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English
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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
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1,008
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1/1
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1
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12
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2,356

A Marlboro Red for Me and a Bourbon for My Baby

Summary:

In which Dean smokes, but not really, Ruby is a bitch with an ugly car, and Castiel smells like rainwater and roses.

Work Text:

When Dean wakes up, there’s warm amber sunlight trying to fight its way through the curtains and into the room, he’s alone, and his pack of Marlboro Red is crushed against his hip.

He’s not a smoker, not really, but Sam’s been out with Ruby doing God knows what—or maybe it’s Lucifer knows what—for the past two days and fuck if nicotine isn’t the only thing that’s calming him down and stopping him from tracking that demon slut down and slitting her throat. She’s a Medusa is what she is and he’s so angry with Sammy because how could he not see it? It’s not the first time this has happened. Doesn’t Sam remember Meg and all the shit they went through with her? All the shit Dean went through with her because of Sam?

No, of course not. Sam just goes gallivanting off into the sunset with some demon bitch and her fucking ugly ass car.

Rubbing helplessly at the pain behind his left eye with one hand and digging around in the cramped space of his pockets for the carton of cigarettes, Dean is blind to the subtle movement in the corner of the room, the softly fluttering sound of feathers and the figure looking at him from the edge of the bed. He is not blind to the smell that comes along with Castiel, however: sweat, cinnamon bagels and fresh flowers (he’d laugh if it wasn’t for the fact that Cas’ smell has his cock twitching interestedly from inside of his boxers). It’s odd and intoxicating, comforting as it slides onto his skin and wraps silky invisible tendrils around his heart. They share an intense gaze as Dean taps the bottom of the carton against his palm once, twice, three times before fluidly slipping one perfect, cylindrical packet of relief out of the box and stuffing it between cracked lips.

Castiel hates cigarettes, and Dean knows it, and it reminds him of how Sam used to bitch and complain whenever Dean would smoke in the car back when he was a junior in high school and Sam would beg for Dean to take him along with him whenever he went out somewhere. He slides a transparent red-tinted lighter out from his other pocket and flicks his thumb over the wheel once, holds, and all it takes is one long, blissful inhale for Dean to remember getting high and playing the Nintendo 64, listening to bands that no one else his age knew about, getting blood all over Sam’s prom suit and relief. On the exhale, he blows it intentionally in Cas’ direction, amused by the way that he immediately tenses and wrinkles his nose.

They don’t speak while Dean takes drags off of the stick of cancer and Dean prefers it that way, likes to watch the way that Cas’ can’t stop watching Dean’s lips, can’t keep his tongue from wetting his permanently cracked ones or the way that the sliver of sunlight that managed to slink its way into the motel room adds a honeydew colour to Cas’ blue eyes, and really it’s magnificent. Dean doesn’t say that, though, because that would be crossing into Things Men Do Not Talk About territory and Dean isn’t ready to make that step with Cas yet, not here and not now. He doesn’t want to shatter the fragile peace he’s finally built up, and he doesn’t want to take away the look of relaxation on Castiel’s face. It looks like it belongs there; along with many other expressions that Dean would enjoy showing Cas how to create.

What he does is take an extra large, long pull off of the cigarette before leaning forward and prying Cas’ lips open with his tongue very carefully, holding his breath until the moment that their lips are locked up angle-for-angle before blowing into Cas like he was breathing the gift of life into him or something equally metaphorical. When Cas sucks in as Dean exhales out, he secretly wonders if maybe he is giving Castiel life. The life that he’s never going to get to have, because he’s an angel of the Lord, and once this is over, he’ll either go back to Heaven or be cast out because of Dean.

Dean doesn’t want to think about that right now, though; he takes another drag off the cigarette and this time blows it down the inside of Cas’ shirt. The fumes tickle his nipples and waft up and Cas’ breath hitches when his sense are assaulted, and the one moment of weakness is all Dean needs for permission.

In a matter of minutes, they’re naked, with Cas on his back and Dean sprawled lazily above him, ghosting out puffs of nicotine over the sensitive spots on Cas’ skin and delighting in the drawn out, breathless shudders and whispers he gets that are incoherent and unintelligible. Dean loves that: that he can make an angel of the Lord feel so out of control, submit so fully to the pleasures of the flesh; he loves it more than he should, just like he loves—he stops and bites at Cas’ right hipbone instead, sucking tender flesh until a nice mark has been made. Castiel chokes on a breath and Dean sucks in another lungful of poisonous smoke.

This time, Dean dips his head and takes Cas’ cock into his mouth, lets the fumes roll and snake around his cock and it’s so intense, tingling and crackling against heated and vulnerable flesh until Castiel cries at out the too-sweet friction and Dean accepts him completely.

Castiel is sweating, lightly, and the bed smells like rainwater and roses. There’s only one hit left on his cigarette, and Castiel takes it out of his hand before he can raise it to his own lips; and then Dean is watching Cas breath it in before soft hands wrap around his cock and Castiel is breathing life into his body.

"O' God it's wonderful

to get out of bed

and drink too much coffee

and smoke too many cigarettes

and love you so much."

- Prompt #12, "Steps" by Frank O'Hara