#k.fic

You had stopped him in his tracks, his wide brown eyes looking up at you from the apex of your thighs, your arousal coating his mouth and chin. Your fingers went to his hair, raking through the soft strands pulling the boy from his trance. 

“Does that mean—?”

“Yes,” you cut him off, bucking your hips just enough to urge him back to what he was doing before.

“Fuck,” he groaned, digging his fingers into your doughy thighs in a bruising grip. Putting all his attention back to your dripping core, working you as best he could.

Steve’s eyes were closed as he groaned obscenely into your pussy, licking and sucking on your aching clit. You were soon hurtling towards the edge, sparks shooting through your body as your vision went fuzzy and your head went dizzy. Fingers tugging on Steve’s hair as you ground your pussy on Steve’s mouth.

The boy made quick work of his own underwear before sitting on his hunches between your legs, stroking over his stiff cock as he gazed at you through hazy eyes. Spitting in his palm, he lined himself up with your entrance.

“Are you sure about this?” He asked, his free hand found itself placed on your thigh, thumb stroking soothingly over the sensitive skin.

So you hooked your legs over Steve’s hips, your feet crossed at the small of his back, pulling him closer to you. Your foreheads were almost pressed together, the points of your noses knocking as you whispered against his lips, “Please.”

“Shit, okay—,” Steve murmured, swallowing the lump in his throat, exhaling a moan against your lips as he let the tip of his cock press into your hole. A moan which you gladly swallowed.

Steve began to roll his hips slow and deep against your own, his cock dragging out of your pussy at an agonising pace only for your cunt to suck him back in every single time. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his large palm clutching at your hip.

The sweet little moans and whines you breathed out below him along with the intense feeling of you wholly wrapped around him was pushing him towards his climax embarrassingly fast, the boy blurting out, “I don’t know, fuck, how much longer I can last, baby,” he whined, his skin shone with a thin sheen of sweat, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink, “pussy feel so. fucking. good.”

“Oh, Steve,” you cried, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he picked up the pace now, his hips snapping against your own, the sound of skin slapping against skin sounding throughout your bedroom. All your thoughts incoherent, all your attempt at sentence complete nonsense as Steve fucked his thick cock in and out of your cunt.

Poor Steve tried to hold off as long as he could but it was no use, you felt too good, too warm, too wet. He tried to savour every moment of this latex-free rendezvous but the way you clenched around him with every thrust really did a number on his brain. He slithered a hand between your bodies in an attempt to lazily rub at your clit, egging you on to finish with him.

“Baby, I gotta cum,” he whined, hips beginning to stutter, his stomach beginning to tense, “where can I cum, pretty girl? Please tell me, fuck.” He pleaded, begged rather. The intense feeling building up in his lower stomach was becoming too much to bear.

 “Inside me,” it came out strangled, a hoarse moan as you whimpered, nails digging into Steve’s broad shoulders, raking up his tan skin, “want you to cum inside me, Stevie, please?”

Cock growing impossibly stiffer, his heart thumping on overtime, if he wasn’t buried inside you to the hilt he’d ask you to pinch him. The pure thought of seeing his cum leaking from your pussy, the creamy white thick and warm inside you, sent Steve into overdrive.

He held himself up on his elbow whilst his hand cupped your cheek, his lips hot and wet on yours in a searing kiss. His hips still working against you, his fingers still rubbing at your puffy clit, both of your climaxes on the brink.

“Just like that,” you cried, “don’t stop, please don’t stop.” You arched your back off the sheets, pressing your chest against Steve’s hairy one, your skin buzzing as everything became hot and tingly, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave.

“That’s it, baby,” Steve cooed, his hips unrelenting against you, “gonna stuff you full of my cum, pretty girl, is that what you want, huh?” He asked, “Wanna have my cum dripping from that pretty little pussy?”

“Yes!” you whined, pleading with Steve to give you what you wanted, which he always did. His thrusts began to grow sloppy, the boy taking his bottom lip between his teeth as he came undone above you.

Steve moaned that sweet little moan as he filled you with his cum, his chest heaving as he buried his face in your neck, his grip on your skin tough. His thighs shook as his toes curled, grumbling and groaning incoherent mumblings of praise and pussydrunk filth.

The sight before him when he finally pulled his cock from you was one he would never forget. Your pussy wet with your own juices and creamy with Steve’s cum leaking from your hole. He reached his fingers out to you, careful not to overstimulate you, spreading the stickiness over your puffy lips.

"What do I call you?" you ask.

"Melita," the voice says.

"Melita."

"Yes, CASCADE."

"Is that really your name?" you ask. An old memory of a lullaby in a foreign language, a sweet old woman holding you in her lap as the bullet pulsed its way closer and closer to your heart. Something about melita, and you asked what it meant, trying to stay awake. 19 and already trying to face death open-eyed and waiting.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Honey? Really?" you ask.

Melita laughs. "You don't think it fits?"

"I think it fits too well," you say. "Voice like honey, named for it too? Gotta be a cryptonym."

Dean’s relieved to find that Sam is back to normal tactics today.

“I made bacon,” Sam says, letting himself fully into Dean’s room. Dean pointedly does not cringe at the spill of light Sam lets in with him from the hallway. “And pancakes too. I didn’t even burn them,” he adds.

“I’m not hungry,” Dean tells him. He doesn’t rise to Sam’s bait about the unburnt pancakes. There’s no way Sam managed to accomplish that—Dean can smell carbon through his now open door, confirming that assumption—but he doesn’t have the energy to call Sam out on it.

“Come on, Dean. You’ve got to eat at some point,” Sam says.

“I’ve been eating.” Dean gestures at the dishes around the room.

Sam’s nose wrinkles. “Yeah, about that. It’s gross in here. And it doesn’t help your point considering most of it’s barely been touched.”

“Whatever,” Dean rolls his eyes, lolling his head back to stare at the ceiling—a dismissal he hopes Sam will pick up on. He’s tired of this conversation.

“At least come and sit with me while I eat,” Sam tries. “Have a coffee?”

“I’m fine here.” Dean says, clipped. Clearly Sam is not getting the hint to go. Or more likely, he’s ignoring it. 

“You’re going to have to leave your room at some point,” Sam continues prodding.

“I leave my room,” Dean snips, head tilting back down to meet Sam’s eye.

“Yeah, to piss and that’s about it. When was the last time you even showered?” Sam asks.

Dean runs a hand through his hair. His fingers feel greasy when he pulls them away and he can feel spikes of hair standing straight off his head in his fingers’ wake. “I shower,” he grumbles.

“Okay, fine,” Sam says. “How about the last time you’ve seen the sun?”

“I’ve been taking my vitamin D tabs if that’s what you’re worried about, “Dean says, sarcastic. “I’m not going to get scurvy.” 

“I’m not worried about scurvy, Dean,” Sam says. “And that’s vitamin C anyway,” he adds, unable to help himself. “I’m worried about you.”

“Well don’t be. I’m just fine,” Dean says, spreading his hands in mock grandeur, a fake grin splitting his face. “Can’t you see? I have everything I need right here.” His hand knocks an empty bottle from his nightstand. It hits the floor with a thankfully unshattered sounding clatter and rolls into the wall.

“Yeah. I can see that,” Sam grimaces. 

“Well,” Dean says pointedly, when Sam makes no move to leave. “Is my interrogation over now? Am I free to go? Or do you still have more questions?”

“Look, Dean, I get it,” Sam says, ignoring the jab. “You miss Cas. We all miss him. But you're not the only one hurting here. I mean, Jack's his son, and I know that he didn’t really get to—”

"Don't bring him into this." Dean snarls, cutting Sam off. He’s sitting upright now, no longer lazing against the headboard. What was initially an irritating conversation is now creeping into dangerous territory. "He never knew him, and he's the thing that got Cas killed in the first place. We are not the same."

“Sure,” Sam says, hands up in surrender. “All I’m trying to say is that we need to be there for each other. Now more than ever.” Dean can feel his pulse pounding in his temples. Sam continues preaching, “I know this is hard. And I know you’re grieving—and I get it, he was my friend too, but—” He pauses for what Dean can only assume is emphasis, “We need to keep on living our lives, Dean.”

And that’s the last straw. Dean finally snaps. "Keep living our lives? Sam, I’m his wife!"

As soon as he’s said them, Dean wants to cram the words back into his mouth. They hang heavy between him and Sam. The sudden silence in their wake is thick. Near palpable.

Dean’s face has gone cold. Drained of blood. He’s frozen in place, pinned by the weight of what he’s just said.

He doesn't know why he said that. He's not Cas' wife. He's not Cas' anything. His mind is racing with the implications of what he’s just said. And beneath that, there’s another thought fighting to be heard: he’s never going to be anything to Cas because he’s gone, and now Dean is stuck living with that and he doesn’t know how.

His breath rattles loud and shaky. He can't get enough air. 

Suddenly, sitting in his bed makes him feels childish. Small. 

He wants Sam out. He can feel his stare boring into him. Can see the slack hang of his jaw and he tries to come up with a response to what Dean’s just said.

Dean doesn’t want to hear it.

"Dean," Sam finally says, slow and quiet like he's talking to a spooked animal. Dean can see him searching for more to say. Coming up with nothing.

"I’m going for a drive," Dean says, sparing both of them from Sam having to say more. He untangles his legs from his sheets and swings them over the side of his bed to heave himself up. He needs to go before Sam finds a way to make this even worse. He can feel blood returning to his face, the skin from his chest up to his ears now hot to the point of burning. He can breathe again, but it’s fast and shallow.

"I know he meant a lot to you," Sam says as Dean jams on his boots. His hands are shaking as he does up his laces. "I wasn't trying to minimize that."

Dean grunts a vague acknowledgement. He's not doing this. He doesn't care what he said. He's not coming near any of this with a ten-foot pole. Not now. Not ever.

He tries to push past Sam, eyes low to avoid meeting Sam’s own, but Sam’s hand on his shoulder catches him in the doorway. "Really, Dean, you know you can talk to me, right? I lost him too. I get it."

Dean rolls his eyes, still unable to meet Sam’s gaze. “Just leave it.” He tries and fails to wrench his shoulder from Sam’s grip. It’s clear Sam isn’t going to let him go without some acknowledgement of what he’s just said. 

Dean sighs heavy, trying to wait Sam out. The hand on his shoulder doesn’t loosen.

"There's nothing to talk about," he finally grits out, firm and final. He stares blankly over Sam’s shoulder at the tiled wainscoting in the hallway. He can feel Sam’s big, sympathetic, doe eyes on him. It infuriates him. "Cas is—” And he still can't bring himself to say the words. He shakes his head. "Nothing's going to change. You’re right, we've just got to keep going. That's all there is." He meets Sam’s eye. “Okay?”

“Dean—” Sam tries.

“Do you want me to see the damn sun or not?” He snaps, finally pulling himself free.

“Fine. We won’t talk about it,” Sam calls after him. 

Dean hopes he means that.

The drive does little to calm Dean down. He spends hours driving aimlessly down back roads, alternating between blasting his music loud enough to drown out his thoughts and turning it all the way off in an attempt to ground himself in the crunch of gravel under Baby’s wheels and the howl of the wind in his ears. 

Nothing eases the ache in his chest. It feels like his ribcage is a size too small. Every field he passes reminds him of Cas. Every shadow. Every flicker of light. His eyes catch more than once on the rearview mirror, searching for his face there.

He passes a man walking up the side of the road at one point. He bears no resemblance to Cas aside from the colour of his hair—too short, wearing denim and plaid, a long beard—but still his heart jumps for a second at the thought that maybe he’s back. Maybe he’s done the impossible and returned to Dean again. 

He slows crane his neck back to see the man’s face. The man flips Dean the finger for his trouble. It’s not Cas.

He yells something Dean can’t hear. Something to the effect of Mind your own business.

Dean hits the gas, leaving the man in a cloud of dust.

By the time he decides to head back he thinks he might be feeling even worse than he did before leaving if that’s possible. He doesn’t know that it is, but he’s lost any ability to gauge his pain at this point. All he knows is that it hurts and it won’t stop. All he knows is that it’s worse than any physical throb or ache; there’s no wound to press against, no small relief to be gained from the released pressure. There’s only that voice in his head that hasn’t been silent since he’d burned Cas’ body. The one that reminds him, all hours of the day that he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone.

So much for seeing the sun, he thinks as he pulls Baby back into the garage. He can still feel that knot of emotion he’d hoped to lose on the road sitting trapped behind his sternum: a grenade waiting for the pin to be pulled. 

He scrubs a hand over his face once he’s parked. Tries to take a deep breath and finds he can’t again. He can feel tears stinging his eyes, but he refuses to cry. He’s not doing this now. He needs to go back inside. It takes a long time before he gathers the strength to actually do so. 

The creak and slam of Baby’s door closing behind him echoes off the concrete walls as he finally commits to going back in.

He can feel a headache brewing.

He doesn’t want to face Sam, but Dean knows him well enough to expect him to be there waiting for his arrival. Sam’s a dog with a bone when it comes to Dean’s suffering. He can never leave Dean alone with it; he always has to poke and prod and try to pull it all out of Dean. 

It’s no surprise that Dean barely makes it two steps over the threshold before Sam is on his feet and addressing him, "About earlier—" he starts.

"No." Dean cuts him off, hand raised in his direction. Just because he’d expected this doesn’t make it any better. 

"Dean, I really think we need to talk about it," Sam says, stopping Dean with a hand to his chest as he tries to continue past him. “It’s not healthy—”

"I already told you. There's nothing to talk about." Sam's needling is inching the pin from the grenade in Dean’s chest out. He can feel tension building in the center of him. He shuts his eyes for a moment. Tries to calm himself. He can’t let himself blow up in front of Sam. He won’t. He’s already humiliated himself in front of him enough today.

"You said you were his wife, Dean.” Sam’s voice lowers on the word wife. Like it’s something taboo. Like he’s worried he’ll scare Dean away with it. “We have to talk about it," he insists.

“We don’t have to talk about anything,” Dean says, sidestepping Sam, back on route to his room.

“But, Dean—” Sam protests.

"I know what I said!" Dean snaps, whirling back to face Sam. "And I also know that I’ve been telling you ever since to leave it, so why don't you latch onto that instead? Or is your hearing selective?" He’s yelling now. It almost feels good to yell. “I’m not talking about it. Not now. Not ever. Okay?” 

Sam sets his jaw, unbothered by Dean’s outburst. "I didn't realize how much he meant to you, is all. I just want to—I don't know.” He hesitates, and Dean thinks he might be done. “I’m sorry, okay?" He finally says, more a question than a statement. 

"Yeah, well," Dean's lip curls around the words, "Sorry doesn't do jack in this situation."

"I wish there was something that did." Sam says. The earnestness of his statement grates at Dean. He knows Sam means well. It doesn’t make any of this better. Nothing can.

A silence falls over them. Both of them still. Unsure of what to do now.

"Leaving me alone would help," Dean finally tells Sam, voice hollow. He's suddenly exhausted. He doesn’t care that it’s barely 1:00 p.m., he wants to go to bed.

He turns to go.

"Dean, wait," Sam calls after him, voice now dripping with pity. At the look Dean throws him he seems to think better of whatever isolation isn’t the answer spiel he’d been about to begin. Instead, he settles on an awkward, “I’m here if you need me.”

Dean tries to smile. It feels more like a grimance.

Back in the safety of his room, Dean addresses Cas. Lately, when Dean prays to him, he’s been picturing Cas in the room with him. Sitting next to him on the bed, or at his desk, or standing by the door.

He sits on the edge of his bed. Takes in the room. Sets his eyes on the desk today.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” he starts. He doesn't really know what he's apologizing for, but the itch to do so has been nagging at him since his drive. He feels guilty. Shameful. 

He doesn’t really need a specific reason to apologize to Cas anyway. There’s lots he’s done wrong by Cas. He’s failed him in more ways than he’d like to remember. Dean can take his pick of any number of apologies and it still won’t ever be close to enough of what Cas deserves from him.

As he talks to Cas, his outburst from the morning bobs at the surface of his memory. Three words looping insistently in the back of his mind as he apologizes once again for all his sins against Cas—for not being able to save him, for getting him into this mess, for burdening him with his existence in general. 

I’m his wife!

Why did he say that? It feels like a new reason to apologize. Like it was disrespectful somehow. To place himself in such a position in Cas’ life when he’s done nothing to have earned it. When Cas isn’t even around to protest it.

"I shouldn't have said what I did earlier,” he tells Cas, “I’m sorry if you heard that. I didn't mean—I just miss you is all. I don't know why I said it like that."

He lets his head fall to his hands. Presses the heels of them to his eyes and scrubs the pricking tears away. 

When he looks back up, he almost convinces himself that he can see the shimmer of an outline where Cas would be if he was sitting across from him. 

The image resets to empty air when he blinks.

Alon had hoped to get a full day of sightseeing around Seoul before they were scheduled to drive up to Ambrose's home town but it seems her jam-packed itinerary and the jetlag had made Rosy a bit cranky. (Well, crankier.)

She loops her arm through his as they step into the elevator going up to the top of Seoul Tower.

"Tired, Ambrose?" She leans on his shoulder and smirks up at him. "Don't tell me you're getting too old to handle a little jetlag, Rosy?" She hadn't meant the teasing to come out as a purr but it's hard to keep your voice down in a crowded space.

Ambrose, for his part, merely scowls and glares at her. But judging by the barely concealed heat in the look he throws her, he wasn't entirely pissed.

Alon knows she'll be paying for that little jab tonight. The thought of it was almost enough to tempt her to call it a night and drag him back to the hotel.

Almost.

She was here on an important mission, after all.

After nearly ten minutes of wading through the crowd (mostly lovers, she notes as Rosy glares) and five more minutes of pleading with Ambrose to stay put near the railing overlooking the city, she runs off to find what she came here for and comes back with a single heart-shaped lock and a permanent marker.

"And what on earth is that?" Ambrose feigns exasperation flawlessly but Alon has been with him long enough to know that he's at least a little bit amused. One of the corners of his mouth threatens to curve up and she stops herself from nearly kissing it all the way to a smile. There was simply far too many people here tonight and any one of them may overhear the not always chaste thoughts she has when she's kissing Ambrose.

"Come on now, Rosy. You're a smart man. Surely, you can figure out what this is for?" She gestures to the railing filled end to end with locks of all kinds of shapes and colors - all of them filled with names and dates and messages of friends and lovers hoping for happiness.

"You're smarter than me, Wiseman," his smirk indicates he might not entirely believe that is true, but Alon takes the win anyway. "You know this is just a scam to boost tourism."

Alon pretends to think but she's already uncapped the marker and is halfway to writing down Alon + Ambrose on the hot pink lock. "Oh, don't be like that, Rosy."

She gives him a little pout for good measure. "Don't you want to make sure we'll stay together forever?"

Ah, shit. She regrets the word the moment it flies out of her mouth. Yeah, she wants this one to last but surely, it's too early to be talking about forever forever! 

She winces, thinking Rosy is definitely planning to run for the hills. She hazards a peek and finds him surprisingly calm, as if she had just said the most mundane thing in the world. In the dark, against the twinkling lights of the city, he almost looks fond.

"What?" Alon raises a brow at him.

Moment broken, Ambrose merely rolls his eyes and takes the lock, signing his name underneath hers.

"What?" It's Rosy's turn to be confused as he looks up to find her watching him with a puzzled expression.

"I just thought you'd fight me more on this."

"And why the hell would I do that?"

She smirks, "It's what we do, Rosy. Who would we be if we don't do a little sexy back and forth to entertain the masses?"

He covers his laugh with an unconvincing cough. "If you want a tussle, Wiseman, you only need to ask.”

Then he gives her a look that has her absolutely regretting not dragging him back to the hotel much earlier.

"You know what? I think we should head back to the hotel, after all." She grabs the lock and unceremoniously latches it onto the railing with the others. "Like, right now."

"What's the rush? It's such a beautiful evening.”  He makes a show of gesturing towards the city lights, making it clear that he's teasing. “And we have such a spectacular view." 

Alon groans. She drags him down by the collar and plants a firm, demanding kiss on his lips, Ment and non-Ment audiences be damned.

"Now, Ambrose Kim."

    Dust finished washing all the dishes from the kids as he heard the door opening. 

    “Nice for you to join us Dean.” Dust spoke as he didn’t look to see who it was. Just assuming it was the teen coming back from whatever he was doing. 

    “I’m not joining you yet, Dad saw me when he drove back here and had me come let him in. I’m going back out.” Dean spoke and left quickly. Dust turned around to see a beaten up John. Quickly, he ushered the male to sit down and grabbed the first aid kit. 

    “You said that this would not take as long as you took. Wha-” Dust spoke as he was engulfed in a hug, making him lose his balance and fall into the male’s lap.

    “John, let me patch you up. You are cl-” Dust tried to speak again as John just held him tighter and closer. Never wanting to let go. 

    “I’m fine. Just, don’t leave please.” John said softly after a moment of silence. Dust relaxed in his arms and adjusted himself so he was sitting face level with him. Taking in the male’s tense and tired posture.

    Dust pressed little kisses on John’s nose, cheeks, and forehead. Feeling him relax as he did so. 

    “I’m not going to leave you. I’m here for you and the kids. I’m here and everything is okay.” Dust reassured the male who just continued to hold him tight in his chest. 

    After staying in that position for a moment, the patter of feet could be heard and two males burst into the room. 

    “Oh, Dad’s back. Tell Max to give my notebooks back!” Sam said as the taller male stood holding them above his head. John and Dust sighed. 

    “Max, give Sam back his books and get ready for bed. You two have school tomorrow as we’re leaving after you three are done.” Dust spoke as Max just gave him back the books and went in the room. 

    “You okay Dad? Hunt that bad?” Max asked as John shook his head. 

    “I’m fine, don’t worry about it. Listen to Dust. Sam, go get ready and Max go find Dean.” John spoke as Max nodded and left, Sam going to the room he was sharing with Max and Dean, leaving the two once again. 

    “What hap-” Dust asked as he was curious about the hunt, though he was shushed by John kissing him softly. 

    “I’m fine. We’re fine. No hunts for the night. Just you and me.” John said against his lips and Dust smiled softly.