Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/400778.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Castiel/Dean_Winchester
  Character:
      Castiel, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Clairestiel:_Cas_as_Claire_Novak
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-05-09 Words: 1643
****** In the house of flesh ******
by nicasio_silang
Summary
     Written for the blindfold_spn prompt: This vessel is growing up and
     coming of age, and sometimes Castiel gives in to the urges.
It's early in the summer of 2012 when Castiel realizes that his vessel is just
a body now. A living, dying body growing older every day. A vessel suffused
with grace is like an insect drowned in amber, but an empty vessel is just a
human being, and his is just a 14-year-old girl.
Better this than Jimmy, he thinks. She has a few more years left in her.
Presuming, of course, that the years will go on unfurling.
She's wrapped in a towel, sitting, dripping onto a mottled motel bedspread. She
stretches her legs in front of her and points her toes. There is a smooth ache
in these legs; this body is growing. Claire, sleeping, tosses and turns inside
herself. She thinks, I never ever want to grow up. And that's okay, she won't.
Cas will instead. He hushes her, and she's gone again.
Dean comes through the door and balks.
"Think you could put on some clothes, Cas?"
"I think I could, yes." Cas crosses her legs and leans back on her elbows.
She's feeling obstinate today, just like yesterday.
Dean waits. Through the open doorway she sees a crow perch on the Impala's
driver's side mirror. Castiel stands and wraps the towel tight around herself,
pinching a line across the top of her chest. She walks to the door. Dean stays
very still. He's half-closing his eyes.
She walks right out and up to the car, bare little feet on the hot pavement.
The bird doesn't fly off until she's less than two feet away. The air is dense,
still. Wings flap and don't even make a breeze. Her hair sits lank on her skin.
"Cas," Dean says behind her. It's not much of a warning. There's nobody to see.
The virus came through this town months ago.
If Castiel tries, and she does, she thinks she should be able to see the faded
impression of Sam walking down the sandblasted stretch of road that's simmering
from the doorstep to the horizon. She tries, but it's dim, and it could be
anything, really. Maybe just some wandering corpse, tripping towards them
slowly. She backs up and closes the door behind her. Dean lets out a breath.
“The shower’s working,” Cas says.
“Yeah, I gathered that.”
They’re standing side-to-front inside a shadow the window can’t reach. It’s
been four days straight driving, chasing the heat because it makes the infected
lethargic. When Dean sighs, Cas can smell the ghost of the gas he’d siphoned
from a flipped Accord hours ago. Dean always does the siphoning. Better at the
suck and spit, but that’s a joke he never tells anymore.
It’s like he’s barely there some days, and so she leans until her shoulder is
pressed up into his chest. She feels so small now, like this, even though it’s
been a very long time. Or perhaps it’s that the Earth feels larger. The
atmosphere wraps around her, the heat off Dean’s body is enormous, the
unaugmented muscles of her back and shoulders press up against gravity, and
slog through the minutes. Cas turns and rests her forehead on his collarbone.
“Don’t,” Dean says. And then, “Don’t you know by now why this is...” He doesn’t
finish, and he clutches one hand at the front of her towel, clenching it
closed. She turns her head and speaks to his adam’s apple.
“Of course I do,” Cas says. “Because this was never my skin.” She runs light
fingertips along his arm, catches the hairs of it on her rough-bitten nails.
“Because you’ve never seen my face.” She moves until she’s speaking in kisses
on his neck. “Even in deepest damnation. You closed your eyes.”
“Yeah,” Dean laughs through her hair. “That’s really not why.”
“Oh.” She fakes a smile. She lifts up his shirt one-handed. “Then I have no
idea what you’re talking about.”
Castiel has always been curious. He used to count the moments of Dean’s sleep,
look for the lines of his hunched shoulders, wonder about the temperature of
the air between Dean’s jacket and his body. He used to try to watch every part
of Dean’s face while they spoke to each other. He drew close to see the smaller
changes. This body has sharper eyes, and these days she spends her time riding
shotgun, sticking and unsticking her thighs from the seat, watching Dean’s
hands far away on the steering wheel. Earlier today they were restless. They
moved when she moved her legs.
She rests one palm on his belly and catches his free hand in hers. Their
fingers together find the curve of her jaw, their thumbs drag into her mouth.
Salt and dust and leather and something chemical. She tongues at his
fingernail. He hums, or he says please, or he says don’t. He doesn’t like to
see Cas like this; she keeps her face tucked under his chin.
With her nose, she snuffles at and under the collar of his shirt. It’s damp
with sweat. Something about living in a child has helped her to appreciate
these animal moments. Dean smells like his car, and like hot clay. He moves his
hand to rest over her breastbone, spanning nearly the whole width of her.
“Go on,” she says in the space between his shirt and his skin. She presses the
tip of her pinky into his belly button. His stomach jumps, his chest hitches.
“Cas,” he says. His fist clenches and unclenches around the cloth in his hand,
his knuckles digging into her ribs. He’s rubbing his cheek back and forth
across her hairline like he’s shaking his head.
“Go on and close your eyes,” Castiel says. And she knows as soon as he’s done
it.
He breathes out, leans back, knocks the back of his head against the wall. He
lets his hands meet at the nape of her neck, under her hair. She slides down
him, she lets the towel bunch and fall away. On her knees she wraps an arm
around one of his legs and it’s like the trunk of a tree, she seems so small,
and he’s become a looming thing, straining against the press of her, straining
out into the air.
She laps at the skin she finds from unbuttoning his fly and peeling down his
jeans. The line of hair down his stomach to his crotch where she breathes in
the scent off his hardening cock, and she takes the skin of his scrotum and
rolls it between her lips. She can hear him choke deep in his throat when she
takes one ball into her mouth and tips her head back just a bit, pulling,
pressing it warmly against her upper palate.
It’s quiet in this room, an empty room in an empty building. The only noises
are her fingers digging into the back of his knee, his hands hushing through
her hair, the wet exit from her mouth and then the rasp of her tongue at the
base of his cock, open-mouthed kissing, tasting the days it’s been since
they’ve done this. She brings one hand up and cups the swelling head in her
palm, rolls it slick with precome along her lifeline, and travels up along his
shaft with her cheek pressed up against the length of him, painting a smear
across her face.
Cas holds him and moves minutely, she squeezes, and she huffs deliberate
breaths against him, and she takes her time. She looks up, which rests his cock
just barely on her bottom lip. She sees his eyes squint tighter shut, his mouth
fall open.
She pushes forward and fills her mouth with him, and it’s so much, it never
felt like this much when she was a man. Her cheeks hollow immediately, pulling
him in on instinct, her tongue flattens and her lips curl. Cas takes a moment
to feel the cock inside her mouth. It’s heavy, and he’s trying so hard not to
push. He’s gotten so careful with her. She pushes him back so his ass hits the
wall, she urges him to bend his knees so that her reach is better, and then she
takes him as deep as she can.
Dean is whisper-quiet. He spent his adolescence a thin bathroom door or one bed
away from his father, his brother. His litany comes out strained. Cas, he says.
Oh, oh, please, yeah.
She’s bobbing her head and jacking him just below her lips. Dean used to close
his eyes to do this to Cas, but she keeps hers open so she can see his balls
tighten, so she knows when to reach for them and press her thumb where he
needs. Saliva drools out of her mouth and she slides along it, she presses,
presses in hard. She hums mmm and contracts her throat. His knees are beginning
to shake and she digs her nails into the back of his leg.
Castiel wants very much to say Dean, look at me, but she can’t pull away. He’s
lost, he’s coming long and stuttering down her throat. It’s leaking from the
side of her mouth and running down her chin.
She lets him out slowly. She rests her face against his softening cock because
it feels so certain. She knows he’s going to walk away in just a moment. Pull
up his pants and go take a lukewarm shower. But Cas feels like she has Dean
rooted right now, here, standing over her, panting. She runs a hand up and down
his calf.
Dean pulls up his pants. Slowly, so carefully, he slides with his back against
the wall until he’s sitting right in front of her. He doesn’t open his eyes
just yet, but he lets his head fall forward. Their foreheads touch by
happenstance. Cas folds her legs more comfortably, and she shuts her eyes too.
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