.fic: Making it up (Deanna/Cas) NC17 | 2,500

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Making it up (girl!Dean/Cas) NC17 | 2,500
A follow-up to As we go along, in which there is SEX SEX SEX. God, I love Deanna. A lot.

Making it up

That night, the Victorian widow goes down swinging.

Literally; she's about to use a broken-off post from a bedstead and Cas's skull for t-ball practice when Deanna finds the velvet bag of Emmeline Waters's baby teeth, puts her lighter to it, and fwoosh sends it up in flame. The ghost shrieks, her incorporeal fingers sparking at the tips, and the blue flame runs up her arms and her grayed-out black dress, her breast, her thighs, her neck, and finally her face. It's the last thing Deanna sees of her as her boot grinds down on the teeth to crush them to enamel and dust, her eyes terrible and vacant and her mouth open so Deanna can see the flames licking the back of her throat.

Then she's gone, and the house is quiet, except for the racket Sam's putting up in the basement. And even that stops almost right away, with the abrupt splintering of wood and a thump when Sam lands on something.

"When I said distract her," Deanna says, surprised at how measured the words are, "I didn't mean with your fucking head."

Castiel, the bastard, only looks at her, and Deanna has to throttle back the obvious statement: You're not an angel anymore, Cas, you goddamn moron, because it isn't like Cas is totally unaware of that. Only he forgets, which you can't blame him for doing – except she wants to, otherwise her fury doesn't have anywhere to go. It runs on a loop through her veins, more and more frustrated with each pass around her body. And Cas just watches her calmly, as cool and as distant as if he still has his wings, only there, she sees it, the slightest twitch of his fingers and a bit of unsteadiness, and that's enough.

"Do not," she says with terrible, terrible calm, "ever fucking do that again."

"I'll try not to." Cas shivers. "Why am I..?"

"It's called adrenaline," she says shortly. "It'll wear off in a while."

She's not entirely sure if it wears off, or if it alchemizes into something else on the way downstairs to collect Sam, as they skulk out the back and through the shadows. He stays close to her, not in a protective hovering guy sort of way, but a… well, a perch on your shoulder sort of way, like having an eagle instead of one of those stupid-ass porcelain figurines she sees and laughs at in the gift shops. His energy broadcasts itself across it air, louder than the Metallica that greets them when she turns the Impala's key. She's on edge with it, jumpy in her own skin, and thank god Sam gets it too, because he takes one look at her, shoots an anxious glance at the shadowy figure of Cas in the backseat, and points out that the motel they're in is empty except for them.

"Cas and I need to talk," Deanna informs him, and tries to make it clear she means talk, because Cas needs to be yelled at, old-school Winchester style, for being an idiot. Sam nods, says something about how the rest of their motel is empty and maybe he'll find an empty room to crash in. His hand is in his coat pocket already, where he keeps his lockpicking kit, and "Jesus, Sam," Deanna exhales, hoping that Cas is still oblivious to all the subtext racketing around the Impala's interior, "we're going to talk."

"Of course," Sam says, but his tone is oddly… kind. It gets her back up like nothing else, but before she can say anything scathing, Sam’s up and out of the car and headed to the end of the row. "Bitch," Deanna grumbles, and with Sam gone has to refocus herself on Cas sliding out of the backseat. He stands in the parking lot for a moment, and Deanna can read the tenseness in his shoulders.

"Come on," she grumbles, jerks her head in the direction of their room, even though Cas seems to be ignoring her. Still, she can hear his quiet, obedient step behind her and there's that energy again, like Cas has never stopped being an angel and he's radiating power – only it's adrenaline now, because the moron is realizing just how close he came to getting that big old brain of his plastered across Emmeline's bedroom wall.

That tears it, and she shoulders her way roughly into their room, barely waits until Cas is properly through before spinning around and using his body to shove the door shut behind him. He grunts in surprise, and shock – wow, shock looks good on that pretty, pretty mouth, and it feels better, Cas's mouth all soft and slack with it, stunned for a moment until he remembers what he's doing and kisses her in return. He smells, god he smells like the hunt, sweat and drywall and blood where he'd bit his lip and torn it, and she licks at it, the fierce, coppery taste of it, and Cas moans into her, hands sliding around her waist to pull her closer. Not that she doesn't want to get close; she wants up in him, or him in her, however it works – or else it works both ways, because when she pulls back his eyes are so far from the regular old Cas she knows, dark and dark and hungry, and he's hard against her where she rocks their hips together, thumbs tracing distracted patterns under her jeans.

"This," she tells him, her own voice wrecked and jesus, she feels naked already, "this is one of the really good things." And Cas nods and kisses her again, and she lets him take charge for a minute, enough to make her dizzy and almost forget they need to do things. Things like get naked and get into bed. Maybe for the first time ever Cas isn't in a position to give orders, at sea as his hands wander distractedly over her body, trying to touch everywhere at once, and "Cas, Cas, hey," she says, and can't help laughing when he huffs impatiently, "there's time, okay?"

"So we're not talking?" He sounds so damn hopeful, and she laughs again, turns the laughter into a lazy, slow-down kiss that he answers, and it's almost sweet, how he cups her face and traces careful fingers across her cheeks and jaw.

"We're talking," she tells him, even as she reaches up to take his hands, to draw him to the bed. Her heart thumps hard and heavy in her chest, and god she wants him so fucking much it hurts. She lets go only when she pushes at him to lie down, and he goes, stretching out across the bed and staring raptly up at her.

"You are…" She doesn't bother to finish the thought, and straddles him instead. Hot, impossible, you almost got your stupid ass killed, and he stares up at her, almost uncomprehending as she reaches for the hem of her tank top and stretches, back arching, as she pulls it off.

"And you can touch, if you want," she says a bit dryly. Cas obeys, hands back on her again, hesitant, curious, but Jesus Christ, he's working her out, memorizing the run of her skin over her hip, the ticklish spot under her navel that makes her shiver and giggle. His fingers slide under her bra, and yeah, that's enough; "You'll have to learn to do this yourself," Deanna tells him as she reaches behind her back. The bra unsnaps and she impatiently shrugs it off.

The whine in her own throat startles her, that's how good it feels, Cas's big, careful hands cupping her breasts, thumb across her nipples to make them stiff, and yes yes yes – she might actually be saying that, leaning into his hands, grinding down on him and loving the matching pressure of his fingers on her tits and his hard cock against her clit.

"Cas," she gasps, and Cas quivers, hips twisting, "Cas, come on," and they're a tangle of arms and gracelessness as she tries to get his shirt off, and he needs a minute to realize what she wants. But then he gets it and this is another thing to love about him, the lithe weave of muscle under his skin, the flat, trembling plain of his belly and chest. "You feel great," she tells him, low, confidential, and he doesn't quite seem to know what to make of that.

He'll learn, she figures; he's smart in a lot of ways, and she might be one of those ways, when he finds her mouth, tongue stroking in deep and sure. Her skin feels like it wants to come off, there's that much electricity under it, and Cas is everywhere, in the soft noises he makes and the shift of his body that stirs up echoes in hers. Awkwardly, she reaches for the buttons of her jeans and, with some fighting, gets them undone, pushed aside enough so she can take one of his hands and guide his hand inside, where she's already hot, slick, and ready for him.

When his thumb presses circles over her clit her breath actually breaks and her body escapes her control, hitching forward into the promising pressure of his hand. Cas strokes again, fingers slipping lower into the humid air between her legs, sliding over her cunt and she shifts, angling her hips and she's wet enough that one finger slides in. Cas's groan is sudden and low, heartfelt enough to match her own.

"Deanna," he says hoarsely, trying to get his fingers deeper. It doesn't work, the angle too difficult for it, and Cas makes a frustrated noise.

"Here," Deanna says, pulling his hand out, "let's get naked, huh?"And just as she reaches for her jeans to unzip them the rest of the way Cas, damn him, licks his fingers – the same fingers that had just been up inside her.

She has to laugh and kiss him again, and taste herself on his lips. "Dirty," she says to his serious, dark-eyed face. Cas's hands land on her hips, pushing at her undone jeans.

"I got it," she tells him, and really, clothes are fucking irritating things sometimes. She toes off her boots and socks, has to fight with her jeans and then his – they should be properly naked for this, she thinks, even if it's ridiculous, Cas shifting clumsily, back and hips arching up so she can peel away denim and cotton. But then he's naked and hard, cock curving up to his stomach, glistening at the tip to match the slick between her legs. His dick twitches when he looks at her and really, actually sees her, eyes wide and drinking her in thirstily.

"What?" she asks, "it's not like you haven't seen it before." His handprint is still on her shoulder, engulfing it, and a few inches to the right and she really would have been groped by an angel.

"This is different," Cas says, and reaches for her again. And she comes, happy to have his hands on her breasts again, running the length of her torso, her hips, and Mmmmph even better when his fingers, practiced and deliberate this time, slide into her so she bucks and shudders against him, and it's perfect, tugging her inexorably towards bliss, but she wants him in her, more than just fingers.

"It gets better," she assures him as she turns away. She has to fumble in her duffel for condoms, right by the foot of the bed – she's got the pill, but no point in tempting fate, and she's gotten away with more than she should, anyway. When she looks back up, clumsy fingers finally mastering the stupid foil wrap, Cas is jacking himself, and, "hey, hey, hey," she says, moving over him again, "save some for me," and pushes his hand away to replace it with her own. Cas's hips jackknife, cock sliding slick through her fist.

"Deanna." Her name is a broken sound, frantic. Hold on, it's cool, baby, and she thinks her words might be making things worse as Cas shudders under her, on the edge of coming apart. She knows how he feels, the anxious, coruscating ache between her legs gaining strength, making her a klutz as she rolls the condom down his length as quickly as she can.

Then, oh god, then she has him steady in her hand, and sinks down onto him, and ohgod, she says it out loud, her back arching to take him deeper. Her vision blurs and darkens at the edges, and it's only Cas in the world now, staring up at her with an expression she's never seen, somewhere between pain and joy and fucking reverence before his eyes slide shut, and he looks like he's drowning.

It doesn't last, and no way it can, because she's gone on this, on him, two years leading up to his hands braced on her hips and then, when she bends down, sliding up the stairsteps of her ribs to her breasts, his mouth gasping out kisses against her nipples, her collar bone, her cheeks. When she rolls them over, he comes down hard on top of her and when she rolls her hips up to him he thrusts hard, once, twice, a third time as she feels that sweep of fire up her spine and the darkness behind her eyelids going red, and the only things left in the world other than pleasure are the weight of him, and her name whispered against her neck.

She comes to with him lying tucked close against her side, spent and still and sated, his eyes dark and wondering at her. One kiss to make it official, that she's a huge sap, that she's officially gone on him, and she'd be terrified by that except the look on his face frightens and warms her and does ten thousand other things she's too fucked-out to process.

The practical side follows, showing Cas how to get rid of the condom, laughing a bit when his cock twitches and tries to be interested again, the ridiculous, unromantic squelch of her still-slick, swollen pussy when she moves. "Sex is fun because it's messy," she informs him when he looks surprised, and smiles with unaccustomed gentleness when he nods and offers her his usual calm half-smile in return.

It brings back the evening with full force, the crazy ghost widow and Cas maybe almost dying. The shudder in her heart doesn't have much to do with being horny, now.

"Cas," she starts, only to be cut off by Cas's somnolent face and a hand, sticky, slow and inarticulate, against her cheek.

"Talk later," Cas says blurrily, and pulls her back on top of him.

"Bossy," she grunts, but lets him kiss her, and if it's girly to tuck her head beneath his and listen to the calming pulse of his heart, then so be it. She can always, she figures around the sudden incoherence of a yawn, yell at him later.


-end-

.in other news: Okay, I am gone for a few days. I AM VERY ANXIOUS ABOUT THE FINALE, but I guess you guys knew that already. Stay strong, no matter what happens! *clings to you all*