Author: MF Luder
Keywords: het, genderswitch, angst, PWP
Word Count: ~3700
Warnings: references to drug and alcohol abuse
Spoilers: general season 5
Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to Kripke and Co. and the CW.
Archive: My LJ, anywhere else, please let me know
Summary: Love is bittersweet at the end of the world.
Author’s Notes: The idea for this struck me one day as I went for a drive (Dean and I have that in common; driving helps us escape). As for where the genderswitch came from...I don't question the muses anymore or they get mad at me. Set in 5x4 'verse. HUGE thanks to my two betas who not only agreed to beta het (weird, I know, right?), but were very patient with me as well: rhymephile and siberian_skys. Love you both!
Author's Notes 2: This is what I imagine Deanna looks like most days. This, too.
Deanna can't take it anymore. She needs to get away from the claustrophobic camp, from the people looking to her for guidance. She's not the savior they insist she is. She's just some girl that was fated by Heaven to kill her brother and even that she rejected. So it made no sense to her why gruff old hunters deferred to her in meetings or why the compound's women refused to stop sending their sons and daughters to her to be trained. She needs to get out for a little while, unable to handle being around one more burly, sweaty man who smelled like Croat blood.
She slips on a printed sundress, her mom's leather jacket, and her clunky hunting boots, a creature of comfort, always. She gets into the Impala, muscles unwinding as she sinks into the worn front seat, inhaling the smell that has always meant home for her. It's a little the faded paint that outlines Devil's Traps beneath the carpets, a whole lot of leather, and a little bit of her father. When she closes her eyes real tight and blocks out everything else, she swears she can still smell Sammy's aftershave and hear his laugh, too.
She's not startled when the passenger door opens and somebody slides in, but she is a little surprised. However, she and Cas aren't exactly fighting right now, and he's only stoned - judging by the glazed expression reflected by the car window - rather than tripping or drunk, so she lets him stay. He doesn't say a word, either, and she's fine with that.
She turns over the engine, loving the rumble of the V8. It's a waste of gas, something there isn't much of in 2013, but she was never good at rationing. It's how she survived Famine, after all. When Dee wants something, she just goes for it. She needs this time alone with her baby and the open road. Cas is in an understanding mood right now and probably wants away from the camp just as much as she does; she knows he'll stay closemouthed and she can pretend he's not even there.
It's a rare warm day. It often seems the end of the world is nothing but gray skies and smog-like atmospheres with an endless drizzle that keeps temperatures below sixty. Maybe it's to keep the zombies fresh. Considering Lucifer's sense of humor, Dee thinks it's something he'd find funny. But today, the sun is beginning to show through the clouds and there's blue sky on the horizon.
Twenty miles down the desolate South Dakota highway, the sky is entirely clear and she's hot. Honey-colored curls are sticking to her skin and she scowls as she shoves her hair away from her face, grimacing even worse when she glances in the rear-view mirror and sees stray strands sticking out here and there. She refuses to put it up, though; this is her time. Her hair is almost always up in a ponytail because it's easier around the camp or when she's fighting the Croats. But today she wants to feel as free as one can at the end of the world. Which is why the rare dress, of which she is doubly grateful for as the sweat starts dripping down her back.
She grunts and Cas knows what she needs. He takes the wheel with one hand, keeping his eyes on the road as Dee strips off the leather jacket, tossing it in the backseat. One of the straps of her dress has slipped from her shoulder, but she lets it stay there as she takes the wheel back from him.
Now that she's had to acknowledge his existence, ignoring Castiel is easier said than done. Cas is his own presence in the car. She can smell the acrid weed smoke clinging to his clothes and she can feel him pointedly not looking at her. He's been silent this whole time and she can imagine he's waiting patiently through her Blue Oyster Cult tape for the one song he actually likes—“Don't Fear the Reaper,” predictably—to play. Dee likes him better when he's only stoned. He sits there, quietly, and she can nearly forget the past three years of his slow downward spiral into a chemical hell. She can pretend that his lack of movement comes from inner contemplation or prayer, rather than because he's too relaxed to jiggle his leg.
It's been silent in the car for so long, though, she's not sure what to say. What can she say? This is the angel who fell for her and got...nothing. Not God, not his brothers, not even a good fight. Just years wasting away in an apocalyptic world dominated by zombies out for blood where the only solace he can find, where the only way he can pretend to have wings, is to experience week-long acid trips. It breaks her heart, although she'd never tell him. Instead they fight over it. Each time, Deanna comes to hate herself a little more because she can see she's only pushing him further into the booze and drugs and the love-guru crap. It's easier to lash out at what Castiel has become than to try to rebuild the angel he was.
She sighs, lifting the hair off the back of her neck for a moment. The tape clicks over and starts playing “Don't Fear the Reaper”. The hum leaps to her lips unbidden as Eric Bloom begins the first verse.
All our times have come
Here but now they're gone
Seasons don't fear the reaper
For the first time since he slid into the Impala, she catches Cas looking at her from the corner of his eye. It makes her breath hitch a little because it's a heated gaze. Sometimes she forgets he has this thing for her neck. These days, it's all too easy to forget he has a thing for her at all. It doesn't matter in that moment, though, because she feels Castiel's hand creep over and land on her thigh. She inhales sharply and consciously places both hands on the steering wheel after letting her hair drape over one shoulder. His hand moves up, sliding the dress partially out of his way.
For some time, Cas doesn't do anything but stroke his thumb over the inside of her thigh, his other fingers loosely cradling her leg. She hasn't shaved in a few days so it's almost as though he's petting her, thumb tracing and catching on the soft, light-colored hair there. It used to embarrass her, until she realized he didn't care. Castiel had never really cared how she looked. He'd fucked her two minutes after a fight with the monster of the day with dirt and blood still in her hair and on her clothes, he'd fucked her the day after she knew Sam was gone forever when she'd been a blotchy mess from trying not to cry, and he'd fucked her when she was still beautiful before the world ended. A few leg hairs didn't deter him. For all Dee knew, they turned him on. Kinky bastard.
Another five miles down the road, though, his hand becomes more adventurous and she sighs into the caress through her panties, and her back arches when it sticks to the leather instead of allowing her to simply slide down and spread her legs further. The sun is beating down and the tape has stopped. The air in the car is still, filled only with the soft appreciative noises coming from Cas. She doesn't bother putting in a new tape to fill the silence. She loves hearing Cas lose control, losing control because of her.
His fingers grow bolder and they move aside her underwear, sliding up and down her folds, slick with sweat. She can feel beads of liquid skim slowly down her temples now, too. A drop languidly slides from her clavicle to between her breasts and it's getting to be a bit too much.
Fortunately, Cas takes the cue from her hips lifting off the seat and manages to one-handedly pull her underwear down to her knees, effectively trapping her legs. She shifts because she wants the barrier gone; she wants to spread wantonly for those long fingers that know her best. Castiel stops her with one hand on her knee.
“Drive,” he says, and the rough sandpaper sound in his voice makes her melt. It's not to say Castiel's voice changed like a boy going through puberty when he Fell, but his voice does tend to be pitched a little higher nowadays and he's always letting out these musical, bitter laughs. It's the drugs, she thinks. When he breaks out what she calls his angel voice, she'd happily roll over and let him have his way with her.
The sun is at its peak in the sky now, and all she sees as they barrel down I-29 at eighty-five miles an hour are brown fields and abandoned farmhouses. The sad thing is, nothing much looks out of place. It's September and the ground should be barren in South Dakota. One wouldn't know Lucifer rules the world with a terrible grasp that brings hail at unlikely times and tornadoes in January or that Croats roam the cities and sometimes the countryside. She doesn't even think the Devil is trying.
She gasps out loud when Castiel's fingers enter her in one slick move. He's not messing around; it's right to two fingers, because he knows she can take more than that. He's still looking straight ahead, as though he's ignoring her, as though he isn't twisting those wonderfully long fingers deep inside her. This time she deliberately moves her body so that she sits lower in the seat; her knees are still trapped in the rather weak bind of her cotton panties, but his fingers can now reach her g-spot.
Castiel drags some of her slick up, rubbing it onto her clit with a precise pressure that makes her foot drop heavily on the gas pedal. She's doing nearly one hundred down a deserted highway with a former angel fingering her and she's never felt so much like she was in heaven. It's all she's got left in this world that's good: the Impala, the open road and Cas.
His fingers dip back inside of her while he maintains a slow back and forth across her clit. Dee is soaking the leather seat beneath her and her head lolls back, but somehow she keeps her eyes on the road, trying to ease off the gas a little. She's swollen around Castiel's fingers, all her blood focused in that one part of her body. The dirty, wet sounds of his fingers pushing in and out fill the interior of the car until it's all she can hear. Her hips grind up helplessly into his palm and he picks up his pace. He slides a third urgent finger inside of her; how he manages it she doesn't know, considering the tight fit between the seat and her.
She glances over and sees Castiel isn't as constrained as he seems. His right hand is rubbing at his own crotch and his hips shift nearly as restlessly as hers. Seeing his hand drag over his cock in the fairly tight-fitting jeans he likes to wear nearly does it for her and when he looks back, eyes glazed not with weed but lust, the blue almost lost, he manages to hit her g-spot. She flies apart, cunt pulsing, legs throbbing.
Her head slams back and she lets out a moan as her whole body shudders, wound so perfectly tight. She can feel Castiel's fingers in her as she comes, keeping up the pressure long enough for a second wave of pleasure to crash over her. Her foot hits the gas again and she loses her steering abilities, the tires making a terrible noise as the Impala veers onto the shoulder. Her eyes open in time to catch Castiel grabbing the wheel, his hand covered in her orgasm. The visual is enough to make her whine in the back of her throat as the angel directs the car fully off the road, a little off into the grass, killing the engine with a quick flick of his wrist at the key.
They're both breathing heavy and the car is even hotter. It makes her feel closed in, claustrophobic, almost. She takes a moment to come down. Castiel waits; he's patient...so patient her lost angel.
Deanna rolls down her window, a hot breeze rushing into the vehicle, before she reaches out and pats the dashboard, says, “I'm sorry, baby.”
Cas laughs, bringing her attention back to him. The laugh was short but sweet and not at all fake or induced by a chemical substance. It makes her grin as she tucks her hair back behind her ears. When she looks up again, though, Cas is staring at her with lips parted open, tongue flicking across his bottom lip, lashes drooping over his blue eyes. It takes her a moment to realize he's still thrusting up into his own hand.
That's all the encouragement she needs before she's climbing into his lap, underwear abandoned on the Impala's floorboards, rubbing her face against his facial scruff. She doesn't care if she gets stubble burn; the prickly feeling spikes her arousal in the car that smells heavily of them and sex and the warm sunshine that bears down on them. She grinds herself on Castiel's crotch, still confined within his jeans, until he literally has to push her away for a moment to undo the button, slide the zipper down, and take out his cock.
They're not prepared, she doesn't have a condom, but right now she doesn't care. The blood in her veins is singing and it pulls her like a magnet closer to her angel. Dee lifts up from her knees a little and takes him in with one smooth slide, her cunt still slick and ready from her orgasm.
“Deanna,” Castiel grits out, sounding pained, sounding beautiful and holy in the rapture of speaking her name.
She groans and lets her head fall to the crook of Castiel's shoulder, blindly lapping at his skin there. His hand grips the base of his dick still from where he used it to guide himself into her. He slides one finger up alongside his cock and she trembles, gripping tighter at his shoulders.
He moves his hands then until they engulf her hips and he pulls her back just enough so he can suck on her nipples through the thin cotton of her dress. His teeth bite down on her right breast and she arches into him, wanting more and more, always more. He growls deep in his throat and sets a punishing pace to his thrusts inside her.
She can't believe how wet she is. It's never been like this with anyone else. Dee sometimes jokes that it's his angel mojo that keeps her in a nearly constant state of arousal, but not often because she can see how it hurts him when she does and when she's angry with him and wants to hurt him, she doesn't like being reminded of the power he has over her. How a simple look or arch of his eyebrows or a quirk of his lips into the non-smile thing he does makes her soak her panties. She's not saying the sex is perfect; it can be painful or awkward or whatever just like with anyone else she ever fucked. Sex isn't meant to be perfect, she doesn't believe, and that's why she likes it. But Cas knows her, inside and out, and that makes it great.
A lock of hair falls out from behind her ear, obscuring the path Castiel's lips are making over her collarbones. One of his hands moves to tug at it, wrapping it around his finger playfully. He looks up and she can't break the eye contact. His lips are pink and dry because he's been sucking at fabric. Her nipples feel cooler than the rest of her right now as the damp material caresses them. His eyes are lidded and he licks his lips so that they shine. The sun lights across his face, revealing the tan he's gained since he started working in the field with her killing Croats. Silly, that though there's hardly any sunshine these days, Castiel ends up looking like a California hippie with his darkened olive skin, hair that hangs in his eyes, and the ridiculous shirts he wears.
He pulls her in by that strand of hair until they're kissing hungry, rough, and messy. Their tongues fight for dominance and Dee gives as good as she gets until they're hardly actually kissing anymore, more or less simply panting into the other's mouth, tongues occasionally flickering against each other.
Castiel continues to thrust; the pace has slowed a little and his hips move in the circles he knows she loves because his pelvis hits her clit in just the right way. He slides one of his hands up her body, trailing it through the fabric of her dress until he places pressure on her neck, making her gulp for air though he's hardly cutting off her supply. It's the insinuation that makes her breathe harder, that makes her press her throat into his hand. But it's not what he wants.
His fingers slide past her lips and into her mouth. Deanna tastes herself on them and it's not the best flavor, but she goes with it; she always does. Castiel loves tasting her, often licking his hand after she comes, and he can go down on her for hours. And sometimes he just likes to watch her, though she's told him more times than she can remember that she'd rather swallow his come than her own. He just gives her that look that says Deanna, do it for me, I Fell for you, don't you know how much I want you to do this, and she can't refuse. So she laps up her taste, making his fingers good and wet until he pulls them back to her whimpering disapproval, tracing her lips just once before taking them back for good. The heat simmering in his eyes makes her have to kiss him again and she's so caught up in his lips and perfect flavor now that all traces of weed have been previously kissed away, she hardly registers his hand caressing her ass until suddenly one wet finger is slipping into her.
“Oh!” Dee breathes, as her whole body arches. She presses her breasts right up against Castiel's chest and her body grips his cock tighter, tight enough to make him let out a well-deserved moan. It starts a whole tirade of words slipping from his generally silent mouth.
“Fuck. Fuck, Deanna, you're beautiful. With the sun and the stars as my witness, you are as Heaven itself...” Castiel continues to spout words she doesn't understand; Hebrew, she thinks. Sometimes, it's Enochian. But one word she recognizes; he's repeated it enough times. Ahuv sheli. My beloved, he's saying. She mocks him for it when she's feeling happy and throws it back in his face when he pisses her off. Secretly, though, she likes it. She simply doesn't understand why. This was an angel of the Host and yet he's calling her - some filthy, often slutty, entirely human girl - the sweetest words known to man and angels.
Castiel's hand on her hip is gripping her tighter now, spreading her ass cheeks, and she knows he's getting close. Every thrust, every movement forces her against the rough, bunched-up fabric of his jeans. It doesn't hurt, but she knows she'll be chafed tomorrow. Her hands dig into his shoulders as he slides another finger in beside the first in her ass, driving them in and out counter to his thrusts, which are becoming more erratic.
He shifts in the seat a little so her clit gets more action, and he presses deep inside her and then she's coming for a third time. Her head drops back to the crook of his neck and she clutches him tight; he is her port in the storm. It hurts and it burns bright beneath her eyelids, and still, it's never enough.
“Cas!” she calls out and he thrusts only a few more times before he comes. It feels amazing and intimate to have his hips keep stuttering through his orgasm inside her and she cradles his head to her chest as he moans and breaks with the force of it.
They're a sticky, tacky mess with all the come and the sweat mingling together. Castiel pulls his fingers out of her ass with a small smile on his lips as he kisses her gently. Everything about Dee feels wrung out, used, and wet. Castiel's pants are soaked, her come mixing with his as it pools out from her. They stay like that, though, him still half-hard inside of her and God, she wishes she could go again, because she never wants this moment to end. Here in the car, on a hot day in September, left on the side of the road, she can imagine that there's no apocalypse, that Sam is waiting back at home for her, and that Cas isn't an addict. She can be a girl who never went to Hell and whom Heaven never wanted.
Castiel raises his hand, trailing his fingers along her skin as he slides her dress strap back into place. Her beautiful, fallen angel kisses her arms, kisses her shoulder, kisses the strap and the skin below it before he leans back into the car seat. There's a small smile on his lips and a contented look to his fog-free eyes. He pulls her by her ass closer to him, still sheathed inside her.
Wiping the sweat from his brow and brushing his hair from his forehead, she decides it doesn't have to end yet and lets his smile echo on her own lips. They'll drive back to the camp soon - someone's bound to be missing them - but for now she'll rest here in the comfort of Castiel's arms, in the heat of the car, and kiss him until they're exhausted.