Warnings: angst, mention of a stab wound, character death
Word Count: 1681
Summary: Obi-Wan goes to Coruscant with the intention of decoding a beacon but he finds along the way that you've been hurt.
[Inspired by the song only the winds by ólafur arnalds]
Note: Obi-Wan goes through so much pain during Revenge of the Sith and I thought, "Why not add some more to it?"
Obi-Wan had only just started his ship and flew away from Utapau unseen, when he felt a disturbance in the force and a pain in his chest. After speaking to Senator Organa about his clones turning on him, he brought a hand up to rub against his chest to ease the pain away as it swirled around uncomfortably. Coming into contact with Master Yoda, he made his way to where he was currently hiding with the Senator. After learning that a beacon was set, luring in any surviving Jedi of the attack back to the Temple, Obi-Wan and Master Yoda planned to go to Coruscant to signal it off.
Entering the planet's atmosphere and upon seeing the Jedi Temple in flames, Obi-Wan landed as quickly and safely as he could manage. Stepping out, he grunted as he was suddenly thrown off balance. Holding onto the wing of his ship, he took in sharp breaths while feeling the pain from before grow stronger. He closed his eyes, trying to meditate and get rid of the feeling when only one thing occupied his mind in return. (Y/N). The pain was coming from her and he had felt it through their force bond.
A sense of panic went through his body and he did his best to block any of the clone trooper's shots and killing those that came near him. Watching as Master Yoda bounced off one of the remaining trooper's blasts with his lightsaber and sending it back his way, they cautiously walked into the Temple. They immediately noticed an uneasy feeling inside and as they turned a corner, they finally knew why.
Pillars were crushed, fires going off in the distance but they were distraught with what they saw in the middle of the hallway. Lying on the floor were bodies of dead younglings and padawans, their lightsabers still grasped tightly into their hands. Obi-Wan slid the hood of his cloak off his head as he stared in disbelief. "Not even the young ones survived." He stated, glancing towards the ground before turning his head when Yoda began to speak.
"Killed not by clones this padawan, by a lightsaber he was." The Grand Master Jedi said, a look of grief in his eyes as he faced his friend.
Obi-Wan crouched down to Yoda's height, staring at the young padawan. "Who? Who could have done this?" Once Yoda didn't answer, he stood up and went around the bodies, being mindful not to step on them. As they walked past the Council Chamber, he froze in his place. The pain in his chest came back, tightening ever so slightly. Sensing Yoda stop as well, Obi-Wan reached for the door. Opening it, he was met with the sight of more dead younglings, but he felt a familiar force signature inside and there he saw her. The woman he came to love on the ground near one of the seats, her arms wrapped around one of the children securely but it was no use as Obi-Wan could tell the child was already dead.
The Jedi rushed to (Y/N)'s side, dropping to his knees as he noticed her eyes were closed. Feeling his heartbeat in his throat, he gently unwrapped her arms from the child and laid her head on his lap. Tears began to fill his eyes as he stroked her cheekbones softly, one managing to fall and land on her face. Obi-Wan watched as it slid down the curve of her cheek before he sensed movement underneath him.
"Obi-Wan?" (Y/N) said weakly as she slowly opened her eyes, not missing the soft sigh of relief he let out. She looked away from Obi-Wan's face to see Master Yoda standing close behind him.
"(Y/N), are you alright? Are you hurt? Did you see who did this?" Obi-Wan fired away, not giving the woman in his arms a chance to answer.
Glancing at the muddled expression on the young Jedi's face, Yoda stepped in. "Patience you must have, Master Kenobi." Pointing towards a gash on the side of (Y/N)'s waist he added, "Injured she is."
"Injured?" Obi-Wan repeated. Following Yoda's finger, he suddenly became aware of (Y/N)'s wound. Lightly touching it, he instantly pulled his hand away as (Y/N) hissed at the contact. "This isn't good." He mumbled, running a hand through his hair. "We still have to decode the signal, Master. We can worry about this on the way there." Wrapping his arms under (Y/N)'s body, he picked her up slowly as to not cause anymore pain to her wound.
Peeking his head out to check if the hallway was clear, Obi-Wan headed to the beacon room with Master Yoda close behind him. As they made to enter the room, they found a group of assassins guarding the beacon, which Yoda swiftly dispatched all of them. Obi-Wan lowered (Y/N) to lean against the wall before re-calibrating the code to warn any surviving Jedi to stay away from Coruscant.
Sliding the holocron back into place, Obi-Wan stepped back into the security room but hesitated his next move. He eyed the holocron that holds the security recordings, he heard Yoda warn him that only pain he will find if he went through it. "I must know the truth, Master." Obi-Wan said over his shoulder before playing the footage. He fast-forwarded until he saw something catch his eye. "It can't be, it can't be." He whispered as he leaned back in shock. He watched his former padawan, Anakin Skywalker, kill a Master Jedi and his own apprentice before it went to him kneeling in front of the Sith Lord, Darth Sidious. Switching the recordings off, he was conflicted as Yoda told him that he must go after Anakin. Telling the Master Jedi he simply can't go and kill his friend, he noticed from the corner of his eye that (Y/N) had her head down.
Running to her aid, he lifted her head in time to see her eyelids drooping. The sense of panic coming back to him when her eyes closed. Still sensing a force signature within her, he relaxed a bit when Yoda placed a hand on his shoulder. "Take her to Polis Massa, I will. Find this Darth Vader, you must." Knowing there was no way out of this, Obi-Wan reluctantly agreed. He took one last glance at his beloved and left the room.
Obi-Wan sat alone in the board room, having just finished discussing the future of the twins only moments ago. He stroked his beard, lost in thought about what Master Yoda told him afterwards that he hadn't noticed a medical droid approach him. He stood up quickly, urgently waiting to know about (Y/N)'s condition.
He felt his heart drop to his stomach as the droid told him there was nothing they could do to help her. Her wound was too deep to heal. She was dying. His head was spinning as he made his way to the room she was in. Opening the doors, he signaled the droids to leave while pulling a chair next to her bed so he could sit. He took a hold of one of (Y/N)'s hands into his own while smoothing out her hair with the other. Tears began to well up in his eyes again, he brought up the hand that laid on (Y/N)'s hair to wipe them away when it froze mid-air as Obi-Wan noticed that she was staring at him.
(Y/N) placed the hand that wasn't in Obi-Wan's hold on his cheek, wiping away a stray tear with her thumb. "Jedi aren't suppose to cry." She joked lightly.
"Jedi aren't suppose to fall in love either and yet here we are." Obi-Wan reminded her. They were aware of the Jedi Code and it's rule against forming attachments but they disregarded it to be together in secret.
"Are you saying you love me, Master Kenobi?" She raised an eyebrow at him.
"I've always loved you, (Y/N). Took me a while to realize it but it was always there, building up until I had the courage to kiss you all those years ago." He confessed.
"And I love you, Obi-Wan. Ever since we were padawans, I knew you were the one for me." (Y/N) said through slow breaths, giving Obi-Wan a sad smile as he gripped the hand that was on his face.
He knew she was growing weaker as time passed. Closing the space between them, he pressed a kiss onto her forehead before leaning his head against hers. "I love you." He whispered into the quiet room.
He didn't have to look up to know that she was already gone. The pain in his chest had moved to his heart, constricting around it as he felt the small amount of force that was keeping her alive leave her body as she took her last breath. Obi-Wan felt like his body was being torn apart, a piece of him dying along with her. No amount of pain that he had endured before could compare to this. It was as if someone had stabbed him through the heart and kept plunging the dagger deeper into his chest, twisting it as well just for fun.
He moved his head to rest just under her chin, hugging her frame as he sobbed. He let the tears fall freely down his face, not wanting to stop them this time. In only a matter of hours he had to say goodbye to those he cared and loved for. Leaving the boy he practically raised and treated as a brother behind on a deserted planet for dead. Losing the closest friend he had outside of the Order soon after. The love of his life dead in his arms and there was nothing he could have done to change any of their fates.
As he continued to weep, a thought came across his mind that seemed only like the truth. Maybe, just maybe, he truly was designed to be alone.
Funnily enough I was going through a lot of your old fics yesterday for nostalgia reasons and now can't stop thinking high school enemies to lovers deancas ideally with some punk!cas nerd!dean maybe? Fully understand if that prompt doesn't tickle your fancy though
Please enjoy these 3.2k of enemies to homework buddies!
“Winchester.”
Dean will ignore him.
“Hey, Winchester!”
Dean will most definitely ignore him. Just keep on walking. If Novak thinks he can’t hear him, surely he’ll leave him alone. He’ll go bother someone else, and Dean will finally be free of him.
“Winchester!”
Dean hears, but doesn’t listen. He starts humming to himself when there’s suddenly a hand on his shoulder, ripping him out of his thoughts.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, you assbutt!”
And there he is, of course: Castiel Novak. With his dumb boots and even dumber leather jacket, and, dumbest of all, that small little frown that slowly morphs into a way too pleased smile the longer Dean glares at him.
Christ.
By the time when Novak’s smile turns into a full-blown grin, Dean finally musters up the strength to look away. The soft rustle of tree crowns in the distance reminds him of what a great morning he has been having, and what a perfect day it could have been, had Novak decided to leave him alone. As it is, his day might turn out a bit marred, after all. A bit more normal, perhaps.
“‘Assbut’?” Dean quips, way too late. “What kinda insult is that?”
“What kind of delayed comeback is this?” Novak counters.
“It’s not as delayed as your…” Dean doesn’t really know enough about Novak to be able to insult him in any meaningful way, and what he knows of him, he doesn’t want to use. So, instead, he finishes lamely with, “...development.”
Novak could not look any less impressed, especially because the raise of his eyebrow alone continues their little banter in a manner that clearly suggests that if anyone’s development is delayed, it has to be Dean’s. However, that level of insult is apparently not one Novak deigns to lower himself to, as he continues to look smug while busying himself with lighting a cigarette and blowing out a lungful of smoke with obvious relish.
Dean makes a face and pointedly waves his hand in front of his face. “Smoking’s bad for you,” he simply states, making Novak chuckle lightly.
“So’s a lot of things, if society is to be believed. I am not much of a believer, though, and I do enjoy the small pleasures in life.”
The small, self-satisfied smile Novak shoots him sends a strange feeling through Dean’s body, from his lips down to his very toes, and everything in-between.
Dean swallows. “What do you want, Novak?”
“Oh, nothing much.” Novak takes a drag while trotting along Dean who starts moving again, trying to put some distance between himself and the self-proclaimed anarchist. “I just have a small favor to ask you,” he says, sounding as though whatever he is asking for is actually not that small at all.
“Again?” Dean grumbles, thinking of Novak quickly copying his homework last week, secluded in that small parking lot that no one but Novak and some people in the know ever seem to use, and of what Novak did in return. “I’m not doing you any more favors, man,” Dean scoffs, and stomps on.
Nonetheless, Novak stays hot on his heels.
“Why not?” Novak presses, “I’m not asking for much -- I just need today’s Math homework. I didn’t hear Mr. Singer give us any, but Meg just told me he wanted us to solve like 15 fucking problems, and she didn’t do them either.“
“Of course not.“ Anything else would’ve been shocking enough — if Novak has a bad reputation, Meg Masters‘ is even worse. All kinds of rumors are going around about her, ranging from drug use to prostitution to downright witchcraft. Although Dean cannot confirm nor deny any of the rumors, he is inclined to believe most of them. And Meg Masters herself would probably laughingly accept any accusations -- she is that kind of person. And although Dean cannot help but grudgingly respect her for her attitude, he also resents her for it: and how could he not, when he works so hard to do what is asked of him, and stick to the rules? Yeah, the only way someone like Meg could shock Dean would be to actually do her homework for a change.
“Now, now,“ Novak chides playfully, even if it doesn’t seem like he cares all that much about it. “Meg does her best.“
“Just like you do, huh?“
At that, Novak‘s grin turns darker, a bit more dangerous. “So harsh, Winchester. I think you know better than most how sometimes, things are not as easy as they seem. That circumstances are different for everyone.“
“Yeah, yeah,“ Dean dismisses, with a pang in his chest, though he gets it. Unfortunately, he really does. “Anyway, I won’t give you the homework.“
“Why not?“
“Because why would I? I don’t like you and you only hit me up when you need stuff from me. Besides...“ he begins, then swallows back a proper explanation. “You know why.“
“Oh, I do?“
“You damn well know you do.“
“Hmm, alright.“ Novak takes another drag, unbothered. “Listen, if you give me today’s homework, I’ll make it worth your while.“
“Not interested,“ Dean says, already having a hunch of where this is going.
“No? Could be something similar to last time. You liked last time’s payment, didn’t you?” Novak asks, and it’s just like Dean expected.
Dean avidly fixes his gaze on the school building, still hidden behind some trees, but not too far off anymore. He will be safe there -- Novak would never dream of bothering him where anyone else could see.
“I fucking did not,” he argues, already feeling heat creep into his cheeks.
“Really? I could’ve sworn you did, what with all the blushing and squirming and your pants going--”
“Novak!” Dean barks with a swelling sense of despair. His entire face feels hot by now, and is probably as red as a tomato, “I sure as hell did not enjoy whatever you call ‘payment’ for last week. Besides, I wouldn’t even call it ‘payment’ so much as fucking ‘harassment’.”
There is a beat of silence. Then, “Are you serious?” Novak asks, in an unidentifiable tone of voice.
“‘Harassment’, ‘molestation’, ‘taking advantage’,” Dean recites, enjoying this now that he is gaining momentum. “You call it payment, I call it an affront, and--”
“Is that really what you think, Winchester?” Novak cuts in at the same time he stands still, his eyebrows drawn together in an unfamiliarly serious way. “That I harassed you?”
Dean stops as well. He looks back at Novak, his straight back and straightforward face, the way that he seems not just annoyed by the accusation, as Dean would have expected, but unsettled. As if he were taking Dean’s half-joke seriously, and reconsidering his own course of action.
Guilt wells up in Dean, and he holds his hands up in reassurance. “I didn’t--” he doesn’t know how to actually finish that sentence, so he just leaves it hanging.
There is nothing to say there, not really. What Dean said was half in jest, and half in… half in what he knows anyone else would think of the situation, or should think. It’s what Dean himself should think: that it was unexpected, unwanted, unreciprocated. That his animosity towards Novak just grew over it, that he truly hates him now. That there was no part of Dean that enjoyed any of it, no part of him that longs to do it again.
Novak keeps staring at him, though, reassessing. His stillness is as unnerving as his little smiles and contemplative looks usually are, even if in different ways. Regardless, he seems to come to some sort of conclusion as he takes in Dean’s still figure, the flush in his cheeks and whatever else there is to see, since he suddenly steps forward, closer towards him again.
“Harassment, was it?” Novak says, now with cold fire burning in his eyes that takes away Dean’s breath for just a moment. “Because I do seem to remember that you were the one who not only told me it was okay if I gave you a kiss on the cheek, but turned it into something more. By turning your head, parting your lips, not letting me go. You were the one who slipped me the tongue and kept going and going. You were the one who begged me to do more, kiss you more, touch you more, fu--”
“No!” Dean interrupts him, with burning cheeks and a stomach that has already dropped all the way down. “S-Stop making shit up, Novak. You know I’m not like that -- I’m not like you --, so I’d really appreciate it if you could leave me out of your fantasies. You were the one who harassed me--”
“--I just said--”
“--who pushed me to give him my homework in the first place--”
“--I asked you if it was okay to--”
“--and who made me do something I sure as hell neither enjoyed nor wanna do again.”
“Oh, really?” Novak asked, raising an eyebrow, in what might constitute a challenge or a feeling of false imputation, or both. “So, if I told you I’d love to kiss you again if you let me copy your math homework, you’d tell me no? Would what, cry harassment again if I dared touch so much as your wrist or even came close to you again? Or,” he continues, voice dropping into a darker tone while he does indeed inch closer towards Dean, close enough to touch him, and who remains where he is, rooted to the spot, “would you tell someone about it? Mr. Singer, perhaps? Or the counselor? Hmm, one thing’s for sure, though.” He laughs, but there’s no humor behind it. It sounds pained, even to Dean’s ears, knowing. “You wouldn’t tell your dad, would you? That you made out with a guy, and liked it? That you wouldn’t mind doing it again, given the right circumstances, some good excuse? Such as taking the long way to where you’ve parked your car, past the small parking lot you know where mine is and where I usually hang out? So that, I don’t know, perhaps I might come over when I see you, and all you had to do was bat your long lashes at me, bite your pretty lips, and wait for me to make a move again?”
It feels as if all the air is sucked out of Dean’s lungs. Standing there in front of Novak, feeling the heat of both his words and his body, he feels seen-through, known; and as lacerated and repugnant as an open wound.
Dean wants to draw back into himself, into his safe shell, but he can’t. “You’re ridiculous, man,” is all he can mumble out in return as he twists his gaze away from Novak.
They remain there like this for God knows how long. Dean, looking somewhere between their feet and Novak’s almost heaving chest, and Novak, with his face hidden from Dean’s view, but his hands clenched into fists.
By the time Novak’s hands open again, it feels as though an hour has passed, though it probably were mere minutes.
“Alright,” Novak blows out on a breath, “let me make you a deal. Just so we’re on the same page, and we’re both absolutely clear on what is okay and what might be harassment or anything of the sort.”
Hearing Novak say that word again revives the feelings of guilt in Dean, but he knows he’s made his bed, so now he has to lie in it. So, he swallows and nods, feeling all of his body tense. “What kinda deal?”
“It goes like this: you either refuse to let me copy your homework and I won’t ever touch, much less kiss, you ever again. I’ll leave you alone. Or, you allow me to copy today’s homework at the very least, so Mr. Singer won’t call my foster home again, and you can choose whatever payment you want, as long as it’s somewhat reasonable. Money, cigarettes, beer, anything you want me to do, you name it. As long as you name it. I won’t give you what you’re not explicitly asking for.”
Dean frowns. “What? How is that a deal? It’s either you win or I do, no in-between. I mean, fine by me, but you get nothing out of it, so what gives?”
“It’s not that bad of a deal,“ Novak says, finally flinging his cigarette to the ground and grinding it out.
He gives no further explanation, though, which gets on Dean’s nerves even more. “You suck at coming up with deals, you know that?“
“Not really,“ Novak says, shrugging a little. “As I see it, it‘s win-win for you and win-lose for me. Which, for me, too: is fine. It all depends on what you want.” There’s something strangely soft in the way he is looking at Dean, something almost wistful. “And on whether you’ll actually express it.”
Put on the spot yet not, there isn’t much for Dean to do but nod in acquiescence. He’d like to pretend he still doesn’t get what Novak is going for, but he does, deep down. It’s both an in and an out -- what he was hoping for, but couldn't have asked for. Now he has to ask for what he wants, and if he doesn’t, he won’t get it. And he’s not sure he can. Not when there’s rules and expectations and the shadow of a man larger than Dean, larger than life itself, endlessly looming over him.
“Okay,” Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Novak keeps staring at him in that stiffly intense way of his. “Alright. I mean, it probably would be pretty bad if you turned up without homework again, huh? Last I heard, you got into some pretty dire straits when Mr. Singer called your foster home, right?”
Novak huffs out a sound of amusement, his shoulders sinking in what looks like relief. “You’re well-informed.”
A furious blush threatens to stain Dean’s cheeks again. “It’s just what I heard. People talk. About you. And, uh, everyone else, I guess.”
There it is again, that soft expression. And Dean thinks he might recognize it now, impossible enough: Novak looks fond.
“They do,” Novak agrees, showing no offense at any possible implications of him being the talk of the school, which he most definitely is. “And yes, it was ‘pretty bad’, as you’ve said. I’d much rather not have a repeat performance.”
“Easy way to avoid it.”
“Yes, I’m working on it at the very moment.”
In spite of himself, Dean huffs out a laugh. “I meant doing your own damn homework. I know you’re smart enough to do it, even if you barely show up in class. You ace all the tests even when you weren’t there, so I don’t believe you couldn’t just as well hand in your homework if you fucking wanted to.”
Novak hums in open amusement. “Is that your own observation or people talking again?”
Feeling as though caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Dean just lamely stammers out a, “It’s-- it’s common knowledge, okay?” before setting into motion again.
Novak’s laughter follows him the first few steps, then he is beside him again.
“Who knows, maybe you’re right and I could take care of my own homework. But maybe I like not doing so, and asking certain other people for it instead.”
It’s obvious what -- or rather, who -- he means by that, that Dean is pretty sure his skin will never be anything but pink again. “Oh yeah?” he needles, “You got many people doing your homework? Giving them the same payment, too?”
“No,” Novak replies surprisingly quickly, “there’s only one person, and only one time I offered that type of payment.”
For a minute, they walk in silence as they almost reach the stairs of the school house. There’s few other people around, most of them just entering the building or looking at their phones, unheeding of the pair.
“So, we have a deal?” Novak eventually asks into their waiting silence.
“You can have today’s homework,” Dean relents, holding out on what he knows Novak is actually going for.
“Thank you, Dean,” Novak says with a gummy smile.
The sound of his name stirs Dean him up a bit more, reminding him of the only other time when Novak called him by his first name: when he was crowding Dean up against a wall, removing his glasses, and kissing his cheek so softly that Dean needed more, needed to be closer to this other guy, to this enigma of a person.
“Don’t mention it,” Dean mumbles.
“As for your payment…?” Novak probes, though with his voice in a whisper as they are close enough to other people now that they might otherwise be overheard.
“Don’t know yet,” Dean says, his voice clipped.
“I’m sure you already have something in mind.“ It’s completely uncalled for Novak to say this in such a low and heady way.
“Maybe you do, but I don’t.“ He doesn’t know, he thinks. He can’t, is why. He won’t, he tells himself.
“Dean,” Novak says, using his first name again, as if they were friends or something more, sounding intimate in the most casual way, and that does it.
“Damnit, Novak, I want—“ Dean bursts out.
Novak looks at him in expectation, all of him turned towards Dean, listening.
He won’t, he won’t, he can’t.
Can’t he?
“—time,“ Dean finishes lamely.
Novak pulls a face that clearly says, ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed.’
Which is all the worse.
“Listen, Novak, you… you might be right.“ Dean pulls a face. “I can’t believe I just said that. But yeah, I might have an idea of what I want, what I’d like to have,” he pointedly does not look at the other boy or anything else but straight towards the school. “But you’re also right in that my dad wouldn’t— I can’t--” He swallows, tries to shake the thought out of his head, but it unfortunately stays stuck. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll think about it, okay?”
“You will?” Novak asks, sounding hopeful.
“Yeah, sure. Maybe.“ He blows out his breath, scrubs a hand through his own hair, and continues, “Might take me some time, though. Maybe a long time. Maybe forever.“ He laughs mirthlessly. “So, today’s homework might actually turn out to be a freebie for you.”
The expression on Novak‘s face is hard to read, but undeniably one he usually does not show in public. For a second there, Dean thinks Novak wants to reach for him: his hand lifts and opens just so, swerving in his direction. Before anything comes off it, though, he drops his hand again, burrows it in his pocket and says, “Take all the time you need, Dean.“
He might have to, Dean thinks. Probably nothing will come of this, not right now, maybe not for as long as he is as young as he is, dependent on his father’s will, bound to him for freedom. Perhaps, though, some other time, in some distant future, or hidden behind some bleachers, he might find a taste of liberation, or the touch of Novak’s lips again.
Dean turns away from the other boy as the school bell rings, the call-back to the present not quite as oppressive with blue eyes and a soft smile still impressed on his mind.
Hi! Please could you write a short hurt/comfort for destiel? I'm in an angsty mood and I'm not sure why
Woops, I hope you consider 2.2k ‘short’. And I hope you’ll feel better soon! ♥
“You feeling any better, Cas?” Dean asked into the dimness of the room, only illuminated by the hall lights behind him. From his vantage point, he could only vaguely make out the shape of Castiel on top of his comforter, spread out like a starfish and eerily still. The weird position probably would have made Dean laugh any other day, but he didn’t feel like laughing in that moment -- the images of the last hunt were still burned too freshly in his mind. Of himself being struck down by one of the harpies and almost torn from limb to limb, had Castiel not arrived in the nick of time, deftly striking them down with the wrath of God, and looking so fucking lost and shell-shocked right after.
Though, ‘wrath of God’ was probably the wrong phrasing, seeing as Castiel had completely lost his grace not so long ago, and was just as human, even if a bit more awkward, as the rest of them.
Dean guessed that was also the reason for his dramatic position, and his withdrawal from all of them once they had finished the hunt. Down in the dirt with them all, it must have sucked to have had such close calls, whereas before, he could have smote them with so much as a glance.
“Go away, Dean,” Castiel said, and his deadpan delivery actually made Dean laugh.
“Alright, princess, but only if you tell me what’s wrong.”
Dean could see Castiel turning his face towards him, the light from the hallway briefly catching in his eyes.
“Because you always tell me what’s wrong whenever you are suffering.”
“Alright, alright, alright,” Dean grumbled, feeling himself flush for some inexplicable reason. “Have it your way. I actually just came here to ask you if you wanted to come for dinner, but I’m guessing that Mr. Mopey Pants probably wants to eat about as much as he wants to talk.”
“That’s correct, Dean,” Castiel confirmed.
“Jesus,” Dean sighed to himself, regretting all of his life choices (as usually). Instead of doing the sensible thing and just walking away to let Castiel sulk by himself, he stepped into Castiel’s room and shut the door behind himself, extinguishing almost all of the outside light. Without bothering to turn on the ceiling light in return, he drew closer to the bed, stumbling in the darkness. Although he could not see with his eyes unadjusted to the lack of light, he knew the layout of the room well enough not to bump into anything -- besides, all he had to do was follow the always palpable existence of another human being in the room. Without so much as hitting his foot, his knees sank into the soft give of the mattress.
He wanted to sit down at the edge of the bed and have a calm and collected conversation with his best friend, as any normal person would do. What he wound up doing instead was not to stop there, for whatever reason: once his knees hit the bed, he suddenly found himself climbing on top of it, and since Castiel was all spread out on it, there was nowhere for Dean to go but on top of him. Not on top-on top of him, of course -- he did not press his body up against his, like some sexual fiend. No, all he did was try to lie down next to Castiel, and lied down on his arm and part of his thigh instead, though he tried to minimize the contact. However, he was apparently the only one interested in doing so because, despite their awkward positioning, Castiel made no move to withdraw from him and instead stayed rooted where he was, all spread out.
As Dean adjusted his body, he thought he heard Castiel’s breath catch in the darkness, just so. For his own sanity, he decided to discard it.
“Cas, listen,” Dean began, “I know I’m not exactly the poster child for talking out your issues, but, uhm, I’m trying to do better. And encourage myself and other people to say when they got a problem. Be more open and all that. It’s a bit weird at first, I get it, but it does help.” That flush again, heating his skin. “Me, at least. It makes me feel better. Less alone, I guess. Less responsible for,” he made a throwaway gesture that could only be heard in the room, not seen, “everything, I guess.”
Castiel remained silent for a while, probaby mulling over Dean’s words. Then, he made a quiet sound of assent. “You do,” he agreed evenly, “feel responsible for everything.”
Dean could not help but groan. “Yeah, thanks, man. That wasn’t my point, though.”
“Yes,” Castiel said easily, “your point was that I should talk about whatever bothers me.”
Dean felt like rolling his eyes again. “If you got it, spare me your jokes.”
“Oh,” Castiel said, his arm twitching under Dean’s weight. He sounded surprised that Dean had gotten that his flat assessment had been an attempt at a joke and maybe a deflection -- as if Dean hadn’t known him long enough to be able to recognize his weird sense of humor that others often misunderstood as him being socially awkward.
“Yeah,” Dean huffed out, but there was no heat behind it. Just feeling Castiel’s arm and thigh under him was enough to keep him calm and somewhat endeared to the former angel, strangely enough. Maybe he needed to go out more.
“But,” Castiel began, pausing for yet another moment before commencing again, “but what if whatever bothers me is lying on top of me and trying to get me to talk about what bothers me?”
It took Dean a minute before he got what Castiel was driving at with his weird wording, and then he felt his body stiffening up. “You calling me a bother?”
Right, he hadn’t come there to hear that kind of crap. If Cas wanted to be alone, then so be it.
Just as inelegantly as he had climbed onto the bed, he attempted to roll off of it. But before he could quite get up and leave the moody angel behind, there were hands grappling at his shoulder and hips, pulling him right back.
Dean grunted as he fell back against Castiel, who only tightened his grip to keep Dean in a weird kind of embrace.
Suddenly finding himself winded, Dean could do nothing but stay where he was, Castiel’s arms around his chest and his face burrowed in his neck.
Cas smells so good, Dean thought in a moment of stupidity, incapable of not enjoying their unexpected proximity, Castiel’s hands and breath on his body. He wished they could stay like that forever, close and under cover of darkness, nothing but the two of them.
“Dean,” Castiel sighed, the warmth of the spoken name not just in Dean’s heart but also on his skin. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to see you like that?”
Dean, dumbly drunk as he was on Castiel, was far from understanding whatever Castiel was hinting at. “Wha--?”
“See you almost ripped asunder from those harpies, crying out and yelling my name--,” Castiel faltered, swallowing.
Dean didn’t even remember calling out for Castiel specifically. He thought all he had done was scream and curse and hoping for either Cas or Sam to come and help him.
“And had they succeeded, there would have been nothing I could’ve done for you. I could not have healed you, put your body back together the way it belongs. The way it is right now.”
With any other guy and under any other circumstances, the way one of Castiel’s hands suddenly roamed his body while the other held Dean tightly against his own body probably would have felt like someone trying to cop a feel against Dean’s will. Especially since Castiel did not exactly hold back, but panted as though holding back a sob while he touched any part of Dean’s body he could reach. As it was, Dean knew it wasn’t Cas’ intention to molest him or make him uncomfortable: it was self-reassurance, pure and simple. Something Dean understood instinctively, had needed more than enough times himself. Which was why he didn’t shy away or tell Castiel to stop. No, instead, he relaxed himself into his hold, and nuzzled back against his head.
“This what all of this is about, Cas?” Dean asked in a hoarse whisper. “You feel bad about not being able to mojo it all better anymore?” He could have probably been more precise in his words by asking if he felt bad about not being an angel anymore, but as much would have been understood; he did not mean to hurt Castiel any more than he already was hurting.
“I feel bad about seeing you like that,” Castiel deflected. Then, “I was scared when seeing you like that. Scared of losing you. And of being helpless to prevent it.”
There was a sudden lump in Dean’s throat. “You didn’t lose me, though. And you did prevent it.”
“Had I arrived even one moment later, Dean,” Castiel objected, pain thickening his voice, “then you would’ve lost an arm or two, or even your life. And I could not have healed you, restored your body. You might’ve died, Dean, and there would’ve been nothing I--”
That was about as far as he got because with a press of his lips, Dean cut him right off. Despite the shocked little noise that Castiel let out, he kissed back right away, his hand returning to angle Dean’s head to kiss him deeper, taste him wholly.
It was Dean’s turn to be surprised when he felt Castiel’s tongue and lips immediately claim him that way, without any hesitation.
By the time they broke apart, both panting and staring at each other in the dimness, Dean had ended up with his back on the bed, Castiel hovering over him.
“Don’t--,” Dean pressed out through heavy breaths, “don’t be a child, Cas. You didn’t come late -- in fact, you came at the exact right time to fucking save me. And you saved me with what you can do now, as a human, not as an angel. Without you, things might’ve gone downhill. Or they might’ve not. Who knows, maybe Sammy would’ve saved me.”
He could practically feel the frown above him.
“What I’m trying to say is: on a hunt, anything can happen. Might go good, and yeah, might go bad. It’s what we’re used to -- known all our lives. All we can do is give our best and hope it all pans out. And work with what we got. Same as you. Yeah, you can’t magically mojo all my injuries away, but you can kill any bitch with a blade like it’s nobody’s business. You’re quick and precise, and a damn asset to our hunts, if you ask me. And that’s what you should be focusing on. Thinking about the shoulda woulda coulda doesn’t help in any way -- think of what’s right in front of you, not what’s in the past or in the future. Ain’t nothing we can do anything about anyway. Well, not much, at least.”
Dean was proud of his little joke by the end there, but Castiel did not laugh. Did not even chuckle, that bastard. Instead, he made a contemplative noise as he listened and thought Dean’s words over again.
“What’s right in front of me, huh?” Castiel reiterated thoughtfully, one of his thumbs tracing the line of Dean’s jaw and his lips.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut and fought against the urge to kiss that teasing finger. “Not exactly what I meant, but yeah.”
“To me, that’s exactly what you meant,” Castiel said, with unprecedented lightness. “To not dwell on how badly you could’ve been hurt and how you screamed my name, but on how whole you are right now, how alive, thanks to me, and how much pleasure you could still receive.”
Dean was glad that Castiel could not possibly see how flaming his cheeks must have been. “That an offer, Cas?” His voice came out much lower than he had been going for, which however seemed well enough.“‘Cause lemme tell you, if it is, I wouldn’t mind showing my savior how thankful I am. How fucking alive.”
“It could be,” Castiel replied, his voice dipping in kind.
Which was an unexpected turn of events, if Dean had ever experienced one, and he had actually experienced many. But, true to his own words, he should focus on what was in front of him. What had, in fact, been in front of him for a whole damn while now, he had just been too chickenshit to reach out for it.
Not anymore, though. Instead of drawing back and laughing it all off, diminishing the heat and warmth he felt for the weirdo on top of him, he laid a hand on Castiel’s cheek, let out a sigh, and pulled him back into another kiss.
Prompt: omega dean/alpha cas where they're just about to get mated and cas is teasingly wondering where to place his bite
“Hmmm, let’s see…” Castiel drawled playfully, giving Dean’s still sweaty and completely bare body a once-over. The clear amusement in his eyes had replaced the overwhelming desire of their mating mere minutes ago, since now that both of them were spent and their bodies united through Castiel’s knot, he had enough wits to tease Dean instead of wanting nothing more than making him scream. Which was for the best, especially seeing as in their throes of passion, Dean had asked -- no, begged -- him for the first time in his life to bite and properly claim him, crying out for his Alpha with tears in his eyes. And Castiel, mindful of not taking what might not have been given with proper consent, had offered to delay it for a bit by promising Dean he would claim him wherever he wanted him to if he still craved that bite once he was satisfied and still.
“Now, where should I place my bite?” Castiel continued, jokingly scanning the lines of Dean’s body in search for a proper place.
“Cas,” Dean sighed with a roll of his eyes. His Omega had always been of the impatient sort, which had endeared him all the more to Castiel.
“Yes, Dean?” Castiel asked lightly, not even bothering to hide his smile.
“You know where I want it.” Dean replied.
“Mhh, that, I do know,” Castiel confirmed, swivelling his hips just enough to make Dean gasp.
“And you know what I mean,” Dean pressed on, more breathless now. “You promised you’d bite me if-- y’know--”
“If you were a good boy for me and just waited a bit longer?”
“Yeah,” Dean nodded.
“And were you a good boy for me, Dean? Did you do as I told you to, trust me to take care of you, so that I can properly claim you now?”
“Alpha,” Dean whimpered.
“Answer my question,” Castiel said, giving Dean a small thrust without even meaning to.
“I was--,” Dean licked his lips, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, fighting against his own demons and those many years of lacking acceptance for himself, “I was a good boy for you.”
“Oh yes, you were,” Castiel immediately agreed, pleased with Dean’s admission. His Omega never failed to make him proud. “A very good boy, indeed. Which means that you shall now have your reward.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathed out in apparent relief.
“But still,” Castiel continued, once again dipping into a more playful tone, “that doesn’t answer the question of where I should mark you, onto which part of your lovely body I should put my unmistakeable claim. Where I should bite you at last, make you mine.”
It was Dean’s turn to swivel his hips now, almost unwittingly seeking even more pleasure from his Alpha. The sweet little motion of his hips was as much of an indicator of how much he both hated and loved their little game as was his slowly returning erection.
Just how had Castiel gotten so lucky?
“So, I was thinking,” Castiel deliberated loudly, “ that I could put it on your thigh, hm? Make it so that it would stay our secret in public, but that any other Alpha trying to touch you would see and know -- know that you are mine.”
Languidly, he lifted Dean’s right leg over his shoulder, not just improving the angle of how his knot was situated, but also allowing him to press a series of kisses along Dean’s knee and thighs. Furthermore, the position thickened the sweet scent coming from down below and granted Castiel a clearer view of the stiffening Omega cock.
“Stop toying with me,” Dean grunted out, somewhere between annoyance and arousal. “You know I don’t want it on my thigh.”
“On your chest, then? High enough to not be utterly obscene, but at such a sensitive spot that there could be no doubt about the intimate nature of the claim?” He thought for a moment, for the first time actually giving consideration to that placement, and finding himself not wholly disliking the idea. “I could place it right over your heart. Right where you feel and think the strongest. The most stubborn part of yourself.”
With the hand not holding Dean’s leg, he now traced over Dean’s chest, halting right where he suggested his claim to go, and spreading his fingers over it, his big palm encompassing all of Dean’s left breast.
Moved, at once, by the strong and wild beating of his Omega’s heart, Castiel’s lips fell open and he could do nothing more than listen with his whole body and being. The heart’s rapid pace spoke of more than arousal, but of anticipation, too -- the utter excitement that could only ever stem from love, not a mere meeting of physical forms, and that swelled deep in the chest.
Lost as Castiel was in the heartbeat, he only noticed Dean moving when his Omega placed his own hand on top of his, intertwining their fingers. The gaze that Castiel caught spoke of the same feelings as the heartbeat, and mixed into them was a quiet determination.
“Alpha,” Dean said once again, more steady and at once more tender now. Dean had never been as beautiful as in that moment, when he titled his head to the side, confidently and trustingly baring the long line of his neck to Castiel, and demanded, “Bite me here. Bite me where everyone can see, and where everyone will know. Bite me where I can see and feel it at all times, as part of my own reflection in the mirror. Make me yours, Cas.”
And what else could Castiel do in that moment but cover Dean with his body and with kisses and drive not only the proof of his desire but his sharp fangs deeply into Dean’s body, as deeply as he could, and claim and love him over and over again?
“Have you done this with him, too?” Castiel growls against Dean’s lips.
“With who?” Dean groans in his heated daze, riding the thick line of Castiel’s thigh as it is slotted in-between his legs, possessively shoved against his clothed cock.
“The vampire,” Castiel all but spits out as he sinks his teeth into Dean’s bottom lip in retaliation for not understanding, for having to be accused of such a heinous act at all.
The moan Dean lets out is as helpless as any of his body’s reactions. Feeling Cas so close to him, to smell and taste him in a way he could only ever dream of, puts him into a state of such all-encompassing arousal, any monster could easily take him out right then and there.
Not that Castiel would allow that to happen. No, the heat in his eyes and between his thighs makes it pretty obvious that he would swiftly take out any interrupter, then continue to have his way with Dean.
Besides, even if out of sight, Benny cannot be far. Sensing the change of mood between Castiel and Dean after yet another argument, he kindly left to let them sort out their differences. The quiet amusement in his features and the almost mocking nod towards Castiel however said all there was to be said about what he expected them to do once he was out of earshot, or at least not to be seen anymore. Which was also exactly what happened. He had barely even left their side when Castiel sprung up and crowded Dean against the nearest tree, not unlike Benny has in fact done often enough, and confronted him about the true nature of their relationship.
“What’s it to you, Cas?” Dean asks, attempting to sound braver and cheekier than he does, his words coming out breathless and willing. He can’t deny it, after all: he enjoys this. The hard planes of his angel’s body, the desire rigid between his thighs, his thighs themselves, fuck.
He loves this, loves it for people -- creatures, men -- to manhandle him just like this, to make him feel weak and wanted yet safe and powerful at the same time. He made Cas lose his head like this, the same way he did to Benny. The same way he has done to many other men who held him down, let him feel how much stronger they were, and fucked him.
Castiel outright snarls at his words, none of that angelic composure left in him now. Not here, not in this place where instincts are all there is, neither civilization nor peace. Where it’s either eat or be eaten; fuck or be fucked.
“I will show you,” Castiel grinds out between his teeth, grinds up between Dean’s legs, forces him to feel the size of his fury, and breaks Dean into a moan, “what it is to me.”
The slight up-tilt of his chin may be promising, but the set of his shoulders sure isn't. Because, straight and strong enough they may look they are slim, almost slight, in contrast to the shoulders of Dean’s former bodyguard. Comparatively slight, anyway.
In any case, they are gonna get Dean killed, quicker than anything else, that's for sure. His new bodyguard’s body will drop faster than the bodies of his predecessors, either because he won't he strong enough to hold himself in a fight or because he might just be good enough not to go down, but still not strong enough to also protect Dean, and then be killed by John afterwards. Whereas the others ones – the five guys who were ripped to shreds one way or another while trying to protect Dean this year alone – were all bulk and brute, this guy is understated, almost elegant. For all that Dean knows, his grace might be deadly – but it also might not.
Regardless, Dean doesn't want him as his bodyguard. Doesn't want him around him day and night, watching over him like a hawk and looking out for something he might be unable to do anything against. He doesn't want him to die because he caught a bullet for Dean or maybe took a knife to the guts, like the guys before him. Doesn't want him to allow Dean to be captured again or die because he runs his mouth too much.
Maybe John can set the guy up as a sniper or a counselor; something out of the line of fire might be more suited for someone like him. He could still be around the mansion, still be of help to Dean – just in a different way.
“Dean.” His father's deep, impatient rumble stirs him from his thoughts as he reaches the foot of the stairs of the main hall, and directs his gaze from the bodyguard-not-to-be towards John, who is standing right next to him and has been talking to him and instructing him for the past few minutes without so much as glancing Dean's way. Now, John is glaring at Dean, probably annoyed by his absentmindedness, and beckons him to come closer with a single slant of his eyes.
So, Dean goes. Without dragging his feet, although he feels like it, he straightens his back and marches up to John and the other guy, whose eyes are now fixed on him. Some dark, inexplicable part of Dean’s being revels at that, rebels against that, and compels Dean to drop his gaze – not in response to John's, but to that guy's – and that's... the opposite of everything he has ever learned. The opposite of what he is and what he should be.
Which is why he narrows his eyes instead and gives him a once-over that hopefully conveys every ounce of derision he has been able to muster up in the brief amount of time that they've shared the same air. When he comes to a halt, it’s close enough to his father to be considered obedient to his command, but still out of reach from that other guy.
“Yes, sir?” Dean asks as soon as both of his feet are firmly upon the ground, and he thinks he can see one of the bodyguard's eyebrows twitch at Dean's address just so. At that, Dean raises one of his own in a challenge. Maybe keeping him far from the mansion and the family might be a good idea, after all.
“This is Castiel, your new bodyguard,” John states curtly, as if Dean didn’t already know that. As if he hadn’t been told by some of his own confidants. “He has been screened and searched thoroughly already, so will start right away. As someone who has been trained in close combat and weapons for many years, I expect him to be more useful than your last bodyguards.” The corners of his mouth lift up the tiniest of bits. “If not, that is his own loss. If you are harmed in any way, he won't be paid – and if he dies because of his own incompetence, his relatives won't receive any compensation.”
“I have no relatives to compensate anyhow,” Castiel replies, in a monotone way that suggests this isn't the first time he has mentioned this. But Dean doesn't focus much on what he says, rather than on the how. Because for someone who, still comparatively, is rather slight for a bodyguard, his voice sure is deeper than any of those that came before him. Not just deeper, but more authoritative, richer, darker -- sexier, for sure.
It sends a small shiver up Dean’s spine.
“I don't want him,” Dean growls suddenly, so that he doesn't sputter. At once, all of him feels tense, on edge – and the amusement in the face opposite of him only aggravates that.
“Oh?” Castiel asks, that same amusement also tinging his voice.
“I don't want him as my bodyguard,” Dean asserts once more, well-aware of how stubborn he sounds.
“It doesn't matter if you want him,” John says, “because I already appointed him as your bodyguard, and that’s final.”
“But, Dad,” Dean objects, “just look at him! How the hell is he s'pposed to protect me any better than the other ones could? You know that all the other ones died 'cause they shielded me, and the last one 'cause he... was too weak. Why would you expect him to be any better? You know how Alas--”
“Son,” John cuts in, deep and dangerous, “I won't have any discussions on this. As I already said, he is well-trained and better than any of your former guards or you could ever hope to be. You surely don't want me to tell him to demonstrate how skilled he is first-hand? See how efficient he is when it comes to breaking an insolent jaw?”
The dark glimmer in John’s eyes is familiar. It shows that it’s a promise, not just an empty threat, that he won’t hesitate to have Dean thrashed right here and there, should be not shut the fuck up and do as he’s told. It’s just as scary as it was when Dean was just a kid -- when John still dealt out those kinds of punishments by himself, instead of having his underlings do the dirty work for him.
Humbled now, Dean dutifully drops his gaze as he feels the fight ebb out of him and heat sting his cheeks. “No, sir,” he says, quietly.
He usually doesn't step out of line like this, especially not in front of strangers. But, something about this Castiel just riles him up. For a reason he can’t put into words, he doesn't want him as his bodyguard, feels like he should fight back against it. Weirdly enough, he also doesn’t not want him around -- he just doesn’t want him in the line of fire. Which makes little sense, seeing as that would be his job and Dean doesn’t even know him, but it is what it is.
Though, like John said, that’s not his call, anyway.
Despite expecting Castiel to maybe chuckle or show any other signs of pleasure in the way Dean was reprimanded for his sake, he reverts back to his earlier stoicism. He watches Dean, albeit only briefly, and then looks at John as he speaks again.
“That's what I thought. So, get him acquainted with your rooms now. He has only been given a rough overview of the mansion, as he doesn't need to know the blueprints, so he doesn't know the structure of your part of the building yet. Show him everything he needs to know, and then come down for dinner. Zachariah will be our guest tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, still not quite looking up at him.
John once more sniffs at that, nods towards Castiel, who nods back almost imperceptibly, and then steps away. Without another word and accompanied by the heavy sound of his boots, he leaves the room and Castiel and Dean to themselves.
Dean feels the flush persisting on his cheeks, and finds his fingers to be curled into fists. He doesn't even remember consciously forcing them into their rigid form, and he wouldn't dare to lift a finger against his father, anyway.
So, he loosens his grip, shakes his head, shakes off this conversation and his own defiance along with it, and blinks up at Castiel, who is watching him intently. Staring at him, in fact, silently and inscrutably, as if searching for something in Dean’s shamed face.
Dean can’t stand that heavy gaze on him.
“C'mon, then,” Dean says with a shrug devoid of ease, resolutely looking towards the door that leads from the main hall to the part of the building that belongs to him. He will be safe there, for the time being. Both of them will be. From John, from bullets, from each other perhaps, once Dean can tell him to just stay in one corner and leave him alone. “I'll show you my rooms.”
Castiel moves as Dean does, already in tune with the few steps that Dean makes away from him. For a moment there, he lifts his hand as if wanting to reach out, maybe to touch Dean or pull him back from his hasty pace, but he does no such thing.
Instead, he falls into step beside him, a warm presence by Dean’s side, a shield against the brute force that just left them behind.
“I am looking forward to it,” Castiel replies with a weird, almost warm inflection to his voice, and, strangely enough, it doesn't sound mocking at all.
A/B/O | Alpha!CasxOmega!Dean | Established Relationship | 1.4k words
Though well-aware that whatever Dean was doing was only to tease him, Castiel could not help but fall for it. After all, they had been at that party for almost three hours by that point, every second dragging on as if it were a minute, and neither of them had even wanted to be there in the first place. They have had no other choice but to come, of course -- seeing as Castiel was the CEO of the company and Dean his rumored newly-mated spouse --, and the awareness of the importance of their presence as well as of the scrutiny made it all the more unbearable.
Worst of all, though, was Dean. Because Dean, terrible as he was, had apparently decided that he was bored about five minutes into the event, and henceforth decided to make Castiel’s night a living hell. Not by any shameful behavior, no, but by something far worse: constantly reminding Castiel what a joyous evening of intimate embraces he was missing out on by being as enticing as he possibly could be. Which he did not only by pressing the long line of his body up against Castiel’s whenever possible (and impossible), but also by adopting a submissive demeanor that was completely characteristic of what society expected of Omegas, but completely uncharacteristic of Dean outside of the bedroom. And even though Castiel vastly preferred Dean’s normally brash and oftentimes even crude behavior to typical Omega meekness, the fact that Dean showed this side of himself that was usually reserved for whenever he had bite marks all over his neck and a knot deep inside of himself was driving Castiel absolutely insane.
Worse still, Dean of course knew exactly what he was doing, and he seemed to revel in the effect he had on his Alpha, as Castiel could make out the sweet if subtle scent of his arousal at all times. That, coupled with his coy attitude and the batting of his eyelashes, took every ounce of self-control Castiel possessed as to not bend him over the nearest surface and have his way with him in front of his entire company.
The image of which alone was almost enough to have his pants bulge out in the most embarrassing way.
“Don’t you agree, Cas?” the excessively sugary voice of his mate dragged him out of his thoughts.
“Hmm?” Castiel asked, still somewhat dazed and entirely tired of any further conversation with the people in front of him, who must have been very important for certain, though not in that moment. The only important thing was the way Dean had wound himself around Castiel’s right arm, so that the side of their hips was pressed up against each other and Castiel’s elbow kept brushing up against Dean’s nipples, which were undeniably perked up. As endlessly sensitive as they were, Castiel had no doubt that their simple position alone was reason enough for the warmly alluring scent that wafted up from his mate.
By God, did he want to see and feel and taste them. Bring excruciating pleasure to his Omega just by playing with that secretly most erotic part of him, which he had been so shy about for the longest time in their relationship and now presented with such sexy confidence whenever he could.
“I was saying,” Dean started slowly, clearly amused by Castiel’s inability to follow the conversation thanks to his interference, “that this Christmas party is even better than last year’s. The people from the Sandover Christmas committee really outdid themselves this time, didn’t they?”
Even though Dean had repeated himself, Castiel still had a hard time following his words. Which might have been due to the fact that Dean had covertly angled his hips in such a way it were no longer simply their pelves brushing against each other, but Dean’s crotch rubbing into Castiel’s hip bones and, oh yes, his mate’s nipples were most definitely not the only part of his body that had grown stiff over the course of their boring conversation.
For a second, Castiel’s higher brain functions completely blacked out, replaced instead by an urgent mantra of Mate mate mate mate mate mate that he could only overrule by sheer determination and the discipline that being a CEO had drilled into him.
However, said discipline did not help him reply in any more meaningful way than nodding dumbly and pressing out an, “I agree.” between his teeth.
“Oh,” said one interlocuter whose face remained just as blurry as the rest of the room to Castiel. He probably knew him, maybe even well, but in that moment, all he could take in was Dean. “I didn’t know you were here last year as well? I thought you and Mr. Novak have only been recently mated?”
There was an underlying question there, a quiet suspicion of the official statement about the nature of their relationship they had released to the public, and of morals and maybe even injustice. As if there had to be some advantage unrightfully taken in there, surely. What else was to be expected of a CEO and an Omega?
“More or less recently,” Dean said, gleefully rather than offended. He always loved to leave them guessing and twisting themselves in the web of their own prejudices. “We’ve only been mated for about six months. But last year, I was here as someone else’s Plus One, which is also how we met.”
Somehow, Dean managed to make his arrival with his good and very lesbian friend Charlie so forbidden that Castiel suspected that he not only meant to play with their interlocutor but also with Castiel. Because even though Castiel knew of the exact nature of Dean and Charlie’s relationship -- which was and would never be anything more than just friends --, the bare statement rustled his self-control that was already hanging by only a thin thread even more. Dean being ‘someone else’s Plus One’ immediately instilled a wholly unbearable image in Castiel’s mind, regardless of that he knew logically who that someone else was and that Dean had phrased it like that on purpose.
The smug little smile Dean sent his way in exchange for Castiel’s glare told him as much.
“That’s most interesting,” said the other man, and as he opened his mouth to most likely press on to find out more about this scandalous relationship, Castiel cut him right off.
“Excuse me,” Castiel all but growled, earning himself a snicker from Dean. “But as pleasant as this conversation was, I still have other guests to attend to. Thank you for coming to the party, and see you soon.”
With that, he abruptly turned around, sweeping Dean along. Despite letting out a surprised little squeak by that sudden -- though surely not unpredictable -- turn of events, Dean easily went with his Alpha’s motion and followed suit. The same way he kept in step with Castiel immediately marching away from where they had just stood and chatted.
Moreover, he was laughing all the way. At the nosy man, his own insolence, and most definitely at Castiel and his carefully schooled face as he bypassed anyone trying to approach them and just rushing past them instead.
“You okay, Alpha?” Dean asked, another tease in itself as they finally made their way out of the party hall and out into the corridor. There were still people around there, even if fewer than before, but Castiel had suspected as much. He paid them no heed as he marched on to the elevator, impatiently calling it by pressing the button in quick succession.
“Alpha? Are you okay?” Dean purred lowly straight into his ear, his breath hot and sweet on Castiel’s skin, just as hot and sweet as the scent of his slick in the air between them.
Castiel meant to admonish him. To tell him to knock it off before they were in the safety of his own office. To be a good and respectable CEO. To not make a scene. He really did.
But what he did instead was grab Dean by the neck and shoulder, slam him up against the elevator door, shove a leg between his thighs, and ravish his mouth right then and there. There was nothing but Dean Dean Dean as he pressed all of his body against him, all of his desire and desperation and love. In that instant, there was nothing but his mate. Nothing but his moans and chuckles, than his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, than his arousal pressing right back against Castiel’s.
And Dean -- brash, bratty and beautiful Dean -- kept right on laughing and moaning as the elevator door opened behind him and they fell backwards into the cab, kissing and grinding and undressing each other.
The turn of the wrist, so much easier than he had thought it would be. For all those years, what he had anticipated was more difficult than this, almost impossible: reaching out for someone who would not reach back, to crave a being that knew no craving.
It seemed he was wrong, however.
Nothing to fear but fear itself proved to be true once again. The sting of jealousy, the fallen face as not hide his shame, the hands drawn tightly inwards to protect whatever there was left to protect of his heart. Had he not been in shambles all along, he certainly would have shattered at some point along the way. As it was – as it always had been – there had been nothing for him to lick but his own wounds and his own lips, not those he truly did want to, however often he did so from a safe distance.
Safe. Ain’t that just the biggest joke of ‘em all. As if there had been anything safe about either their distance or their proximity.
Bridging the gaps, cracking open the distance, bursting and burning and finding each other again and again and again.
It was tiring, really. Or should have been. But however often he lost – the fight, his family, himself – there was something he could not lose, someone he could not rid himself off, too deeply imprinted he was for that. That steady, ever-returning win. More terrifying than life, sharper than a sword, mightier than a stray dog, though no less c—
No less cute, yeah.
Pressing his fists into his own eyes, he sees stars where there are none, ought to be none. But will be again. Sooner rather than later, no matter how dark it seems: his light will return to him.
Without knowing, he knows.
Now, clenched as they are, his hands cannot hold. Not yet. Soon, though, it will commence: the turn of the wrist, the opening of the hand, the acceptance of palm against palm, fingers between fingers – the steady grasp of love, the final fall, peace.
