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Title: In the Aftermath
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17 (YOU HAVE NO IDEA)
Word Count: 409 words
Summary: In the aftermath, Dean had beard-burn in tender patches across his neck and thighs, red marks along his chest and shoulders from Castiel's lips and teeth, bruises ghosting his hips where Castiel's hands had held and then guided him forward.
Notes: I'll just leave this here, shall I? (Anyone wondering about the fandom and any fic I write in it, all the blame goes to [livejournal.com profile] jmtorres and [livejournal.com profile] lizfu. Also, [livejournal.com profile] shirozora.) AO3 story link for if you'd prefer reading there.



In the aftermath, Dean had beard-burn in tender patches across his neck and thighs, red marks along his chest and shoulders from Castiel's lips and teeth, bruises ghosting his hips where Castiel's hands had held and then guided him forward. His hair was a mess, his skin itched with sweat where it didn't ache from the afterglow, and his whole body thrummed with the well-being of having been well and truly fucked. Dean could barely move except to turn his head to mark Castiel's departure from the bed.

Castiel was immaculate, hair styled once more in a way that would've taken a human half an hour and half a tub of hair gel, clothes slotting into place on his bare skin like turning a page in a book. Dean wanted to turn the page back, tear out every picture of Cas looking like that, distant and unattainable, like Dean hadn't spent the past hour writing his name with his tongue and fingers into Castiel's skin. Like Dean hadn't marked every secret space on Castiel's body with his mouth alone, licking and sucking and kissing until Castiel had begged, had pleaded, done everything but prayed for Dean to keep going and never stop. Like Dean hadn't wrapped his hands in that hair and pulled, dragging low, needy noises from Castiel's throat, because apparently the angel liked it rough, liked it a little bit dirty and for the pleasure to be spiked with a hint of pain. If Dean didn't have the marks stretched across his body like a roadmap of Castiel's enthusiasm, of their mutual pleasure, Dean might have suspected it had all been a strange and all too sexy dream.

Castiel now looked—dorky tax accountant trench coat, ill fitting off the rack suit, and all—perfect. One glance, and a stranger would never guess that not twenty minutes ago, Dean had been balls-deep and absolutely desperate in Castiel, that they'd been wrapped around one another so tightly that Dean could barely tell which was Castiel's wrist and his own elbow, hearts thudding in the same heavy rhythm as Dean whispered secrets into Castiel's neck, his mouth, anywhere he could reach.

In the aftermath, Dean still felt like he was all nerves and hands reaching out; his appearance matched the wrecked, human mess he absolutely was.

In the aftermath, Castiel looked like an angel wrapped in his grace, untouchable, beyond Dean's grasp; Castiel looked like he'd never been touched at all.
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