Characters/pairings: By order of appearance: Dean/Castiel, Dean/Crowley, Death/Dean.
Warnings, contents & kinks: [Click to open]
H/C, prostitution, dubcon; blowjob, handjob, lap!sex. Christian undertones. Allegorical retelling of canon events.
Beta'd by: geckoholic, laconicisms, salty_catfish and scarletscarlet; thank you all so much for your input.
A/N: This was written for the last round of salt_burn_porn, but I was too late in posting it. My prompt was "Halloween". Dedicated to smilla02, for believing in me and believing in this fic.
Summary: Dean goes trick-or-treating for Sam's soul.
Castiel's door opens when Dean knocks. Dean doesn't spare a thought to the ornaments on it, to how the wood rises in carved patterns that draw him in and repulse him at the same time. They soothe him, pass over him in a way that tells him this is where he belongs.
A corridor stretches out in front of him, long and barren, but there's shade here that envelops Dean after the scorching sun outside. He walks a few steps inside, expecting Castiel to appear, but other than Dean himself there is nothing.
Dean waits a few moments before calling out, holding out his hand and catching Castiel by his coat. Castiel is always present in Dean's periphery, omniscient and pervasive; like a scent, he cannot be shaken off.
"Dean," Castiel says, standing still with his hands at his sides. The slight warmth in his voice -- small, forlorn -- is not lost on Dean.
So Dean pulls him close, bends and takes his mouth in a kiss. There's desperation in the way he holds Castiel, the way Castiel holds him -- clutching Dean's jacket, pulling him so close that their chests touch.
Dean wants Castiel to know this is important to him, this relationship they don't quite have. Castiel's tongue is familiar in his mouth, and so is the way Castiel's lips catch against his.
Castiel is eternal, but this one piece of him is Dean's.
Castiel will help Sam, he knows, and he curls his tongue around Castiel's, makes a sweep over Castiel's teeth.
-- but he's human; he needs air. He breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against Castiel's, who isn't showing any sign of strain.
Dean's voice is hoarse when he says, "Cas."
The fingers in Dean's jacket twitch, pulling at the material of his innermost shirt until it slides over his skin unpleasantly. Castiel draws back slightly, opens up distance between them.
"Why are you here, Dean?"
Dean straightens his spine. Looks Castiel in the eye. "I need your help, Cas," he says and licks his lips, tasting Castiel and taking comfort from that. "Getting Sam's soul back."
Castiel disentangles his hands from his jacket and inches back. Dean takes a small step forward; Castiel retreats the exact same distance. Dean doesn't try again.
"That is impossible," Castiel says, firm and cool and nothing like a human.
And under his words, Dean can hear, maybe you should leave.
So he leaves: he'll have to find another way.
Dean doesn't like door number two. Mostly because it's Crowley's, who's giving Dean his biggest grin and calling him sweetheart.
Crowley's door is a dark ebony. It doesn't hide the splashes of red -- they stain the wood so thoroughly that Dean doesn't think anybody would be able to wash them off even if they tried. On the other side of the door is a gaudy hall, with walls that are gilded and chandeliers that sparkle rainbows at the floor.
Dean grits his teeth in the face of Crowley's smirk and has to force the words out. "Can you bring Sam's soul back?"
Crowley furrows his brow. "Of course." He says it like it's obvious and Dean's just too stupid to figure it out. "But you know it all depends on how much you're willing to pay."
Resigned, Dean asks, "What's it gonna cost me?"
"How about we start off with a kiss?" Crowley says in a manner that implies that this is not a suggestion.
This is a deal.
The kiss is with tongue, of course, swiping at the memory of Castiel. Every stroke burns, scalding Dean's skin -- and if Dean didn't know better, he'd be checking his mouth later for blisters.
"I want you," Crowley says against his mouth with a nip to his bottom lip. "Give yourself to me, and I'll give you your brother."
Dean pushes Crowley away and puts some distance between them. Crowley doesn't seem to care, the way he's leaning against the blood-stained wall, giving Dean the same amount of attention he'd give to examining his fingernails.
"How do I know you're not yanking my chain?" Dean asks.
"You don't, of course," says Crowley. "But you want something, and I want something --" His eyes run all over Dean's body, stripping him of his clothes with an appreciative eye, "-- So what could be better than us working together?" An exaggerated shrug. "It's not like you've got any other options, Dean."
He remembers Castiel saying that putting Sam back together is impossible.
Dean and Sam have always been good at doing the impossible.
He thinks of Sam, squares his shoulders, and says, "I'm in."
Crowley's cock is hot and heavy in Dean's mouth. There's a silkiness to it that Dean would normally find appealing, but with Crowley all it does is make him want to gag.
The hands pulling on his hair are old companions of Dean's, as are the words that spill from Crowley's mouth. Demons love dirty talk, but if you screw more than two demons, the litany becomes predictable. Ineffective.
Dean twirls his tongue as far away from the tip as he can -- demons taste horrible, and Crowley is no different. It's worse when they're not inhabiting a vessel, so there's at least that.
Dean bobs his head, hollows his cheeks, and brings his palms up to the base, to the parts he can't reach. It would help keep the pubic hair out of his teeth, and maybe if he gave Crowley a good time, he'd get Sam's soul quicker.
At the thought of that, he tugs on Crowley's balls. Crowley groans, breathes out something that vaguely sounds like "fuck yes" before ramming himself deeper into Dean's mouth, past his gag reflex and down his throat. Dean thinks he'll fall over with the strength of Crowley's thrusts, but fuck it if he moves his hands from the fucker's dick up to his hips to keep him steady. This is not intimacy; this is a business transaction and nothing more.
Crowley comes with a long, drawn out moan that at first fills Dean with relief, and then with come. The taste is as terrible as the pre-come had implied, and it goes around Crowley's dick and gets into every single crevice in Dean's mouth -- between his teeth, circling his tongue, tickling his lips and then pushing between them and the cock until it spills down along his chin.
It's obscene, is what it is, and Crowley passes his fingers through the pearly liquid, massaging it deep into Dean's skin.
He doesn't take his cock out of Dean's mouth, and Dean doesn't let it out but rather looks up at Crowley through his lashes. They've made a deal, and Dean will see to his end of it.
Castiel arrives when it's least expected: he opens the door and barges in right when Dean finally lets go of Crowley's cock, when it's just the head of it popping out of Dean's mouth.
Castiel spares Dean a single, flat glare, and then turns it on Crowley. There's jealousy in Castiel's eyes, and possessiveness, and something that Dean's learned runs along the lines of despair.
But the anger is stronger than all of those combined, and Dean's glad to be kneeling on the floor in front of Crowley's crotch, far below Castiel's notice.
Dean scrambles backwards, and just in time, too: Castiel marches to where Dean had been kneeling and captures Crowley by the collar of his shirt. He shakes him. Hard.
"Well," Crowley says, once he can, "hello to you too, Castiel."
"Can you do it?" Castiel demands, his hands still gripping Crowley's shirt. "Can you retrieve Sam's soul from the Cage?"
Crowley slides his gaze to Dean, then back to Castiel. "Of course not."
Castiel lets go of Crowley with a violent shove, and says, "Get out."
Crowley frowns. "Now hold on, this is my place--"
"Get. Out," Castiel repeats.
Dean remains where he is, on the floor. He looks at Castiel from below, and meets Castiel's scrutiny square-on. Dean still hasn't forgiven him.
Death doesn't have a door. There is no door, no gate. There is no way to get to Death's territory. It is everywhere, and Dean already occupies it; in order to draw Death's attention, he’d have to die. Again.
He's surprised when Death comes to him and leads him to a house Dean's never seen before. Death is austere and forbidding and more capable than Crowley and Castiel put together, and he's leading Dean through the house in a companionable silence that Dean doesn't dare to break.
"You are very persistent," Death eventually tells him, his tone mild. "It is admirable, although somewhat misplaced."
"I want my brother back," Dean says.
"So I've heard." Death's spindly fingers find Dean's left cheek; they are cold and familiar, unforgiving. Compassionate. Dean's felt them before -- and rejected them. "I would be willing to help you," says Death. He lowers his mouth to the nape of Dean's neck at the same time he cups the base of Dean's head. "If you do something for me in return."
Dean's breath hitches, and his voice cracks when he says: "Anything."
Death pulls him in, presses his cool lips over Dean's, and the memory of Castiel's kisses does not flare up -- Dean hardly remembers them at all. The precise gentleness of Death's touch makes something deep in Dean relax and unknot, makes him lean into Death the way he never has with Castiel.
There is no uncontrolled passion in Death's movement; only economy in the way he disposes of their clothes and sets them aside, exposing Dean's body with the same monotone efficiency he reveals his own sharp lines. Death projects no self-consciousness or shame in his bare skin, only clinical detachment.
Dean, in return, trembles. He's laid bare, all his faults brought into stark, merciless review under Death's light.
"There is no shame in living," Death says, trailing his fingertips down Dean's spine.
Dean would argue, but Death's hand reaches the crack of his ass and slips between his buttocks at the same time he nips at Dean's collarbone, tasting the sweat that's gathered there. His erection is firm against Dean's thigh in sharp contrast to Dean's limp cock.
And while his cock might be limp, he's unafraid.
Death squeezes Dean's hip and pulls away. He's heading for a straight-backed chair, and he sits down and parts his legs before gesturing at his lap. "Would you like to sit down?"
Dean suddenly doesn't want this, is unsure of what will happen next, but Death is simply sitting in the chair, patient. Waiting.
Dean takes an experimental step forward, then another, and before he knows it he's sitting in Death's lap and facing him. He tries to put most of his weight on his own legs rather than subject Death to it, but Death will have none of it: he hooks his hands under Dean's thighs, raising them enough for Dean's feet to leave the floor.
Death doesn't even grunt.
"I'm not going to trust you," Dean pants after a long kiss in which Death maps the row of his upper teeth.
"I did not expect you to," Death replies and slides his hands down to Dean's abdomen, and then further down to where Dean's cock is starting to get interested. He wraps his fingers around it and squeezes a long moan out of Dean. "But perhaps you should try to trust the moment."
He tries. He really does. He bucks into Death's hand and begs Death to drag his fingernails down his cock. He traces Death's high cheekbones with the hand not clutching Death's hip. Death is still hard, yet does nothing about it, and Dean does not like that: he wants to pay his price.
Death catches his hand before it reaches its destination. "No," Death says, and his fingers tighten against Dean's for a moment before letting go.
A particular turn of the finger, right at the base of Dean's cock, distracts him.
"Yes," Death urges him and picks up the pace. "Like this. Don't hold back, Dean."
Dean doesn't. He arches into Death's hand, brings his cock as deep into Death's fist as it would go. He puts his arms around Death's shoulders for leverage, moans at another squeeze of encouragement, and holds onto Death's skin hard enough to form bruises on a human as he spurts all over Death's fingers, abdomen, and both their thighs.
He's spent and tired, and still Death does not let Dean touch him. He tries.
Death pushes Dean back up to his feet. Dean reels, stumbles and almost falls. He's still dizzy around the edges; it takes time to tell his legs that they need to support him. He half-expects Death to support him, catch him so he doesn't fall, but Death simply watches him with a smile as Dean regains control of his limbs.
Once Dean stands straight and tall, Death rises as well, beginning to pull on his clothes. He's unmindful of the semen that will stain his suit.
"Uh," says Dean. He wants to apologize for messing up Death's clothes, and for not bringing him off, and also to say that he knows he won't get Sam back, now, because he's messed up.
Looking down at the come on his hand, Death smiles again. It's just a little twitch, only the smallest pull of his lips. Dean has no idea what's going through Death's head, and he's scared to ask.
"This will not happen again," Death says.
Dean nods, miserable. He's had his chance and missed it, and he thinks he's run out of possible options.
"I expect you and your brother to look into the matter of his resurrection."
Dean's heart leaps in his ribcage, and slowly he brings his eyes to meet Death's. "Really?"
"I would find it irritating if more people returned from the dead. You two will put a stop to it and that will be my payment for retrieving your brother's soul from the cage."
"What was this about, then?"
Death looks over Dean's still naked form more kindly than Dean expects. "Goodbye, Dean." He tips his head at Dean and clicks his heels on the floor. "Your brother will be waiting for you."
originally posted at dreamwidth