Sweet Like Cinnamon~

Part of moving out was to get rid of the confines that came with Chuck’s dedication to his faith. While Jimmy himself has never actually abandoned his faith in the pursuit of a higher education, it’s definitely taken a step to the left to make way for other things.

What wasn’t supposed to happen was for him to receive a call from Chuck asking to meet a girl back at home.

“She can be good for you, Jimmy. You’re both going after the same degree, she’s been at the church as long as you. You— you just need to meet her.”

As much as he doesn’t want to, Jimmy makes his way back home for the holidays in time for Sunday service. The state of the church reflects the people there: wealthy. Church bells chime at 8am and the masses rise in tandem with the sound. Jimmy’s in his best suit and tie, topped off with his trench coat to atone for the chill that accompanies the stone building. With his hair is styled and face clean shaven, he looks fresh. Clean. Put together.

Like a good little servant.

The morning ends with a reservation for breakfast at the tea house down the way. Jimmy stands around shyly, looking for a seat where he won’t have to speak to anyone— maybe a table with chatty old folk or a group that’s already well established.

He takes a seat at the first empty table he sees and throws his coat over the back of the chair, head down to look at the lightbulb reflecting off the plate. Then he feels a tap to his shoulder.

“Um, Jimmy?” You say gently. It’s hard to tell if he’s scared or in a bad mood.

He lifts his head. Jimmy’s nose is pink from the cold and he looks much more handsome in person.

“Hello.”

“Chuck sent me over here…he says we should meet?”

“Oh. You know my daddy?”

“Yessir.”

“I’m sorry.”

You giggle. “He’s a smart man, at least on paper. He wrote a letter to me about you.”

You sit beside Jimmy and pick up a menu. The table fills with random churchgoers and the soft chattering does something to ease the awkwardness of your first encounter. Jimmy doesn’t know what to say…you are pretty, and you seem smart, but the lifestyle that he lives would probably send you into a coma.

“He says we’re getting the same degree.” You add. “Religious studies. Chuck suggested I go back with you to take a tour of your campus. I’m looking to get my master’s too, and he says you put a lot of thought into where you wanted to study.”

Jimmy nods and gives you a shy smile.

He orders a pb&j, a tea, and a ginger ale. The food isn’t going to be the cheap grocery store quality he enjoys, but it does the trick. You order your own sandwiches and tea and Jimmy starts getting curious about what Chuck’s been saying about him. He straightens his posture and leans in towards you.

“Is that all he says about me?” Jimmy asks. When the tea arrives he drinks it with a splash of milk, stirring four times and tapping the spoon to the lip of the cup delicately. Going to fancy restaurants and keeping up appearances at home isn’t something he missed.

“He says you call sometimes, and that he’s surprised you showed up.”

Jimmy sighs. You seem so good-natured, it hurts knowing you’ve been tricked to think well of him. The sandwiches arrive soon after: dainty, finger sized things with the crusts cut off, served on cute ceramic plates and guaranteed to make you leave hungrier than when you arrived.

“I don’t think a campus tour would suit your tastes.” He replies honestly. “The culture is different from here.”

“You talk about it like I’ve never been let outside before.” You scoff.

“Some families are like that. Then you have to run away to discover what you enjoy, all on your own.” God knows Jimmy did, but he’s not sure of God approves.

“Mine isn’t like that.” You look Jimmy up and down. “I know what I like.”

Both of you stop to pray before eating.

Chuck’s mansion is decorated head to toe in gaudy decorations and religious decor like the words ‘church’ and ‘Tuscan’ were the only two descriptors he gave the interior designers. Jimmy is forced to stay at Chuck’s to ‘catch up with the community’— funny when Chuck hardly interacts with the community outside of the church— but Jimmy’s since retired to his room where his personal bathroom is connected.

The look that you gave him…there’s only a few others places he’s seen that look, and none of them were given while he was sober. Jimmy strips down to his pants and undoes his belt. Staring into the brass bathroom mirror, he splashes water on his face to get rid of the guilt.

He shouldn’t be thinking about people like that. A day without someone treating him like meat and he’s already aching for someone to grab him and do whatever they want until he’s purple all over. It only makes itself worse knowing his thoughts wander to a girl he’s just met.

He can’t help that it’s what he wants.

A smoke will get him in the mood for a distraction. He pops open the bathroom window, sits on the toilet, and takes in the mediocre taste of something pre-rolled. His frat brothers would’ve helped him out if they were here— a group to hold him down and coo in false sympathy while he’s whining for a hand on his cock.

Joint in his right hand, his left starts to rub the ache out. He feels light headed and happy, more like himself and less like Jimmy Novak. He lets the joint sit between his lips while he builds a steady rhythm rocking his hips against his palm. He whines, spreading his quivering legs in between deep breaths and long pumps like a desperate animal. He wants to go back to school.

“Unh…ah….shit….” It hurts to rub himself while dry, but it’s the only good pain he’s going to get until the holiday’s over. His head hangs loose on his neck and the smoke starts tangling in his hair. Jimmy’s never considered himself the sexually frustrated type, but he’s also never been away long enough to really know until now. When it hurts too much to keep rubbing dry he spits on his palm and keeps going.

What if Jimmy did take you on a campus tour? Do what Daddy wants from him by leading you around the nice parts of campus, take you to the cafe (for food worth actually worth eating), and introduce you to his brothers at Delta Psi-O. You wouldn’t have to know what he does at night, and Chuck might get off his case about coming back home to meet potential partners.

His eyebrows scrunch up and he squeezes his eyes shut. Blood rushes straight through his body at the thought.

He’s good. He’s so so good. He does what people ask of him and he’s so good for it.

It’s what people tell him at school at least.

The throbbing in his hand only grows when the joint in his mouth is gone. Fond memories flood back and he misses his real home. He misses Balthazar, he misses Gabriel, he misses the strangers that don’t mind when he’s gross, he misses—

“Jimmy?”—

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You push the door open and see Jimmy sitting on the toilet lid shirtless. His pants are on but the zipper is wide open, doing nothing to cover up the mess he just made in his hands. His eyes blow wide and he looks around in confusion like a helpless animal. He can barely choke out a sentence:

“Y-you’re not supposed to be here.”

Why aren’t you going away? Why are you just standing there? The whole room reeks and he looks like he’s just run a marathon.

You swallow the gob of spit that forms in your throat, heat flushing your cheeks and ears.

“Jimmy?”

Jimmy whimpers a bit. At this point people would be calling him Castiel and ripping off the rest of his clothes. “Y-yeah?”

You wave the smell of smoke away from your nose to no avail. Chuck was right when he wrote about Jimmy being suitable as a partner— but he probably wasn’t thinking about this side of it. Jimmy’s sweating bullets knowing at any moment she could run downstairs and tell the whole world that he’s a disgusting pervert. He wipes at the snot and sweat on his upper lip waiting for an answer.

“Can I help?”

Jimmy’s whole body convulses in shock. He’d cum again if he wasn’t putting all his energy into holding himself back. You shut the door and sit on the lip of the bathtub in front of the toilet, watching his poor attempt at saving face. When Jimmy can finally calm down, he sits still like he’s waiting for a command.

“Help…?” He wines through gritted teeth. He can’t bear to look at you.

“I’m not touching you if that’s what you’re asking.” You laugh at the sight of him squirming. “Not there at least. I’m helping myself to a piece of you.”

All you do is watch. Make him sit in the uncomfortable quiet of his own soft panting, sweat and snot dripping onto the tile floor. He’d cum when you caught him in the act and you don’t feel inspired enough to let him finish twice.

Jimmy bites his tongue before he can tell you he thinks this is hot.

“I need to have a shower.” Jimmy finally spouts. “If you’re not going to do anything, I’d like to do that.”

You do think about it.

“Okay.” You get up, not without taking another long look at him. “When are you going back to school, Jimmy?”

“Um…tomorrow. Night.”

Your face softens. “Can you let me know if you change your mind about the campus tour? I know I don’t need your permission, but it would be nice for someone to give me a thorough overview of the whole place. And teach me about the culture, of course.”

You talk as if the position he’s in is something normal. Jimmy only nods and thanks you when you give him a towel.

“It was nice meeting you Jimmy.”

“…likewise.”

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It started off as a way for you to bring the outside in, surrounding the bunker with flowers. But once Dean grumbled about them, you kept them restricted to your room.

Cas didn't realize it, but he missed having the flowers around, a constant little reminder of you, and how you brighten his days without even trying.

You notice. You like to keep out of the way more often than not, which has resulted in you accidentally spying on your little family.

You didn't mean to of course, but from the way you make yourself small to your quiet nature, they don't often notice you.

You watch as Cas holds a wilted daisy, staring at it longer than most would.

But Cas was never really like anyone else.

From then on, you always came back from your walks with extra flowers, specific ones you'd picked just for him. Cornflowers, bluebells, a few miniature ferns and a stray dandelion every now and then.

The first time you give them to him, you're too nervous just to walk up to him, though you feel more than comfortable in his presence. Instead, you leave them next to the book he's reading when his head is turned.

You watch happily from the side as he furrows his brows before smiling slightly at them.

The second time, you tuck them in his coat pocket. He'd taken it off for whatever reason, looking strange without it. You ducked in, pulled the pocket back and dropped the flowers in before leaving in the same rush.

You didn't see his face that time, but you didn't have to to know he smiled once again, this time even more so.

It became a tradition of sorts, until he caught you.

You were just leaving another bouquet behind when you felt his grip on your wrist. You flinched immediately and it softened, but he didn't let go.

He pulled you back gently, not forcing you, just guiding you to him.

You don't meet his eyes, fixating on his tie instead, the dip to it, the way it sits so casually around his neck.

He's bad with words, not knowing what to say, when to say it. So instead, he wraps his arms around you, a little awkward, but full of love.

He holds you close and you nuzzle into his warmth. After a while, it's just quiet enough that you can hear the faintest purr, involuntary sure, but it came out for a reason.

That reason being you.

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:･ﾟ⛧ He's not sitting by your side, he doesn't have an arm loosely around your waist, he's not cool or suave or nonchalant. He's desperate.

:･ﾟ⛧ If he is sleeping, it's almost terrifying for him. Because for those few hours, he can't make sure you're okay. He can't fend off any threats. He can't save you.

:･ﾟ⛧ Which is why he doesn't sleep much. He chooses not to so he can make sure you're safe.

:･ﾟ⛧ After a tough fight or when you beg him to, he'll sleep, but only in the bunker. That's the only place he's ever felt safe enough to let his guard down.

:･ﾟ⛧ But when he does sleep? He's so soft.

:･ﾟ⛧ He curls up into you, burrowing his head against your chest, sometimes nuzzling up into the crook of your neck. His arms wrap around you tight, pressing your body against his, often close enough that, with his angelic abilities, he can hear your heart beating and the rush of blood through your veins, reassuring him that you're okay. His legs curl up, often intertwining with yours.

:･ﾟ⛧ With this position, he's always on his side and some days, when he's really feeling absolutely terrible, he lets his wings out. You gently run your hands over his back, slowly working your way up to his wings. When your fingers ghost across the base, he winces. This high, broken sound. Utterly heartbreaking.

:･ﾟ⛧ You let your hands rest there for a moment, allowing Cas to adjust to the feeling, then you start moving again. Slow, steady, light. His breath hitches when you press a little firmer, and when you fully rest your hand against the base? He buries his face further into your neck, both hurt and loving the feeling of your gentle, caring touch.

:･ﾟ⛧ You're always careful, fingertips ghosting up the length of his wings, combing through the feathers, the ones that aren't scorched. His breath fans across your skin, shaky and broken, fingers curling into your back. And sometimes, when he fully lets himself go, you can hear the softest of whimpers.

:･ﾟ⛧ He's such a precious little Angel. For the whole night, even when he's in the deepest of slumbers, he never once lets you go. If you move a lot in your sleep, his leg finds its way over yours, stilling you, keeping you steady.

:･ﾟ⛧ And if you try to pull away? Think again. He's holding you so tight you have little crescent shaped indentations on your back and arms from his finger nails. Never so much that you're uncomfortable, but just enough that you can't leave him.

:･ﾟ⛧ On the rare occasion he wakes up and you're not there, he's immediately panicking. Where are you? Are you okay? Did someone take you? He'll kill them. He doesn't care who they are, they're dead. Then you come out of the bathroom and you can hear this funny sound, like a heartbeat returning to a normal rhythm after beating so fast it nearly burst.

:･ﾟ⛧ He'd rush towards you, immediately checking you over for any kind of damage, even a damn paper cut.

"Are you hurt?"

"…no?"

"What happened to you? Where were you?"

"Aw baby, were you worried?"

"I always worry for you"

"Angelface, that's precious and I adore you for it, but I had to pee"

"Oh, you're sure you're not in danger?"

"Pretty sure yeah"

"Very good" He'd give you a little smile, taking your hand "Back to bed then"

:･ﾟ⛧ Speaking of, he adores cuddling whether you're going to sleep or just waking up. He's clingy, that's been established, but he relishes in those moments right when you both wake up, the world still quiet and hazy, nothing but the two of you in your warm, cozy bed.

:･ﾟ⛧ He's never softer than in the early mornings he spends with you. He lets his hands and lips wander, caressing, pressing kisses all over your face, down your jaw and over your shoulders, everywhere he can reach without having to move.

:･ﾟ⛧ He whispers Enochian against your skin, promises, vows to love you until he draws his last breath, because even after you're gone, hell never stop loving you with his entire being, vessel and celestial alike.

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Castiel doesn’t bring people to parties. He just doesn’t. He meets people there and asks those who know Jimmy to keep that name under lock and key. His face, however, is a different story.

Cas doesn’t have problems with the recordings— girls with their cutesy flip phones shoving them up his shirt or guys with their kodaks taking snapshots of his face after taking a mouthful of the guy on top of him. His barrage of questionable desires outweigh a little bit of exhibitionism, ignoring the obvious fact that he finds the thought of a camera hot. It makes him feel like a celebrity or someone important, like a local camboy who does it purely for the love of the game.

You are no exception to the local camera crew. You’ve been to St. Delta a few times to understand how things tend to go, and maybe you felt kind enough to torment the local toy with a flashing red light.

And there he is.

Castiel’s not busy, surprisingly. His head is poking out of the bathroom door, hair a soaked mess, eyes red from a very strong smoke. Balthazar has Castiel by the hair, yanking him back against the bathroom sink trying to calm him down.

“You can go play in a minute! You’re filthy, Castiel, it’s a bad look even for you.”

“Calm down baby boy…” Gabriel says mockingly, almost like a stern parent. He’s got a camera in his hand too, and it’s crammed directly in Castiel’s flushed face. He gives Castiel an encouraging pat on the back. Castiel laughs at the camera, a little dazed.

“What’s the word?” Balthazar takes a towel to Castiel’s face and wipes him off.

“Hm…”

“I don’t hear words.” Balthazar snaps his fingers in front of Castiel’s face. It’s common to see them go back and forth about these things, but it’s only out of concern for Castiel’s reckless behavior. He can’t stop his behavior, but he can make sure nobody’s out to hurt him.

“Honeybee…”

“Are you using it?”

“No…”

He gives Castiel’s shoulders a squeeze and a once over to make sure he’s not on the verge of passing out. “You gonna let the locals tape you like this? You look like you offer services behind dumpsters…but I suppose you’re not above that.”

“Yeah.”

Gabriel takes another picture of Castiel before kicking him out of the bathroom.

It doesn’t matter what led up to it, but you’re in it now. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, Castiel’s head in your lap, looking up at the camcorder in your hand. He blinks in tandem with the red light flashing in the corner— being so close to it hurts his tired eyes now that he’s sobered up a bit. Someone’s busy kissing and biting Cas’s neck for him to really care about what you’re doing though.

“Do I look good…?” Castiel murmurs, tilting his head up to look at you better, and to allow the stranger better access to his body. He waves at the camera with his pointer finger as if he knows who you are.

“So pretty.” You smile.

“What’re you going to do with it?”

You set the camera down next to his face, head dipping beside his ear. He smells like weed. Strong. It does well to cover up the smell of Castiel’s stench of sweat and sex. “Home video. For when you’re too busy getting passed around like a 2$ slut to give the paparazzi some attention.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. He realizes that he’s never actually thought about what people do with the videos of him. He thinks about playing up the filth, making it gross and unbearable so you’d rather vomit at the sight than go home and cum to it.

“You have me now.” He quickly offers himself up, adjusting his head on your lap like he’s ready for your next command. Your eyes dart from his to the person getting busy between Castiel’s thighs as if to say: ‘Do I really?’

You don’t even want to touch him anyway. Filthy is a kind way of describing the man on your lap: half naked might be a better descriptor. “Do you want me to stop?” You pick the camera back up to record his body, what people are doing to him, then his face where he’s decorated in blush.

Castiel freezes. As much as he’d like to convince himself otherwise— he doesn’t want to disappoint you. He wants to be good for you. He likes it.

You do either sweep of his body while he thinks: that toned body of his clenching its abs, the sweat and cum mixing on his lower abdomen to create a shine around his tattooed groin: a church and the frat’s Greek letters, in blue.

“N-no.” He murmurs, eyes locking with the camera lens, knowing when you go home and watch it back you’ll have to make eye contact the nervous wreck in him. “But if you do anything to yourself with it…don’t be gentle. It’s not what I’m used for.”

He stares at the blinking red until you’re satisfied.

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