattoos glow slightly, before he can stop them. Dean, of course, notices. “I like the enthusiasm,” he says, tipping his chin in Castiel’s direction and stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“You’re strange,” Castiel offers, not necessarily unkindly, and then frowns, still searching for understanding. “So, you…utilize your powers by summoning creatures to have intercourse with?”
“Uh. I mean, sometimes?” Dean shrugs nonchalantly, pacing a little but stopping to glance slyly over his shoulder at Castiel. “That a problem for you?”
“I—” Castiel cuts himself off for a moment to consider, but can’t come up with any objection, though it’s only after finding Dean’s gaze again that he realizes it wasn’t a sincere question. Without a doubt, Dean does not care whether Castiel is judging him. He licks his lips and smirks, wandering audaciously close to the warded barrier.
He’s cocky. Too cocky for Castiel’s liking, though his attitude is entertaining. Without fear, Dean saunters right up to the edge of the magical line, completely unaware of how it’s already been splintered. This close, Castiel can see the bulge in his pants, feel the radiating heat of his mortal body, the glorious pulse of his energy and arousal—it’s all rather intoxicating.
“So, you gonna eat, or what?”
“I need to be closer,” Castiel says flatly. “To feed, and for anything else you might have planned. I assume you calculated needing to release me from these confines eventually. While I do possess multiple options for penetration, all of them require physical proximity. Even my True Form can’t give you what you desire, caged behind warding.”
“Hmm,” Dean says, lifting a hand and placing it against the edge of the magical barrier. He miscalculates, though, presumably since he’s not affected or limited by his own magic, and when he exhales, his palm drifts across the line. Between the work Castiel’s already done and that miniscule breach, his next move is almost too easy.
Before Dean can inhale his next breath, Castiel snatches his hand from the air and wraps lithe fingers around it, holding on tightly. His eyes and tattoos glow in sync as he summons a burst of magick and uses Dean’s energy against him to blow the wards and the barrier they’re holding to smithereens.
“How sad for you,” he says, right before yanking Dean in by the hand he’s grasping and slamming their chests together roughly. That brings him close enough to share air that Castiel doesn’t need, Dean’s breath puffing hot against his skin—they’re practically kissing. Instead of making a smart comment, Castiel simply quirks the corner of his mouth and allows his tongue to dart out and caress his bottom lip.
It has the intended effect. Dean’s face transitions from shock to awe, his gaze tracking the tongue movements, locked on like a missile. That’s all Castiel really registers before whipping him around a full hundred and eighty degrees and tossing him clear across the room, into the far wall.
When Dean’s body hits, the house hardly shudders, and Castiel admires the solid construction as he steps cleanly out of the circle. He sighs and stretches as he exits his would-be prison, making a show of cracking his neck and pulling each arm across his chest in turn while Dean flails undignified on the floor.
Admittedly, it’s not a terrible look for him, splayed out on his back with those bow legs spread wide and—dare Castiel think it—inviting.
Amused, Castiel allows his cocksure Summoner to get as far as forty-five degrees vertical before waving a hand in his general direction and sending him toppling back to the floor. “Down,” he says dismissively, and down Dean goes.
“Fuck,” he mutters, jerking against the invisible restraints that keep him plastered to the hardwood.
Wandering toward his snacks-on-a-string, Castiel taps into his magick to assess the energy fields surrounding them and finds that the woman possesses quite a bit of power. “They’re under your influence?” he questions, not so much as glancing over at where Dean is trying and failing to maintain his dignity down on the floor. He hides a smirk.
“Yeah,” Dean grunts. “It’s a charm, made it myself. Mimics what your touch can do.”
“I doubt that.”
“Take one of ‘em for a spin!” Dean retorts defensively. “The hell, Cas? I break the law for you, make you dinner, offer up basically any dirty, disgusting sex act you could want on a silver platter—least you could do is not insult my magic. Pride is everything, sunshine. A little flattery wouldn’t kill you.”
“If your ‘magic,’” Castiel begins, using air quotes to convey his skepticism as he visually examines the presumed witch with mild interest, “was as potent and impressive as you claim, there would be no need to seek my permission to undo your current state.”
Dean scoffs. “Who says I’m not just bein’ polite? I can complain about your shitty manners and show you how it’s done in the process. Maybe I’m just an awesome host.”
“Oh, I see,” Castiel says, nodding. “You enjoy being dominated.”
The noise that escapes Dean’s throat somehow sounds wildly offended and extremely interested at the same time, and Castiel bites back a smile. This is almost too easy. Stepping sideways, he picks up Dean’s self-described “ex”’s arm, turning as he wraps it around his own shoulder to make it appear as if the unconscious man is cradling him from behind. Aaron’s soul is a bit bright—he’s not the kind of victim Castiel usually solicits—but as he warned Dean, neither his moral compass nor his appetite are picky.
Making eye contact with Dean, Castiel is steady holding his gaze, not that it’s necessary—Dean hasn’t so much as glanced anywhere but right at him this entire time.
It’s difficult to ascertain whether or not Dean knows that what’s about to happen is a test.
“I’m neither a toy nor a dog,” Castiel says, letting the fingers of his free hand trail down the center of his chest. “I don’t exist to do your bidding. I’m hungry, true, but I don’t need to kill these people to feed, not for either option. As you are probably aware, one human can provide the average Djinn with several satisfying meals, and I’m anything but average. My power could restore damage and keep someone alive indefinitely.” Castiel neglects to mention how much energy it would take to do that, and how, if he did, his plants would almost certainly suffer, which he assumes everyone can agree would be terribly unfair.
“Alternatively, if I take only a soul—well. A human can live without one of those pesky things quite easily, perhaps even more pleasantly. What would you do if I simply consumed both of their souls and then let them go?”
“Shit,” Dean says, propping himself up on an elbow (which Castiel allows) and looking slightly alarmed. “Probably flee the country and change my name—again. I mean, Aaron might actually thank me, he was always worried about karma and shit, too fuckin’ nice for his own good. Bela, though? Not that I wouldn’t deserve it, but I guarantee you that bitch will not stop until she makes damn sure I never get the chance to pull one over on her again.”
He shudders as he contemplates the possibilities, making a slicing motion across the length of his throat. “Sayonara. At least to sleeping soundly at night—chick is sneaky, and way smarter than me. I once watched her convince an L.A.P.D. detective that a dude she was dating put himself through a woodchipper.”
“Convince?” Castiel probes, squinting.
“May have been a little magic,” Dean admits. “But you fuck with Bela at your own risk.”
Tipping his head to the side and regarding his second potential victim with new appreciation, Castiel is thoughtful when he replies, “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed that you saw me as a surefire garbage disposal to be called upon specifically to incinerate your problems.”
“Nah,” Dean says dismissively, waving Castiel off and apparently giving up on fighting the invisible bonds. He flops down on the floor, completely stretched out, tucking both hands behind his head and tapping the toes of his feet together rhythmically.
Strange creature, Castiel thinks.
“It wasn’t even like that. I picked these two up for you, just for you, gorgeous. Rest is a bonus.”
For some reason, Castiel believes him.
He plays with the closed IV lock at the end of the tubing that spools from the bag of Aaron’s collected blood, using one deft finger to unscrew the cap and let it fall to the floor. The quiet clatter grabs Dean’s attention, and he glances over, intrigued. It’s flattering, but before Castiel goes any further, he reaches back to press that same finger to the male victim’s forehead and focuses, testing, immediately receiving a technicolor flash of the dream world unraveling inside the man’s head.
It’s solid. It’s extremely well done, actually, the combination of sedation and mental imprisonment virtually indistinguishable from what he, himself would impart. Whatever charm Dean used is bespoke and thoughtful, this type of magick practically an art form. Trapped inside the dream world, Castiel’s future sustenance seems to lack any awareness of his current predicament, and—from a quick and dirty perusal of his frontal lobe—appears to be the happiest he’s felt in months.
Intriguing.
Again holding Dean’s gaze, Castiel relocates the collection bag to hang from a hook next to Aaron’s head and lifts the IV lock to his lips. Mouth open, he releases the wheel keeping the tubing closed, and a stream of blood comes pouring out of the end, straight down his throat.
Aside from a slightly curious, moderately-aroused expression, Dean doesn’t react at all. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away, and definitely doesn’t seem disgusted, which is encouraging. Castiel’s been interfacing with the mortal coil for long enough that he’s hardly easily impressed, but not being treated as some disgusting, lesser creature than a human—they all think very highly of themselves, especially in regards to their place in the food chain—isn’t the rarity it should be, and it doesn’t displease him.
Everybody eats.
Castiel swallows and immediately feels stronger, capping off the tubing and replacing the bag back where it was down by the unconscious man’s calf to take advantage of gravity flow. For a prolonged second, he disengages from the mortal plane, projecting a bit of his newly-replenished energy back home and into the wilting Triostar as an apology. Unfortunately, doing so leaves him again somewhat peckish.
From his place on the floor, Dean very patiently continues to observe the proceedings, eyes tracking as Castiel crosses the small space between the hanging bodies and surveys Bela up close. Brushing fingers beneath her jaw, he conducts the same assessment of her dream state and is unsurprised to find it equally solid. Unlike the “ex”—and even Dean himself—Bela’s soul is unambiguously dark. Almost impressively so, to the point where he easily believes Dean’s claims about her, and he doubts she’ll miss it.
Either way, Castiel feels nothing as he flicks open the top button of her blouse and fits his palm over her sternum, just above her heart. He taps into his magicks, both his eyes and tattoos flaring bright blue as he cuts the ties holding Bela’s soul, snapping them like moorings securing a boat in place.
Bela’s mouth falls open on its own, and her soul drifts out through her lips in a swirling black cloud that shimmers and dances. Castiel relaxes his own jaw, devouring the entire thing in one fell swoop. Unlike the plasma appetizer, consuming a soul fills his meter and then some, to the point where he can barely contain himself. Whereas blood provides something akin to an energy boost—a sugar rush, or perhaps a caffeine hit—feeding on souls fuels Castiel’s desire to live.
He senses Dean’s presence at his back long before the devious man gets anywhere close to making physical contact. Since he’s practically brimming with power, he simply raises one hand and flicks it, sending Dean’s body flipping through the air over his head while he smirks.
With Dean once again sprawled out on the floor, this time, Castiel follows him down. Advancing across the room with an intentionally predatory swagger, he ignores Dean’s exaggerated groans to swing a leg over his body and straddle his thighs. Almost instantly, Dean stops complaining and dons his more familiar, cocky smile.
“Well, ‘bout fuckin’ time, sunshine!” he declares, hands moving towards Castiel’s hips, unceremoniously knocked away by another twist of his wrist. Just to be difficult, Castiel then uses his magick to lock Dean’s arms to the floor, pinned just above his head. To no one’s surprise, Dean acts terribly annoyed by that, huffing and pouting even when Castiel allows his ass to settle onto Dean’s half-hard cock, providing some blatantly-desired friction.
Unsatisfied, Dean frowns. “Anyway,” he says, attempting to scratch his chin on his bicep, “You are like, way hotter than those drawings…etchings, whatever, in the book. No offense, but I was kind of expecting something wilder. Multiple heads and shit. A tail.”
Offended, Castiel balks. “Are you implying that my True Form is not attractive?”
“Is that what you got from what I said?!”
Castiel just narrows his eyes and tips his head to the side. Dean laughs, and then abruptly, his eyes flare pink and he’s flipping them both over, slamming Castiel flat onto his back but showing no sign of wanting out from in-between his legs. If he wasn’t so caught off-guard, Castiel could certainly have stopped him, but simply put, he wasn’t expecting Dean’s power to compete.
His mistake.
His mistake, and he’s not wholly displeased by it. Not nearly as much as he should be. Dean—this creature—is fascinating. Sure, Castiel hasn’t decided whether he wants to rip him apart and dig around inside his body for what makes him tick, take him home and keep him as a pet, or just eat his soul and absorb his valuable essence, but therein lies the fun. He hasn’t found anything or anyone (besides his plants) this undeniably interesting in over a millenia.
It doesn’t hurt that Dean is also very beautiful, his body a near-perfect human specimen, objectively stunning in its every feature. Both masculine and feminine in all the most desirable ways—right now, as Dean hovers over him, a tendril of hair falling across his forehead, Castiel catalogs and admires them in turn: the chiseled cut of his jaw and soft curve of his parted lips. The bulge of his biceps and the lovely trim of his waist. His thick, soft eyelashes fanning against the lightly-freckled, flawless skin of his cheeks when he blinks slow and long, and the intense, sparkling green of his eyes when they open again.
Over the extensive span of his existence, Castiel has seen more than one insecure being use spells or charms to change, improve, or simply glamour their own appearance, but it always leaves trace evidence. Any creature possessing even a single ounce of magical ability and insight can see the trail such things create, and those have the tendency to become distracting and difficult to ignore.
Were it not for that knowledge, Castiel would bet his grotto on there being magic at work here, as he’s never seen something so incredibly, exquisitely lovely birthed organically. Dean, it would appear, seems to be the exception to many things.
“Earth to fallen angel,” Dean quips, lifting a hand from where he’s trapping Castiel’s wrists next to his head just to snap his fingers a few times.
“I am no angel,” Castiel growls.
“Oh, don’t I know it,” Dean replies gleefully. “Those junkless assholes don’t fuck. Believe me, I’ve tried! Summoned the whole Hallelujah Chorus, but no luck. You, though? Your lineage? Half-Djinn, half-fallen-archangel-turned-Prince-of-Hell? Dude. All of those old-school, fire-and-brimstone types fuck.”
“Please, continue discussing my parents,” Castiel says dryly. “When you're through, you can share your father’s occupation, so I might ask you detailed questions about him, mid-seduction.”
Dean bites his lower lip as he settles back on his heels, releasing Castiel’s arms, again more sure of his safety than he should be. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t care—a concept which, unfortunately, makes him infinitely more interesting.
“My dad was a hunter,” Dean declares plainly. “Ain’t a single solitary soul on this planet hating what I do more than him. That man raised me to be his soldier, to kill creatures, not bend over for ‘em.” He pauses and winks, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Big part of why I do it.” Somewhat nonchalantly, he stretches, reaching both arms high over his head and thus causing his t-shirt to ride up and expose a tantalizing bit of belly.
For once, Castiel’s hunger isn’t for blood or souls.
Dean must feel it, the way Castiel’s cock is filling out in his loose jeans, with the way his ass is settled over the top of Castiel’s legs. He doesn’t say anything about it, though, instead sighing and shrugging as he releases the stretch and rolls out his shoulders. “Anyway, point is—I was expecting something closer to your True Form to show up in that circle. Not that the meatsuit isn’t smokin’ hot, I’d pick you up in a bar no question, but when I summon shit—”
Here, Dean pauses for emphasis, raising an eyebrow as if willing Castiel to understand, and he thinks he’s starting to. His hands find their way to Dean’s thighs and he squeezes. “You’re…looking for a little monster in your man,” he surmises, and Dean’s smile widens.
“Whaddaya say, Cas? Think you’re the Eldritch Horror for the job?”
Staring up at him, Castiel makes a split second decision and frees his True Form. His vessel’s eyes and tattoos glow as his essence stretches out above it in all directions, fully-revealed. As requested, Castiel snaps his tail, wrapping it around Dean’s waist several times and lifting him high into the air. All three of his True Heads rear and snarl mere millimeters from Dean’s face, teeth bared and terrifying as they come, if he does say so himself
Instead of turning some anemic shade of gray, perhaps soiling his pants or expelling a standard throat-searing scream, Dean groans with delight and turns pliant, his cock doing the polar opposite against Castiel’s tail. Pleased as he might be about that, Castiel would be equally lying if he claimed he wasn’t caught off-guard when the human’s body turns limp, fingertips twitching to graze the curve of his tail where they hang docilely beside it.
It’s fortunate that his essence can be as solid or amorphous as he desires—Dean’s open comfort with his presence is entirely irritating, and it’s time for a reminder that Castiel’s embrace does not mean safety.
With a last, guttural roar from his most imposing head, Castiel relinquishes his claim on solidity. He retracts his True Form back into the confines of his supine vessel as Dean is left to flail madly in mid-air, tumbling to the ground in short order. He lands sprawled on top of Castiel in a much less seductive fashion than before, but that was the intention.
As Dean shakes off his fall and slaps on a gaze that’s probably supposed to be intimidating, Castiel summons a bit of magick into his palm and uses it to hold Dean at bay. As he moves his hand, Dean’s body moves with him, up and back until he’s kneeling. This way, Castiel can mirror his pose and really get in his face.
“You should show me some respect,” he sneers, face inches away from Dean’s. “I’m not your plaything. If I choose to bestow the gift you summoned me hoping to receive, it will be for no other reason than that—I choose to. Understand, boy?”
“Yes,” Dean replies breathily, nodding for emphasis. “I’m like, seriously fine with that.” There’s a pause, and then bright pink fills Castiel’s vision and he’s airborne, soaring wildly across the room before crashing hard against the same wall he sent Dean into earlier. Unlike with Dean, the spell doesn’t hold or keep him down, and he doesn’t suffer the embarrassment of wallowing on the floor.
On his feet immediately, he advances on Dean, grabs him by the hair, and yanks until Dean falls to his knees, staring up at him with an expression that can only be described as, “worshipful.” For that reason and that reason alone, he makes the split-second decision to give in. It’s not weakness, it’s interest.
“Yes, Master,” Dean says, earnest and almost flippant, but not quite, and Castiel can tell that he’s hesitant to commit completely—but that he badly wants to. His beauty is even more stunning from this angle, and without the bad attitude.
Well, well, Castiel thinks. The cocky wizard is human, after all. His fear just happens to be himself—or, his desires, anyway.
Tilting his head to one side, Castiel tugs on Dean’s hair again, relishing the way his lids flutter half-closed before he offers his full attention. Once Dean’s gaze meets his, Castiel narrows his eyes and smiles what he knows is a terrifying grin, one that’s as monstrous as his human face can boast.
“Wish granted,” he says, raising his free hand to snap his fingers.
Instantly, Dean is naked, his clothes banished to somewhere not here—the next room, the Mariana Trench, Castiel’s grotto—honestly, he doesn’t care and wasn’t picky. The resulting look on Dean’s face is beyond thrilled, and Castiel can’t wait to push him, to give him exactly what he asked for and then some, just to see how that might change. Perhaps Dean is the unflappable stallion he believes himself to be, and perhaps he is already in way over his head.
Either way, Castiel is already leaving satisfied, his plants are fed, and he supposes the rest is debauchery and decadence that he’s long overdue to dabble in.
He leans down and drags Dean up, brushing their noses together and opening his mouth as if to offer a kiss, but at the last second, he pulls away and tosses Dean carelessly to the floor. He lands like a rag doll with his legs spread, immediately grabbing the base of his cock, stroking its length, and moaning with delight.
“Hell yeah,” Dean says. “Keep it comin’ Cas, I can take it.”
“I have no doubt,” Castiel replies dismissively. “I haven’t done anything that a moderately strong specimen from your own species couldn’t. Yet.” That perks Dean up, his hand ceasing mid-drag as it moves over his shaft, and he props himself up on an elbow as Castiel moves closer, kicking his legs apart further to stand between them.
“You plannin’ on changing that?” Dean asks, as if the answer isn’t obvious.
Humans are verbose. Castiel is a big believer that actions speak louder than words and that not every inane thing requires a reply. Instead of offering one, he simply folds his arms across his chest, materializes only his tail, and snakes it in between Dean’s ass cheeks.
The reaction he receives to using the extra, questionably-existent appendage to probe at Dean’s hole tells him all he needs to know about the previously-made claims, which is that they’re true. Instead of jumping five feet into the air, freaking out, or yelling loudly and at a high enough pitch to induce any dogs within a five-mile radius into a barking frenzy, Dean moans and begs.
“Yes,” he hisses. “God, yes. Please, please, please put that thing in me!” He rocks his hips down in an attempt to make that happen, which doesn’t work, because Castiel’s tail is wider than an above-average human phallus and Dean doesn’t seem to have charmed his asshole into being more accommodating than it should be, but he’s got the spirit.
Magic is helpful in situations like this, not that Castiel has opted into many of them—or at least, not often. Still, he knows how to use his power to turn everything slick and easy, to make Slot B feel like it was specifically built to fit Tab A—such are the perks of what and who he is.
“Fuck yeah, give it to me, Cas,” Dean grunts. Feet planted firmly on the floor, his toes curl and his fingers slide and scrabble over the hardwood, hips working hard to meet every thrust. Impossibly, Dean is even more gorgeous in these determined efforts, skin damp and shiny the way humans tend to get when they’re exerting themselves fiercely. It’s foreign—Castiel doesn't sweat under any circumstance—and yet, strangely enticing, to the point where his tongue yearns to taste the dip in the center of Dean’s chest.
While contemplating that impulse, Castiel’s eyes can’t help but be drawn lower, to the muscles in Dean’s abdomen as they clench and release. Dean’s hand returns to his cock to stroke as he pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth, eyes falling partially-closed in mounting ecstasy.
“Fuck, it’s huge,” he pants, “this is awesome.”
His hips roll and Castiel’s tail must brush his prostate because Dean’s mouth falls open around a particularly enthusiastic groan, his back arching high off the floor. The curve of his plush lips is captivating, and his lovely green eyes have turned hazy. Suddenly, Castiel feels very interested in joining these proceedings, and since his tail is long and doesn’t require any constant, undivided attention to penetrate Dean, there’s nothing stopping him.
Leaving it to do what it’s doing, Castiel steps forward and drops to his knees with one on each side of Dean’s ribcage. He unzips his jeans and shoves them down to his thighs—he could take them off, but then he’d have to relinquish his dagger, and he’s not about to do that. Dean may appear submissive and accommodating, but Castiel’s not an idiot. Unobtrusively, he folds the top of his jeans over the weapon to conceal it.
Satisfied, he grabs Dean by the jaw and jams his thumb inside of his mouth, pressing down on his soft, warm tongue.
“Earn it,” Castiel demands, and Dean nods, wide-eyed as he stares up at him. His lips close around the thumb right before Castiel withdraws it, causing blood to rush and pulse in his cock, and but Hell, he wants. He barely has to drag the digit suggestively down Dean’s chin before he’s opening wide, and Castiel pushes his cock halfway down his throat on the first go.
Maybe there’s a charm at work, or perhaps Dean is just that spectacular, but he takes it easily, tonguing around Castiel’s shaft as it slides in and out, slurping like he can’t get enough. Castiel locking his fingers together behind Dean’s head allows him to relax, and Dean takes full advantage. He’s sloppy and careless, using his hands to feel Castiel up instead of bothering to wipe the spit from his own face. Messy is a good look on him.
Out of curiosity, Castiel turns his tail incorporeal, save for the part that’s moving inside of Dean. Almost immediately, Dean’s fingers are pulling his cheeks apart to brush over his hole, and Castiel has an idea. He lets Dean play and probe for a few minutes, mimicking the rhythm that he’s being fucked, holding unflinching eye contact as he tries valiantly to find Castiel’s prostate and provoke a reaction.
It’s almost unfair, the level of control he has over his mortal-shaped body, and the fact that Dean will only ever be successful if Castiel wants him to. Eventually—and again, mostly out of curiosity—Castiel caves, altering his meatsuit to be that much more human, and instantly enjoying the results. He’s been slicking the way, of course, but allowing the sensations to permeate creates an entirely different experience.
In fact, it’s so enjoyable, he winds up lost in the pleasure for a minute or two, rolling his hips back onto Dean’s fingers while his cock continues to slide in and out of his hot, wet mouth.
“Oh,” Castiel moans, “This is—not terrible.” There’s a sputtering sound as Dean makes a noise that might be a laugh around his cock, and Castiel frowns, twisting fingers in his hair before yanking his head in close, lips practically to the root. “I don’t enjoy being mocked,” he says, expecting Dean to choke and try to push him off, but Dean simply goes pliant and swallows repeatedly, making Castiel’s eyes roll back in his head.
He should dial the sensations back, but he doesn’t.
Growling, Castiel shoves him away, his tail slipping free in the process, and Dean does laugh this time, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth and grinning from where he’s sprawled across the floor. His hair is damp, his face and chest are flushed, and Castiel wants to devour him—perhaps in every way possible. Somehow, he thinks Dean might let him.
“Up,” Castiel demands. “On your knees.”
“As you wish,” Dean says, in an unusually genial tone, and Castiel narrows his eyes, suspicious that he’s missing some sort of innuendo. Now probably isn’t the best time to ask, though, since Dean has clambered to his knees and is once again expectantly stroking his own cock, staring at Castiel with an expression that reads nearly as hungry as he feels.
“Plenty more where that came from,” he says suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows.
Castiel rolls his eyes, but ultimately, he’s enjoying himself quite a lot, and is extremely interested in continuing. He paces for a second before stopping in front of Dean and turning around. His intention is to lower himself to his knees with his back to Dean’s chest, but then Dean’s hands are on his hips, stopping him partway there.
“Oh, hell no,” Dean protests. “You’re running the show, I get it, but what you’re not gonna do is screw me out of the chance to eat the fuck out of that, just—” He slaps one of Castiel’s cheeks and—without waiting for a reply—pulls them apart, diving in with his tongue, licking and slurping and using a finger to push inside and stimulate the nerves that Castiel is very thankful he switched to “on”.
It’s worldview-altering-spectacular, right up until the unexpected happens.
Perhaps in passing, Dean’s fingers graze the band of Castiel’s thigh holster, and everything slows to a grinding halt. He tenses, waiting for a play on his dagger, but it quickly becomes apparent that Dean is not aware of what his hands are doing, not paying attention to anything except for Castiel’s ass and showing him a good time.
When Dean’s fingers leave his thigh and relocate to one cheek, Castiel can’t help but relax into it—the man is very talented.
“It’s—it’s almost as if you think—” Castiel’s vision goes a little blurry when Dean does a particular thing with his mouth and he briefly loses his train of thought. “Think that you’re in charge,” he finishes weakly, discovering that his fingers have tangled themselves in Dean’s hair again, though he has no recollection of reaching back to do so.
Dean snorts and crooks his finger, making Castiel twitch and have to stifle a groan. Against all odds, Castiel manages to shove him away and finish the journey down to his knees. He’s suddenly anxious to discover what Dean’s cock feels like inside his body, if a mere tongue and finger were so irresistibly delicious. It really has been far too long since he indulged in any sins of the flesh, but he doesn’t remember past encounters being quite this good, either.
He clears his throat, settling himself against Dean as best he can with the jeans still partway on. “If you can make me come untouched, I’ll consider not eating your soul,” Castiel deadpans, and he can practically feel Dean panic behind him, trying to decide whether or not he’s joking. Suppressing a smile, Castiel snakes his tail between their nested legs and works the tip between Dean’s cheeks, encouraging him to forget about it.
“Oh, holy shit, both?” Dean exclaims, apparently just figuring out what Castiel has in mind.
“You wanted a little monster with your man,” Castiel reminds him, but Dean doesn’t need any further convincing. His cock is already pressing insistently at Castiel’s entrance, and with a passing thought, sliding inside smoothly with a stretch that’s just right.
In response, he pushes the corporeal tip of his tail inside Dean’s ass, thrusting at the same rate and speed as Dean is moving his hips, but he gives the man more this time, not holding back. He can’t imagine that Dean won’t tell him if it’s too much—he certainly isn’t shy.
They rock together for a few minutes, moving and breathing in sync. Dean’s hands flex and grip both sides of Castiel’s abdomen, his forehead coming to rest in the curve of Castiel’s neck.
It is rather intoxicating, the heat of Dean’s breath puffing against his skin, and perhaps it’s his imagination, but Castiel thinks he might be able to feel his own tail pushing against Dean’s stomach from the inside. It surprises even Castiel himself how obscenely arousing his brain finds that possibility.
“Cas, this is—” Dean’s breath has quickened and is coming short, and Castiel can hear him lick his lips, can feel Dean swallowing heavily as he clutches him close. Reaching back to grab him by the neck, Castiel steadies Dean, pulsing a beat of calming magick through his veins, gently helping him to find his center.
It works—Dean accepts the offering and calms slightly, the stuttered rhythm of his hips evening out to something more fluid and luxurious that doesn’t feel as if it’s approaching an imminent ending.
“Thanks,” Dean says, voice filled with relief, and perhaps a tiny hint of embarrassment.
Hand still cupping the back of Dean’s neck, Castiel shrugs lightly. “I was blunting my sensations earlier. You’ve had no such reprieve. I’m sure that in your position, I’d be far worse off. You’re very strong,” he adds admirably, even as Dean’s thrusting brushes his prostate and his hand wraps around Castiel’s cock, and any further thoughts he might’ve had on the subject abruptly evacuate his head.
“Then…thanks for leveling the playing field,” Dean replies, soft lips brushing over his spine. The hand that’s not busy stroking Castiel’s cock leaves his hip, fingers dragging first up his ribs and then reducing to just one—a single touch that drags down behind his ear and over his shoulder, leading Castiel to shiver. It’s a strange, involuntary reflex that he’s entirely unused to experiencing, and it’s disorienting.
Dean makes a pleased noise. “Guess I can compete,” he murmurs, and Castiel responds by adjusting the grip he has on Dean’s neck and then using his free hand to grab his hip, holding them close together. Doing so restricts Dean’s range of motion, essentially forcing him to work harder, to move his hips slow and deep, and Castiel loves how it feels. So much so that he mimics the same gyration and thrust with his tail, and Dean groans with satisfaction, clearly in agreement.
“Fuck, yes.” Dean exhales into Castiel’s skin, mouth open and teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder. The action should make Castiel tense—it’s far too close to marking for his liking—but in reality, he almost wants Dean to break the skin. His baser instincts certainly do. “Give it to me, Cas,” Dean urges, so Castiel’s tail picks up the pace.
Adjusting in kind, Dean’s hand slides faster over his cock, pulling on it and twisting over the head, skillful, sensational. “I could…charm my hand, to feel like something else,” Dean offers, slowing down his strokes to await a response, nearly stopping. “Pussy? Ever fuck a chick? I could—”
Castiel makes a disenchanted noise and shakes his head, nosing at Dean’s cheek to get him to return to what he was doing. “I don’t—it’s not necessary,” he manages, rolling his hips to meet each thrust so that Dean doesn’t get any bright ideas to stop that, too.
“Are you sure? Because—”
“Dean,” Castiel says, somewhat exasperated. “Understand something: I don’t need to have a refractory period, or to feel anything I don’t desperately want to feel. I could tie you up and fuck you relentlessly for the next twelve hours, never beginning to tire or approach orgasm. The charms are interesting, but I’m choosing to feel you. If I want something else, rest assured, you will know.”
He can feel Dean huff, but he can also sense the way Dean is tiring—his aura is working harder. “Fuck me, Dean,” Castiel encourages, “Feel me inside of you—I want you to come like this.” Castiel lets his hands slip from Dean’s body as he leans forward, using his magick to balance so that Dean has better leverage but he doesn’t have to bend in half.
“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” Dean replies, picking up the pace. From this angle, it’s not easy for him to manage a reach-around, so Castiel lets him off the hook, batting his hand away.
“I have it,” he murmurs. “I told you.”
Compliantly, Dean wraps the newly-freed hand around his shoulder and puts the other on his hip, fucking him hard and fast and taking the same treatment from behind. He’s making all kinds of delectable noises that Castiel only wishes he could taste on his tongue, but he satisfies himself by focusing on opening his mind fully to the sensations enveloping his being.
It’s second nature for him to mute and blunt, a protective, defensive reflex, and if he doesn’t actively force the opposite, that’s what his vessel will do. Closing his eyes, Castiel ensures that he’s operating in mortal-mode, and then catalogs the results.
It’s truly astounding. The near-constant brushes against his prostate produce lightning bolts of tingling pleasure that not only make his cock pulse and leak, but make his fingers and toes clench and his mind turn fuzzy. Dean’s mere hand on his skin feels hot and distractingly wonderful, Dean’s tongue tasting the skin over his spine positively paralyzing in its allure.
It’s simply astounding that humans walk around feeling like this daily—able to be overwhelmed at any given moment by simple, physical touch.
In all of this, Castiel finds himself dangerously close to orgasm without laying so much as a finger on his cock since Dean let it go. He supposes that’s an easy enough state to reach when he’s left his somewhat sex-naive being so open and vulnerable, completely unblocked and inundated with such a vast variety of sensations. The cliff is there, but Castiel can’t quite find his way over it, at least, not until Dean wraps an arm around his waist and Dean’s cock pulses against his rim.
As he finishes, Dean kisses the space below Castiel’s ear, open-mouthed and hot, moaning soft and satisfied at the same time Castiel feels wet heat filling him up. That’s the trigger, for some reason, the last pleasurable sensation that puts his body on overload and sends him tumbling into whatever lies beyond.
Release—blessed, sacred, and one so complete and perfect, it goes far beyond the physical.
As his vision blurs and the overwhelming bliss causes Castiel to temporarily lose his grip on reality, the world turns upside down and the darkness pulls at him from all directions. There’s an odd vacuum and a rush of recognizable wails, and then Castiel lands roughly on a familiar floor, surrounded by everything he knows and cares about.
He’s slow to come back to himself, jeans stuck around his knees and soft dick still wet where it’s lying against his thigh. Staring dazedly upward, the curved walls of his grotto fade lazily into focus above his head. With the fresh, homey, earthy scent of his plants filling his nose, Castiel struggles up onto one elbow and blinks, shaking his head to clear it. He glances back over his shoulder and notes the Triostar looking lush, her leaves bright and vibrant, fluttering gently in the enchanted breeze.
At least there’s that.
For a moment, Castiel feels regretful. He didn’t intend on returning to his realm before either finishing his meal or bidding Dean goodbye—their time together was beyond enjoyable, and, if asked, Castiel might’ve been convinced to extend it. So many new and strange, yet cravable sensations, he feels as if he now has more questions than answers about what just happened.
The urge he felt when Dean’s teeth grazed his neck, for example—a brand new sensation for him, yet a very old concept. Inarguably dangerous, of course, but alluring all the same. If Dean had only asked, Castiel probably would’ve bonded himself to a virtual stranger without a second thought, and then where would he be?!
In the past, his friends have warned of this, but Castiel never considered himself at risk. Balthazar used to frequent the mortal coil for pleasure near-constantly, and he always described good sex as “intoxicating”. Found himself bound to a mortal more than once in the aftermath, and the results were always disastrous. In the best case scenarios, the human wasn’t aware of what they’d done, and Balthazar would simply lay low in the Underworld until they expired.
In the worst case ones, Castiel would pay the bonded human a visit and speed things up.
Privately, Castiel mostly thought Balthazar was careless. Dramatic, even. After all, he partook in the occasional sexual experience with a human from time to time, and he never felt anything approaching the uncontrollable fire and impulsive urges his friend described—until tonight.
He supposes it doesn’t matter, now. Despite succumbing to his desires more fully than he intended when initially making contact, Castiel appears to have escaped the sort-of-trap-summoning (was it?) essentially intact.
Or so he thinks, and then there’s a voice, echoing off the grotto walls.
“What the hell is this shit?!” Dean complains, from somewhere behind him and off to the left, striding out from between the rainbow eucalyptus and a Socotra dragon’s blood tree. “Since when does Hell have a fuckin’ botanical garden? This a side hustle? You charging an entrance fee, or something? Add string lights for the holidays, stick an inflatable snowman just inside the beaded curtain? Wear a beard and let all the naughty little demon children take pictures sitting on your lap?”
“What?” Castiel asks faintly, barely registering his irreverent ramblings. Dean can’t be here—it should be impossible, a cosmic unworkability. Not to mention, there’s no air here. “How—?”
Dean ignores him as he wanders further into the grotto, stark naked and blinking in confusion at the moss growing underneath his feet. When he glances up and notices the vines crisscrossing the ceiling, his facial expression shifts toward something blending bewilderment and complete awe, and his preoccupation leads him to stumble directly into the monkey puzzle tree.
It’s hard not to wince as Dean yelps and hops away from the strange and prickly evergreen. “Ouch—Jesus, fuckin’—you walk around naked with these barbed wire hazards lurking all over the place?!”
Straightening up, Castiel tugs his jeans to sit around his hips, mostly so that his ability to move isn’t restricted. “Most creatures invited into my home have depth perception and therefore step slightly to one side or the other. It’s not the puzzle tree’s fault you forgot that your form is corporeal.” As Dean stares at him incredulously, Castiel frowns, remembering himself. Something isn’t right—Dean shouldn’t be here, and it can’t be assumed that his intentions are pure.
Trying to be discreet, Castiel’s hand goes to his thigh, seeking his weapon. His fingers reach the dagger’s holster, but when they do, his stomach drops—empty. It’s not remotely tactical, but instead almost mortally reflexive when he glances down to double-check, and he shouldn’t be surprised when Dean notices and his smug voice follows.
“Looking for this?”
Almost reluctantly, Castiel drags his gaze north with full awareness of what he’s going to find. Dean’s leaning casually against the rainbow eucalyptus now, and Castiel hates how stunning he appears doing so. The tree itself is arguably one of Earth’s most beautiful naturally-occurring art installations, its trunk streaked with a variety of neon-hued splashes, some more diverse than others. Castiel’s tree, of course, has a veritable spectrum, including a handful of shades the human eye is unable to perceive.
Dean makes it look like nothing. A pile of ash, at best.
The main attraction and well-aware of that fact, Dean is practically glowing, his freckled skin and bright green eyes standing out in contrast to the pantheon of color, and he grins. Castiel’s sacred dagger is held loosely in his right hand, the pointed tip balanced and pressing into the pad of the index finger on his left.
He’s truly a picture—calm as a glass pond on a windless day. He’s fully relaxed, as if he has no concept of the power he wields, holding the only item in the universe that can end Castiel’s existence permanently.
“This is like, part of your soul, right?” Dean asks, tone even, critically examining the carved symbols on the handle and the sharpness of the blade, both with apparent admiration.
Castiel doesn’t know what to do. He can’t allow Dean to leave this space with the dagger, but forcing a confrontation could prove fatal. He’s not powerless—although his magicks will be greatly diminished against a being in possession of his knife, so he’ll have to be clever and use them indirectly. Perhaps he can simply create a tornado and hope that the storm disorients Dean, perhaps tosses him into a wall hard enough to be knocked unconscious. Then Castiel can simply pluck the knife from his hand without concern.
Is this fear? he wonders, a heart that he doesn’t actually need pounding fiercely away in his chest. The sensation is terribly thrilling.
“I don’t have a soul,” he answers cautiously, and Dean rolls his eyes. “I have an essence,” he continues, mostly to pacify his potential new adversary. “A True Form.”
Dean sighs, eyeing up the blade one final time before flipping it over in his hand to enclose the sharp side against his palm. He takes four confident steps forward with his arm extended in Castiel’s direction.
“Here,” he says, nodding a little and shaking the weapon when Castiel hesitates. “Not a trap,” he adds softly, raising an eyebrow. “It was on the floor.”
Still unsure, Castiel wraps his hand around the hilt and instantly feels the restored rush of power flood his body as Dean releases his grip. Tucking the blade back into his thigh holster, he ensures that the strap securing it is locked in place this time. It’s strange—he’s sure that it was. It’s second nature for him to do so when leaving the grotto, Castiel can’t imagine a world in which he left it undone. Not in a way that would result in the dagger actually coming loose.
Dean’s watching him closely, so Castiel is careful not to react, to keep his face blank. “Thank you,” he says, and means it. His fingertips instinctively graze the handle, reassuring, and he licks his lips, mentally searching for a way to delicately probe this situation.
“You had it in your hand when I left your plane,” he blurts out rather accusatorily, after less than a minute of silence—so much for delicate. “That’s how you’re here. In my realm. That’s why you came with me. The blade thought—”
“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Dean interjects nonchalantly, tipping his chin rather defiantly. “I don’t know what the hell happened. One minute I was balls deep, the next, it felt like I was being ripped into a thousand pieces and tumbling around the inside of a Hoover. That commute ain’t exactly the Concord, sweetheart.”
Castiel growls a little and advances on him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You knew,” he insists, feeling increasingly sure by the second. It’s the only explanation—except now, the question is, why?
Dean grunts dismissively and doesn’t back down. “You think I knew that you blowing a load would issue a snap one-way ticket home?! And that if I did, I’d scheme to hitch a ride along? For fucking what? Dude, hello? This is literally Hell, I’ve got no way out, and I’m trying not to get eaten. Way I see it, we just invented the cross-realm evolution of DoorDash, and I’m both the delivery guy and the meal.”
Distractedly, Dean reaches out for something to lean on, nearly wrapping his hand around the euphorbia candelabrum growing innocuously nearby. “I wouldn’t,” Castiel says. “Its sap will make the puzzle tree seem cuddly.”
Sharply retracting his hand, Dean cradles it to his chest as if he’s already been burned. “Gotta admit,” he says, “The lore didn’t exactly make you out to be the kinda nerd who spends his free time gardening and using the plants to recreate the house from Home Alone.”
The reference is lost on Castiel, who just stares at him for a prolonged moment, weighing his options. Dean does have several valid points, and if he was harboring ill intent, then why did he return the dagger? Why didn’t he try something when Castiel was firmly on his turf?
Castiel supposes it’s possible that Dean grabbed the blade accidentally, incidentally—he was certainly in an accessible position to do so, and that’s not his fault. If anything, Castiel should’ve been more cautious, careful. Shouldn’t have let down so many walls or turned on so many sensations.
Besides, his time with Dean has been…enlightening, and extremely pleasurable.
It’s not the worst thing to imagine keeping him around for a bit. Perhaps, when he returns to Earth, even forging some sort of mutual agreement, wherein Dean provides him additional energy sources and Castiel satisfies his more “monstrous” cravings as a reward.
By this point, Dean’s wandered off to stand under the blooming wisteria tree, again looking rather lovely in its would-be shade, and Castiel silently congratulates himself.
He clears his throat. “We both seem to agree that you don’t belong here, but…since the deed is already done, I’m wondering if we should explore the limits of what my True Form can do, and what your mortal body can handle. I have a large patch of Scotch moss towards the back of the grotto that is softer than most human beds—very enjoyable to lounge upon. Thoughts?”
Tearing his gaze away from where he’s been reaching up to finger the hanging blossoms of the wisteria, Dean easily meets his gaze and grins. “I could stay a while,” he says, biting his lip suggestively. “You let me know if you’re feeling peckish, though. I’m not above sharing, but I do need a heads up, and the soul’s off-limits.”
“We’ll work something out,” Castiel replies vaguely. He turns his back on Dean to make his way over to one of the few pieces of furniture he owns. A small dresser, set next to an unobtrusive hutch that displays his even fewer material possessions. After a second of internal debate, Castiel replaces the dagger and holster in their usual spot before shirking his jeans, folding them up, and placing them inside a drawer.
As he moves with the intention of returning to Dean’s side, Castiel passes the hutch and notices that the dagger isn’t the only item filling a previously empty space on its shelves. Not the only thing that automatically came home with them, either. The lore book Dean tossed to his feet while he was still inside the warded circle has also reappeared inside its display case, back where it belongs.
Silently, Castiel thinks that it might be quite some time before he has to take it out again.
***