Chapter Text
The week passed by in a whirlwind.
Dean worked as a mechanic at his uncle, Robert Singer's garage to make a living. The timing was alright, the money was constant, the job was secure, and it allowed Dean enough privacy to not be recognised as the man who killed people on pure instinct. The past week, all the television spoke about was the disappearance of Richard Roman. Conspiracy theories arose of whether or not his rival, a certain townsman running for mayor against Roman, had any hand to play in the vanishing of Roman, but speculation could not reach a consensus. Dean was relieved that the press hadn't chosen to explore a serial-killer route.
Because if that were to happen, it would not mean good for Dean.
But now, Dean had nothing to worry about. Friday was approaching soon, and sure enough, he had a plan for his new kill. It was going to be another scum of the earth prey. Someone people despised, someone the world would be better of without. Dean was doing a good thing, and the people who cared for him had assured him as much from time to time. Dean tried not to think of a certain blue-eyed man who had assured him the same.
Bobby, as Dean knew and loved to call his uncle, rolled into the garage on his wheelchair, and called Dean over. Dean, who was working under the hood of a car, ducked out of there, covered in grease, sweat, and dust, and walked over to Bobby.
"New client, car's making weird noise. Check it out real quick." Bobby said, and rolled his wheelchair away into his house, which was right next to the garage. Dean sighed. He wiped a rag across his face, and trudged down outside where the car stood. He could see two men inside, but not much more. Fuck, and here Dean thought he could have some peace. But a client meant money, and money meant Bobby would be happy, and a happy Bobby was an indifferent Bobby, and an indifferent Bobby would mean Dean would have nothing to hinder the way he lived— with blood on one hand and grease on the other.
The car itself was an old, mustard-yellow, classic Lincoln Continental. Judging by the outside, it hadn't been repainted or even deep-cleaned in ages. Dean walked over to the driver's side, and rapped on the window. It rolled down, and seated inside was a man, with short light-brown hair, a steep nose, sun-glasses and a disinterested expression on his face. Beside him, there sat another man, staring out the passenger seat window, with dark, brown hair, but since he was turned away, Dean couldn't see him.
"You havin' car trouble?" Dean asked, voice hoarse. The man with the sun-glasses sighed, and stepped out of the car.
"My car's a piece of shit. Got it for a cheap deal couple of years ago. And now it's acting up. Keeps making these weird sounds when I'm driving. Fix it, do whatever you want, get it together," The man said, and Dean nodded.
"Right, mind if I bring it over to the garage? I've got tools in there. And uh, your friend—"
"That's my husband." The man corrected, and Dean faltered.
"Sorry, I meant, your husband, could you ask him to step out. And keys, please?"
The man handed Dean the keys, and then, to Dean's surprise, thumped on the window, and barked out a get out. His husband stepped out of the car, glancing around the junkyard, before turning to Dean at last.
Nothing could have prepared Dean for the sight in front of him.
It was Castiel. A bruise on his jaw, deep, black bags under his eye, and a frown on his face. He startled back at the sight of Dean, and then, at last, Dean put two and two together.
Castiel was married. And that douchebag, dickwad of a man was his husband.
In the entirety of the six years that Dean had known Castiel, not once had Dean met or seen his husband. And not once had Dean met Castiel outside of Pamela's bordello.
Seeing Castiel in the sunlight, all Dean could think of was shit, Castiel was ethereal. The type of beauty that made people stop and gape, the type of beauty that would've been believable in fairy-tales, an angelic, pure beauty that had Dean rooted to the spot.
"He's eye-candy, I know, move it. Or do you want him to strip to work faster." Castiel's husband sneered, and Dean glanced at the man, who was tall, almost as much as Dean, but gangly and skinny. He didn't have the raw muscle that Dean had on his body. And when the words settled in, all Dean could think of was how he could strangle the man and bury his body six-feet-under.
Dean gave a small apology, and snapped his eyes away from Castiel. He got into the car, and drove it to the garage. He did hear the strange sound coming from the car, and made a note to check it out, but even then, he could only think of Castiel. And how anybody who had Castiel couldn't simply love him.
Castiel wasn't someone to be loved. He was someone to be obsessed over and possessed. He was rare, he was surreal, and he was taken.
The tragedy of Dean Winchester's life.
Inside the garage, he parked the Continental in place, and glanced at the rear-view mirror, where he caught a glimpse of Castiel and his husband treading to the garage on foot. It wasn't too far away, a few minutes at most, but Dean was glad for the time alone. The car smelt of cigarette, mold, and everything unclean. And even then, under the filth, Dean could catch a whiff of Castiel's vanilla-scented body wash.
He compelled himself to step out of the car, and walked over to crank the hood open. He thought of a way he could get Castiel alone, and the only one seemed to be involving Bobby and Castiel's husband. Bobby wouldn't like it if Dean sent a customer over directly to him, but for Dean's sake, Bobby would have to comply. A few minutes later, as expected, both Castiel and his husband reached the garage, and the man with the sun-glasses held a hand out to Dean.
"Lucifer Novak."
"Dean Winchester." Dean gave Lucifer's hand a firm shake, and yet, never met his eye. Neither did he meet Castiel's curious eye. "So, your car's in a pretty bad condition. The wiring has gone faulty, the oils need to be changed, the paint is chipping off, the engines are being overheated— it's a list. When did you last get it serviced?"
Lucifer considered it for a moment, before giving a disgruntled hum. "It ain't my car, it's his. Ask him whatever the fuck it is." He pointed over to Castiel, who faltered, and glanced at Dean before ducking his head.
"Alright, sir, could you do us a favour and please go speak to Bobby about the charges? He's the man in the wheelchair. In the meanwhile, your husband could brief me on the car." Dean suggested, all kind of professional, and watched as Lucifer hummed, and walked away. Which meant, Dean was now alone with Castiel.
For a minute, they were silent as Lucifer walked into the house. But the moment he disappeared around the corner, Castiel threw his arms around Dean and pulled him down into a tight, crushing hug that left Dean dumbstruck. Dean stood shocked for a second, before wrapping his arms around Castiel's waist and pressing him close against his chest.
"I'm sorry, Cas," He breathed out, although the word sorry felt strange on his tongue, "—I shouldn't have done that. I just couldn't help myself."
"I know," Castiel breathed out, his voice wet and heavy, "—I'm glad you did. I'm sorry for slapping you."
Dean grinned, and in response, grabbed Castiel by the jaw, and pressed a kiss to his plump, glistening lips. They pulled away quick, weary or Lucifer's return, and Dean brushed a hand down Castiel's face which had Castiel going as red as a tomato.
"I thought you weren't fine with us kissing, Cas, why now?"
"Because I need it." Castiel gulped, and rubbed a hand over his face, "—I want to feel loved, Dean. And you— you make me feel loved."
Dean stared at Castiel for a good minute. Something inside him softened at Castiel's confession, and yet, he couldn't place a finger on what it was. "I don't love you, Castiel. I can't love you. I don't know how to."
"I know." Castiel nodded, and rubbed at his cheeks, "—I know."
And it was then that Dean noticed the bruises littered across Castiel's forearm. He caught Castiel by the arm, and Castiel winced. Dean eyed the coloured bruises before meeting Castiel's eye.
"I thought I told you a long time ago, your skin is mine, Castiel."
"I know, I—" But Cas seemed flustered, as if Dean had caught something he wasn't supposed to. Not to mention, Castiel had a bruise on his jaw as well, and the moment Dean brushed his finger across it, Castiel shivered. "—I didn't mean for them to happen."
From the corner of his eye, Dean noticed Lucifer's shadow, nearing the garage, and he let go of Castiel's hand.
"I want you at Pam's, tonight. I want an explanation." That was all Dean said, before turning to the hood of the Continental, and flashing Lucifer a wide grin when he joined Castiel's side. "I've made a note of the details, sir, would it be alright if I sent the car back in say, about, three days?"
"Three days? Fuck, that's a lot. But fine. Make sure you're decking that shit up like a whore at a red light." The way Lucifer spoke was rash, so impulsive and arrogant, and extremely vulgar, and it had Dean wondering why Castiel had chosen to marry such a shitty person, when he could've had anyone. But Dean pushed his thoughts aside, knowing Castiel would be at the bordello that night to give Dean the answers he needed.
"I'll call Michael to pick us up." Lucifer told Castiel, and Dean did not miss the way he yanked Castiel by the arm, as he would if it were an object, and dragged him out of the garage.
Before the two of them could disappear out of sight, however, Castiel sent Dean a contemptuous glance, and then at last, looked away. Dean sighed, his mood now sour and ruined, and got back to work on the car he was handling before.
As usual, Dean rapped on the door to room number seven, and waited for an answer. After a second, the door creaked open, and he was met with glistening baby-blue eyes. Dean stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and without another moment wasted, grabbed Castiel by the waist and pressed him against the door. Castiel gasped out a soft Dean, but the rest of his words were swallowed down by the press of Dean's lips to his. The kiss was nothing Dean had ever felt before. It was tender, it was heavy, it was intense, and it felt like coming home after a long day of work.
Castiel melted in Dean's broad arms, and Dean carried him to the bed. They began undressing each other, only for Dean to pause and pull away. Castiel, now bare from the waist below, and Dean, bare from the waist above, sat on the bed holding each other for God knows how long, until at last, Dean broke the silence between them.
"Cas."
"Dean."
"Lucifer— why did you marry him?" The bitterness in his voice seemed to upset Castiel, who looked away, dejected eyes wandering out the window. Castiel dug into the pocket of his trousers, and pulled out a Marlboro and a lighter. He lit one for himself, and the other, for Dean. They sat quiet for a moment, simply taking drags of their cigarettes.
"I didn't have a choice. My brother, Gabriel, he took a loan from Lucifer a long time ago, but he died before he could pay it back. That left me. Working at the bordello wasn't cutting it, and I barely had food for myself. Lucifer made me an offer that I couldn't refuse— he said if I became his bitch, he'd forget the loan. On paper, we're married, but in actuality, I— I can't even look Lucifer in the eye."
"He hurt you," Dean said, which caught Castiel by surprise. At once, Castiel began to pull away from Dean, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed and onto the ground as he turned away from Dean. But Dean was persistent. "He hurt you, didn't he. The bruises— Cas, fuck, did he rape y—"
"I haven't been—" Castiel shouted, agitated, only to school himself as he sucked in a deep breath, and whispered, "—I haven't been raped. No, I— I didn't want it, but legally, I'm Lucifer's husband. And he's free to do what he wants from me. It's a price I have to pay."
Dean watched as Castiel rose up from the bed, and walked over to the tiny, square window at the corner of the room. Castiel cracked it open, and let the smoke of his cigarette drift out the window. His words, his silence, his tears— they settled into the air, overwhelming Dean to a point where Dean wondered if he could actually feel something. In the past several years, he had lost all empathy, all need for emotion, all feelings. All he needed was blood and sex, and he would be happy. But ever since Castiel, ever since that vixen sauntered into Dean's life with his flirty baby-blue eyes, his plump lips, his bright, open laugh— Dean had found it hard to keep himself away from the man. Something drew Dean to Castiel, whether it was his body, whether it was his mind, Dean could not tell.
"Let's kill him." Dean suggested, and watched as a slight smile curled at Castiel's lips.
"I'd rather you not. I made a commitment, Dean. I have to carry it out. I'm not doing this because I want to, but because I have to. This is my mess, and I'll take care of it," Castiel said, and glanced over at Dean. Dean caught his gaze, but before Castiel could move, Dean crushed the butt of his cigarette on the wall and trudged over to where Castiel stood smoking at the window.
The distance between them dwindled with every step Dean took forward, until Castiel was crowded against the wall. The open window caused a pleasant breeze of wind to gush into the room, and Dean shut his eyes to relish in it. When he opened his eyes, Castiel was watching him. For a moment, all they did was stare at each other. To this date, Dean found it strange how he could speak to Castiel simply through his eyes.
Castiel tossed his cigarette out the window behind him. Their faces were a mere inch away, and already, Dean could feel the heat of Castiel's breath on his face. Castiel looked into his eyes, uncertain and yet, expectant, as he parted his lips, and drifted closer to Dean. Dean watched as Castiel shut his eyes, surrendering himself. Electricity sizzled in the air between them as their lips touched— soft, plush, wet— and Dean sucked Castiel's bottom lip into his mouth, relishing in the taste of the smoke.
He pressed Castiel against the wall, and cupped his face in both hands, as they kissed— slow, testing, passionate— it was nothing like the impromptu kiss from the week ago. It was real, it was definite, and it was soothing.
Castiel parted his mouth open wider, allowing Dean to slip his tongue inside. The inside of Castiel's mouth was unbelievable— warm, wet, slick, tempting. Dean wondered whether Castiel's mouth was soon becoming one of his vices, and right then, Castiel moaned into their kiss.
And that was all Dean needed to let loose of his self-control, as he grabbed Castiel by the waist, picked him up, and spread him down on the bed, ready and willing to be used. Castiel whimpered, gasping out Dean over and over again as Dean rid himself of his pant, and Castiel rid himself of his shirt. They glided against each other, two hot, sweaty bodies— kissing and swaying to each other's rhythm. Although Dean had been gentle the week ago, he wasn't going to be the same tonight.
No, tonight, he wanted to claim. He wanted to mark, he wanted to brand, he wanted to own Castiel.
And it wasn't helping that Castiel just seemed to give in to each of Dean's moves. When Dean reached out to drag a hand down the curve of Castiel's back, Castiel would so deliciously arch his back, and grind his hips back against Dean. They were meant for this— to be together— each movement was a rhythm, right from their hands slipping into each other's on the bed, right to where Dean crawled between Castiel's legs.
With his eyes still gazing up into Castiel's, Dean lowered his head on Castiel's beautiful, pink cock. He had never thought about being the one to please Castiel, since clearly, he wasn't the whore in this relationship, but for the past week, heck, for the past few years, Dean had never considered Castiel a whore. A confidant, a well-wisher, even a friend, perhaps, but never just a whore. And tonight? He lost every last trace of that thought, because tonight, Castiel belonged to him. He would be nothing but Dean's.
As slowly, as tenderly, as languidly as possible, Dean sucked Castiel's cock, laving his tongue around the heated flesh, using his tongue to prod at the slit, licking at the side, using his hands— Dean gave his everything. And Dean Winchester never gave, he had never found the need to. But when Castiel would let out a loud, broken moan of Dean! And crumple his fists into the sheet, spasming and panting on the bed, every last effort tasted sweet to Dean.
Dean pulled off Castiel's cock, and wiped a hand across his mouth. Castiel stared down at him, still regaining his breath. With a strange, predatory hunger in his eyes, Dean crawled over Castiel, only stopping when he was right overhead. Their eyes met, and at once, everything became clear. Castiel wanted this. He wanted this just as much as Dean did.
"You're mine, Castiel. Always have been, still are, always will be."
"And you? Are you mine?"
Dean considered it for a moment. He brushed a hand down Castiel's young face. "For as long as you'll have me."
Maybe it was because of Dean's confession, maybe it was because the moon was wide that night, but at once, Castiel was glowing, bright and radiant, and every nerve in Dean's body begged him to take Castiel then and there.
And so Dean did.
Castiel bit his lip, sucking in a staggering breath, as Dean pushed into his spit-soaked hole. For the past six years, they had always used a condom, but tonight, Dean wanted to feel Castiel. Castiel's hazy eyes looked up to Dean in question. In response, Dean simply leaned down to his ear, and whispered, "—I want to feel you, Cas."
God, Castiel felt surreal.
Tight, wet, hot, slick— everything and nothing Dean had ever expected.
Castiel held onto Dean by the shoulders, moaning and whimpering each time Dean thrust faster, and Dean in turn, kept his palms grounded on the bed as he pounded into Castiel.
They caught the rhythm, and went with it, for as long as they could— with Dean being relentless, and Castiel turning to a squirming, moaning mess on the bed until at last, Dean found Castiel's prostate again, and thrust at it with his whole might, watching as Castiel went wide-eyed and loud with each brush of his prostate. Dean reached down to capture Castiel's lips in a heated, slow, lazy kiss, wanting to taste Castiel with every second. Castiel reciprocated so beautifully, for a moment, Dean couldn't even believe his eyes. But they kept their pace, and soon enough, Dean could feel the low curl of his orgasm building in his gut.
It wasn't until moments later that the two of them came together, with Dean coming inside Castiel, and Castiel coming across Dean's chest. They panted heavily for a few seconds simply regaining their breaths. Inside Castiel, Dean could feel his come squelch around his cock in a obscene, wet noises, before he pulled out, and a stream of come dripped down Castiel's used, pink hole.
Castiel pressed his forearm over his eyes, and squeezed his thighs together.
"You okay?" Dean asked, soft and quiet, to which Castiel nodded.
"Just, just catching my breath."
Dean grabbed one of the wipes in the drawer, and cleaned up Castiel's chest, before cleaning his own. He nudged Castiel's feet apart, and cleaned him up again, before tossing the wipe aside, and falling back on the rickety bed right next to Castiel.
"Dean," Castiel whispered, reaching out for Dean's hand, "—stay, please."
Dean remained silent, and couldn't find it in himself to speak. So, he nodded, and let his eyes flutter shut. He felt Castiel's arm snake around his chest, and he cracked an eye open to watch Castiel curl into his side. It was endearing, to say the least.
"How long have you felt this way?" Castiel asked.
"Ever since I saw you six years ago."
"Really?"
"Mhm. I still remember looking at you, in those tiny shorts Pam made you wear, and that shirt, you were so young, so innocent— part of me was scared you'd break. From the very first moment— I wanted to have you, Cas. I wanted to own you."
"People like you—" Castiel started, and already Dean knew what he meant.
"People like me?"
"I mean, erm, people who kill other people, like you do, do you feel things? Emotions, feelings? I've heard you don't."
"It's complicated." Dean sighed, and felt Castiel's fingers glide across his chest aimlessly. Beside him, Castiel hummed, a bit dejected, if nothing. "If you and I were to watch someone bleeding, you would feel fear, you would feel pity, or even pain, because you can empathize with them. I, on the other hand, won't feel a thing. But there has to be something that drives me, right? And I have it too, they're my urges. They're like feelings, but they're more instinctive and raw, more bodily."
Castiel sat up, staring down at Dean with narrow eyes and a tilt of his head, which Dean found amusing. Dean paused, and thought of a better way to frame his sentence as he sat up alongside Castiel.
He reached out for Castiel's hands, and held them in the air between them. "This," He tapped on Castiel's right hand, "—is your heart. And this," Dean tapped on Castiel's left hand, "—is your mind." Castiel glanced down at his hands, before glancing up at Dean.
"Now, you're not like me, you're just a person, and you make decisions based on your heart, like it or not. You, especially, Cas, you've got too much heart in you. Me, on the other hand, my feelings, or perhaps, urges, stem mostly from my instinctual mind. Blood, sex, violence— so much anger. I can't even tell you how much anger. Every day, every second of the day, anger. But it feels better when I'm with you, Cas."
Castiel gazed into Dean's eyes, concerned and teary-eyed, and Dean let go of his hands. He let his gaze fall to the floor, not quite ready to meet the one emotion he knew was gleaming in Castiel's eyes. He knew Castiel loved him— he knew he would never be able to love Dean.
"Are you going to leave me? Because I don't love you in the way you want me to?" Dean asked, anger brimming at his fingertips. To his surprise, however, Castiel brushed his hand across his jaw, and reached up to press a agonizingly soft kiss to Dean's lips— softer than a monster like Dean deserved.
"Of course not, Dean. I know you can't love me back, but you want me right? You want me to belong to you, right? I'll stay, even if it means blood, and violence, and anger— I've been here for the past six years, and I'll be here for as long as you'll have me," Castiel whispered, and met Dean's eye. Dean found it hard to look away, absolutely enraptured by the way Castiel smiled at him, free and happy.
"But I—" Castiel started, and his face fell at once. "—I have to go back to Lucifer."
"Cas, I'm tellin' ya, let me have at him." Dean meant it, but Castiel let out a sad chuckle.
"Not him, Dean. He's a filthy man, I know, but I owe him. I'm just repaying my debt. It doesn't mean I have to stop being with you, right. I'm yours, Dean, everything I have, even though it's not much, it's yours."
Dean drank in the sight of Castiel, naked, glistening, content— and it cooled the seething, hot anger inside him, even if only for a few moments. With a slight smile, Dean pressed a kiss to the palm of Castiel's hand, and watched as Castiel moved away to grab his clothes.
Part of Dean wanted to ask Castiel to stay. Part of him knew Castiel wouldn't.
"I'm sorry, I have to go, Dean," Castiel whispered, and pressed a kiss to Dean's forehead. Before he could walk away however, Dean grabbed him by the wrist, and stopped him in his tracks.
"One day, I'm going to make sure the only marks on your skin belong to me, Castiel. I'm going to make sure I put Lucifer six-feet-under. And God help me, nothing you say or do will make me stop."
"Is that a threat?" Castiel whispered.
"It's a promise."
A beat passed between them. Dean watched as something inscrutable flashed across Castiel's face. Then, Castiel squirmed his hand out of Dean's grip, and walked away, slamming the door shut behind him.
Dean sighed, and rubbed his hands across his face.