I'm having a fanfic relapse. It's been a while, so be gentle... ;)
Title: Jekyll and Hyde
Summary: Dean works through some complicated feelings for Castiel. Sort of.
Notes/Warnings: Slightly dark. Angry sex (sort of). Hints of Leviathan!Cas. Takes place mid-season 7, and I totally meant for it to be a light, fluffy drabble, but it didn’t cooperate. :P Also, this is my first SPN fic, and I’ve only actually gotten mid-season 7 in the series yet, so I would appreciate no spoilers. :)
The sun beat down on Dean's face, wind rustling through his hair. He was parked in a field, and the scent of the earth baking in the summer heat was breezing past him. He couldn't remember how he got here, but he didn't care. He felt better than he had in a long time, more at peace. He squinted up into the sky from where he was sprawled out on the hood of the Impala, hot metal warming him through his shirt.
"I wish you would stop." The good feeling vanished.
Dean jerked upright at the sound of Castiel's voice, suddenly glaring. "Oh you have a lot of nerve to--" His words stopped short and he felt his expression soften, much to his dismay. He wanted to be angry --no, furious-- at Cas. But the Cas standing next to him now was not the same Cas he saw oozing black goo, walking into the water supply and never returning. And this wasn't self-righteous idiot "God" Cas either. Or the Cas that broke Sam's brain.
This Cas' shoulders were sloped down, his eyes on the ground. This was kicked puppy Cas, the Cas that Fell, that got shit faced when he learned his Father was gone... the Cas that Dean loved and that loved Dean in return, though they never spoke the words. Dean was pretty sure they'd never even so much as hugged.
After a moment, the shock of seeing Cas look like his old self faded, and Dean realized what Cas meant by what he'd said. Dean's fingers were curled around Bobby's flask in his lap, and while Sam had been pestering Dean about his increased drinking, Dean couldn't be bothered to give a crap. He reclaimed the glare he'd momentarily lost.
"Like you of all people should be telling me what to put in my body, Mister Thousands Of Souls Leviathan Douchbag," he snapped, then took a swig off the flask out of spite. Bile flooded his mouth and he choked, then spit out black goo that had somehow replaced his whiskey. He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, stared at the Leviathan sludge covering it, then spat again for good measure. What the?
The confusion only took a few seconds to dissipate, though. This is a dream, he realized. And that was some kind of friggin' metaphor that I am so not in the mood for. He angrily chucked the flask across the field, knowing when he woke up it would be safe in his hand again, and looked back as Cas.
The black slime had triggered something, though. Cas was flickering now. His image fading out, replaced with one of him bloody, then one dripping black slime, then back to his natural state, then Cas as a wild eyed Leviathan. Just flickering in and out. Dean felt an odd sense of panic hit him. He'd had nightmares about Cas, and now about Bobby, and this was the first Goddamned time he'd seen one of them well in months, dream or otherwise. He would never forgive Cas for what he became, but he couldn't stop caring for who Cas once was.
"Stop," he breathed. He needed Cas right now, he knew that, but he needed the Cas who was sane. Cas flickered again, cold, dead eyes flashing.
With that, Cas disappeared. Deans heart sank, but a moment later Cas was back, looking pained, but normal again. His expression said he knew what Dean had just seen of him, and it hurt.
Good, Dean thought.
"I have no control over this... this image," Cas said, gesturing uselessly at himself. "Only you do."
"I know," Dean replied, then tilted his head in thought. This was a far cry from when Cas used to visit his dreams. "Sucks being dead, huh?"
"Yes. I suppose." Cas finally looked at Dean, his expression placid, but his eyes more honest and willing than Dean had seen them in what felt like ages. Dean felt an uncomfortable, unfamiliar tug in his chest, so he sighed and looked away.
Cas didn't say anything else, and the silence stretched out long enough that Dean was certain Cas would be gone when he turned around. So he didn't dare turn around. He wasn't sure what was worse, not knowing if he was alone again even in his dreams, or the potential disappointment of being certain of it.
You've officially lost it, man, he told himself, but then nearly sagged with relief when he heard footsteps move across dry grass and felt the car dip under the weight of another person. Then fingers were running through his hair, making him shiver. He closed his eyes.
"Sam is awake, and sunlight is filtering through your eyelids back in the hotel," Castiel said. Before Dean could even open his eyes to cast a confused look at him, Cas added, "I know this because you do. You're waking. Slowly. We don't have much time."
Dean suddenly wished more than anything he could fumble for the real flask and chug enough whiskey to keep him sleeping for another hour, at least, without waking himself up. He half chuckled at the thought, then opened his eyes to see Castiel's gaze on him, tracing the curve of his lips. His eyes flicked up to Dean's a moment later, and then his hand slid from Dean's hair, down the side of his neck to his chest.
He pressed Dean onto his back and swiveled to straddle Dean's hips in one swift motion. Dean would have been impressed if it wasn't for the way Castiel stilled afterward, almost as though he was surprised at himself. His gaze went less certain, and Dean's lips quirked up into a sly smile. "It's gotta be a hundred degrees out here. Lose the coat and tie."
"My true form burned hotter than 20 of your suns. The heat doesn’t affect me."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine. We're running out of time anyway," he said, and grabbed Castiel's tie, dragging him down for a kiss that made Dean's entire body feel like it was on fire.
This was wrong and Dean knew it. Castiel fried Sammy's brain, but Bobby was gone and Sam was talking a mental vacation with the devil, and this version of Cas was so... simple. Uncomplicated. Irresistible.
He tugged furiously at the back of Catiel's shirt until it was untucked, then slid his hands down back of Castiel's pants, squeezing his ass and pushing Cas down until he could feel that Castiel was just as excited as he was.
Castiel made a noise of pleasure, a higher sound than Dean had ever heard come from Castiel's lips before, and thrust against Dean. Then something dripped onto Dean's forehead. He almost laughed at Castiel's refusal to admit he was hot under this sun while sweating on him nonetheless, but when he wiped his forehead his fingers came away smudged with black.
Dean sucked in a sharp breath, and shoved Castiel away, holding him at arms length. Castiel was panting, his face flushed. His eyes were wild, but with desire, and now confusion. There was no Leviathan ooze dripping from his scalp, and when Dean glanced back at his fingers, the black was gone.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He was doing this again. He was refusing to let himself just enjoy this, even in bizarro pretend dream time. He was thinking too much, a clear sign he was sober again back in the waking world. "Let me have this," he told himself through gritted teeth.
Dean opened his eyes and shifted without responding. He rolled Castiel onto his back, tugging his pants down along the way. He was relieved that Cas didn’t ask questions; he simply followed suit, kicking off his shoes and shoving at his own pants until his arousal sprung free. He blinked up at Dean as Dean settled between his legs and took a moment to really take in the sight of Castiel's body. Jimmy Novack's body.
"Am I supposed to say something?" Castiel breathed.
Dean glanced back up at Castiel, confused for a moment, then he remembered Castiel once watching a porno in his hotel room and wondered if that was all he'd ever known of sex. And while the thought of Castiel saying something like, "do me, big daddy," was funny, funny was not what Dean was interested in right now. He spared a thought for lube, then remembered this was a dream. If he thought about it, it would be there, so he pressed into Castiel's body in one go.
Castiel made a strangled sound, one so unlike anything Dean had heard from him before that for a moment Dean was afraid he'd lost control of the dream again. But Castiel's back was arched, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths, eyes closed, looking... perfect.
"Very," Castiel gasped. His hands slid down Dean's back to his hips and urged him on, so Dean obliged, starting to move again, allowing his hips to fall into a steady rhythm as Castiel's hands slid up his back under his shirt, nails digging into flesh and dragging until Dean's flesh burned hot.
"You left me," Dean grunted, ignoring the sick feeling that washed over him at those words that he might be about to ruin his own fantasy again. He buried the feeling in pleasure quickly, tension coiling at the base of his spine.
"Yes," Castiel panted. "I left myself. I..." He gasped as Dean curled a hand around his erection and started stroking in time with the thrusts. He hooked a leg around Dean's thigh and pulled Dean in closer, deeper, one hand gripping the back of Dean's neck.
"Lost control. I thought--"
Dean decided before Cas was able to finish the sentence that he didn’t actually give a crap what Castiel thought. "Shut up," he growled, and then lost control of himself, moving faster, harder, relishing the feeling of Castiel writhing under him, this one, small, imagined power he still had.
Castiel’s moans were growing more unhinged the longer Dean pushed him until he shouted out. It was an unnatural noise that reminded Dean of the last time Dean saw him as him, screaming at Dean and Bobby to run as the Leviathans were taking him over.
As the warmth of Castiel's release trickled over Dean's fingertips, black veins shot up the side of Castiel's face and his eyes shot open. He lifted his head and looked at Dean like an animal that had just scented its prey, a nasty smile curling his lips, and Dean came too, too late to stop himself.
His eyes shot open and he was staring at the ceiling of his hotel room, gasping for breath. He was drenched in sweat and felt like he was on fire, but he was shivering anyway. The sheets were stuck to him, and even though he knew it was irrational, he was afraid he might look down and find himself covered in black slime.
He felt dirty. And sated. And somehow more alone than ever.
He eventually peeled himself out of damp sheets, vaguely listening to the sound of Sam clacking away on a keyboard somewhere in the room. Sam would ignore this for now, but Dean knew he would attempt some sort of after school special style chat about nightmares later.
For now, Dean was glad for the chance to pull himself together. He padded barefoot to the bathroom, ready for a scalding shower, and pulled off his shirt, wincing involuntarily at the dull pain that spread up his back.
"What the?" He turned his back to the mirror and glanced over his shoulder at himself, and felt cold wash over him again at the sight of the long, red scratches down his back.