#sub castiel

The motel room smelled of stale coffee, cheap air freshener, and the particular mustiness that seemed to follow them no matter which state they were in. It was a scent you'd grown so accustomed to over the years that you barely registered it anymore—like the constant hum of the vending machine outside or the way Dean always left his boots by the door.

Tonight, however, that familiar atmosphere felt suffocating.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the one closest to the window because you'd always positioned yourself as the first line of defense against anything that might come through it, and watched your brothers bicker about something insignificant. Sam was pacing near the small table, his hair falling into his eyes as he gestured emphatically about lore that didn't match up with their current case. Dean was sprawled in the single armchair, beer in hand, rolling his eyes with the practiced ease of a man who'd been hearing Sam's research rants for decades.

And Castiel stood in the corner.

He always stood. Even after weeks of being around them, of existing in this strange in-between space between Heaven and Earth, he still hadn't quite figured out how to relax into furniture. How to be in a room without being of it. He observed everything with those too-blue eyes, head tilted slightly, like a bird trying to understand why humans insisted on building boxes to sit inside.

Normally, you found his confusion endearing.

Tonight, it was making your eye twitch.

"You're not listening to me," Sam said, and you realized you'd missed the last three minutes of his argument entirely. "If we're dealing with a banshee-"

"We're not dealing with a banshee, for fuck's sake." Dean cut in, taking a long pull of his beer before continuing. "We're dealing with a ghost. A garden-variety, salt-and-burn, nothing-fancy ghost. Stop trying to make everything into a-"

"And what makes you so sure?" Sam's voice was climbing, the way it always did when he felt like he was being dismissed. "Because the witness descriptions match-"

"Sam." You said his name quietly, and immediately saw the tension in his shoulders ease. He turned to look at you, and for just a moment, he wasn't a grown man in his mid-twenties with too much trauma and too many burdens. He was the little boy who'd come to your bed after nightmares, who'd clung to your hand during his first hunt, who'd needed you to tell him everything would be okay a thousand and one times. "We'll look at the lore again in the morning. Both versions. Okay?"

He nodded, and you watched him visibly relax. "Okay- Yeah. You're right."

Dean snorted. "She says 'let's look at it in the morning' and you fold like a cheap suit. I say the same thing and you act like I just-"

"Because you don't listen to me." Sam shot back, but there was no heat in it now.

You'd spent years cultivating that perspective of his on you. Years of being the one who stayed up with him when he was sick, who made sure his homework was done, who held him when he cried over things he couldn't even articulate. You'd been twelve when he was born, and while other girls your age were worrying about boys and school dances, you were learning how to warm a bottle just right, how to rock a fussy infant to sleep, how to be everything a mother should be when the real one wasn’t around to do it.

Dean had been different. Even at four, he'd wanted his independence. He had pushed away your attempts at coddling, had insisted he was old enough to handle things himself. But you remembered, too, the way he'd let you bandage his scraped knees without complaint. The way he'd crawl into your bed on the nights Dad had come home angry and frustrated about not being able to handle a case as he should have, not saying a word, just needing to be close to someone who felt safe. The way he still, even now, let you brush off his shoulders and straighten his collar when he was too stubborn to admit he needed taking care of.

They were your boys. Your whole world, really. Everything you'd done, every sacrifice you'd made, had been for them.

Which was why what you were doing with the angel in the corner felt like such a betrayal.

Ever since he'd pulled Dean from Hell, ever since he'd started appearing in your lives with his cryptic messages and his confusing lack of understanding about humanity, he'd watched. But recently—the last few days, really—his watching had become something else. Something more focused. More intense.

More personal.

You felt his gaze on you now, that familiar weight of attention that made your skin prickle with awareness. When you glanced up, you found his blue eyes fixed on you with an expression you'd come to recognize intimately: that particular blend of curiosity and hunger that he didn't seem to understand himself.

Your stomach flipped.

It had started innocently enough. A conversation about human emotions that had gone on too long. A moment of frustration on your part that had led to a physical reaction from him that neither of you had expected. And then, somehow, you'd found yourself pressed against a wall in some abandoned warehouse, his mouth on yours, your hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, his own tugging at your blouse.

After that, it had become... frequent. Addictive. A secret that you kept from your brothers not out of shame but out of necessity.

They saw him as a weapon, a tool.

They didn't see him the way you did.

They didn't see the way his eyes would go glassy when you touched him. The way his breath would catch when you whispered his name in that particular tone. The way he'd arch into your touch like a cat seeking affection, utterly shameless in his need, completely lacking in the human inhibitions that might have made him self-conscious.

You'd created a monster, you realized. A beautiful, angelic, utterly addicted monster who didn't understand the meaning of the word "discretion."

Like now. As you watched, Castiel's gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat with an intensity that made heat pool low in your belly. His vessel's body was responding to you in ways you'd taught it to, ways that had nothing to do with divine purpose and everything to do with base, human desire.

"I think we should discuss the case in more detail," Castiel said, and you felt your jaw clench. "The witness accounts are contradictory, which suggests either misinterpretation of events or deliberate-"

"Cas." You didn't mean for your voice to come out so sharp, but you were tired. So tired. Three nights of interrupted sleep, two days of driving, and the constant, gnawing worry that someone was going to figure out what was going on between you and the angel. "We said tomorrow. Drop it, please."

His head tilted, and you could see the confusion written across his face. The genuine, innocent confusion that said he truly didn't understand why humans got so worked up over things that could simply be... fixed. "But if we examine the evidence now, we might—"

"Castiel. I said drop it."

The room went silent.

You hadn't meant to say his full name. You never did. Not when anyone else was around, not when you were supposed to be pretending that he was just the angel who'd pulled Dean out of Hell, nothing more. You'd been so careful, so deliberate about keeping that boundary intact.

But you were exhausted. And stressed. And your brothers had been bickering for hours, and the angel in the corner kept staring at you with those eyes that seemed to see straight through every wall you'd ever built, and—

And now he was looking at you the way he did when you were alone.

The way he did when you had him spread out beneath you, gasping and whining and so utterly, beautifully undone.

The name had come out like a slap, sharp and commanding, and you watched in mounting horror as Castiel's entire demeanor shifted. One moment he was standing there, stiff and composed, the perfect picture of celestial detachment. The next, his shoulders had gone rigid, his gaze dropping to the floor with the sudden, sharp intensity of someone who had no idea where else to look.

A flush was creeping up his neck.

And his pupils were dilating.

Oh no.

"Cas?" Dean's voice cut through the haze. "You okay, man? You look—"

"I'm fine." But Castiel's voice had gone strange. Rougher. Thicker. The way it got when you had your hand wrapped around him, when you were whispering dirty things in his ear and watching his composure shatter into a thousand pieces.

You had done that to him. You had Pavlov'd an angel of the Lord.

The realization hit you like a physical blow. Every time you called him Castiel—only when you called him Castiel—it meant you were about to take him apart. About to have him beneath you, on top of you, against you, inside you. His name was your code word, your trigger, the line between polite conversation and the sheer, primal carnality that existed between you when the door was closed and the world didn't exist.

And you'd just said it in front of your brothers.

"Here?" Castiel's voice broke, and he swallowed hard. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper, and you could hear the need in it. The desperate, confused need of an angel who had become addicted to the feeling of skin on skin. "But here... with Dean and Sam?"

Sam dropped the lore book he'd been holding. It hit the floor with a thud that seemed to echo through the suddenly silent room.

"What the hell?" Dean was sitting up straighter now, beer forgotten. "What does that mean? What do you mean, 'here with Dean and Sam'?"

"Nothing-" you said quickly, and you were already moving, reaching for Castiel's arm, trying to steer him toward the door. "He's just confused. The Angel thing. He doesn't-"

"Don't." Sam's voice was like ice, and when you looked at him, his face had gone pale. "Don't you dare lie to me. What was that?"

"He needs to-"

"Why did he say it like that." Dean was on his feet now, and his eyes were darting between you and Castiel with dawning horror. "Why did he say that in the first place? Why did he react like that?"

The angel in question was still staring at the floor, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers were twitching like he was fighting the urge to reach for you. He looked like a man on the edge of something, and you knew with certainty that if you didn't get him out of this room in the next thirty seconds, he was going to break.

Because Castiel didn't understand shame.

He didn't understand secrecy, or the careful social dance that humans did around their private lives. He didn't know what it meant to keep something hidden, to protect the people you loved from the truth of who you were and what you'd done.

He only understood what you'd taught him.

And you'd taught him to want.

Behind you, Sam made a sound like he'd been punched.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "It's just his name. It's not like she's—" He stopped, his eyes going wide. "Wait. She's not saying it like that. Is she?"

The silence that followed his inquiry was enough of an answer.

"No. No way." His voice cracked like a high schooler's. "You're not—you can't be- with him?"

"I'm going to be sick." Dean's voice was hollow. "I'm actually going to be sick."

You turned to face them, and even though your heart was pounding and your hands were shaking, you made yourself meet their eyes. You'd faced down demons and ghosts and things that shouldn't exist. You could face your brothers.

"I was going to tell you... eventually." you said, and it wasn't exactly a lie. You'd thought about it, maybe. Sometimes. "I just didn't know.. how."

"How?" Sam's voice cracked. "How about 'hey Sam, guess what, I've been sleeping with the angel who's been hanging around us for weeks'? That would've been a good start!"

"Sammy—"

"Me." Dean was pacing now, hands running through his hair. "He pulled me out of Hell. I was the one who started all this. And now my sister is—" He made a vague gesture that seemed to encompass everything. "My sister's been-" He looked from you to Castiel. "With the angel. My sister and the angel have been... doing things."

Sam looked between you and Castiel, his expression a mixture of disbelief and growing horror. "Cas is an angel. He's not- he doesn't even understand human—"

"Oh, he understands plenty." Dean said, his voice flat. "Look at him. Look at the way he's looking at her."

Castiel was still pressed against your back, and you could feel the way his body was straining toward you, the way he was fighting every instinct to just take what he wanted. His breath was hot against your neck, and you knew without looking that his eyes were half-lidded, his lips slightly parted.

He was losing his grip on whatever control he'd managed to maintain.

"We should go." Sam's squeaked out. "Dean, come on. We're leaving."

"Sam! you can't just- our sister is- with Cas!"

"Watch me." He was already grabbing his jacket. "I can't be in this room right now. I can't be near—" He gestured at you and Castiel. "That. Whatever that is."

Dean hesitated, and you saw the war in his eyes: the desire to stay, to yell, to do something, and the need to get away from something that was clearly breaking his brain.

Finally, he turned.

"You owe us an explanation." he said, and his voice was cold in a way you'd never heard from him before. "We'll be at the bar. When you're done... whatever you're going to do... you come get us. And you tell us everything."

The door slammed behind them.

For a moment, you just stood there, breathing. Listening to the sound of their footsteps retreating, the muffled thump of another door opening and closing.

And then Castiel's hands were on you.

"Please," he breathed against your neck, and the sound of it went straight to your core. "Please, please, I need-"

You turned and kissed him.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the soft, exploratory thing you'd given him the first few times, when you were still figuring out how to touch him. This was hungry, desperate, your mouth claiming his with a ferocity that had him gasping against your lips.

"Castiel." You said his name like a curse, like a prayer, and you felt the way his whole body shuddered in response. "What did you do? What did you just do?"

"I'm sorry." His voice was broken, fragmented. "I apologise, didn't mean to- it just happened- you said my name and—"

"I know." You kissed him again, harder, and he made a sound that was almost a whimper.

You pushed him backwards, and his legs hit the edge of the bed. He went down without a fight, the way he always did, looking up at you with those dark, desperate eyes. His pupils were completely blown, dark enough to swallow the blue, and you could see the way his chest was heaving with breaths he didn't need.

"You like that, don't you?" You climbed over him, straddling his hips, and watched the way his hands immediately came up to grip your waist. "You like it when I'm rough with you."

"Yes." The word came out on a gasp. "Yes, I- it feels—"

"Good." You leaned down, your mouth against his ear. "It's supposed to feel good. But you messed up big time, errand boy"

"I'm sorry." His voice was trembling. "I couldn't- when you said my name, I couldn't-"

"I know." You kissed his neck, soft at first, then harder, feeling the way his pulse jumped beneath your lips. "I know you couldn't help it. That's why I'm going to be so good to you tonight."

"Please." He was already arching into you, his hands gripping your waist so tight you knew you'd have bruises tomorrow. "Please, I need—"

"You need what?" You bit down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, and he cried out, a high, broken sound that went straight to your core. "Tell me what you need, Castiel."

"You." The word was barely audible. "Just you. Always you."

His hips were bucking up into you, and you could feel how hard he was, could feel the way he was already leaking through his pants. He was so sensitive, so utterly responsive to everything you did. It had taken you weeks to get him to this point, weeks of careful conditioning and deliberate touch.

And now he was yours. Completely, utterly yours.

"That's right." You rocked against him, just enough to make him gasp. "You're so good for me. So perfect. You just need me to take care of you, don't you?"

"Yes." His eyes were closed, his head thrown back against the mattress. "Yes, please. Please take care of me."

"Poor baby." You kissed down his neck, feeling the way he trembled beneath you. "Getting so worked up over a name. You couldn't even control yourself in front of Dean and Sam."

"M'sorry." He was babbling now, the words tumbling out between desperate little gasps.

You sat up, looking down at him. "I know exactly what you were thinking when it slipped. You were thinking about all the times I've said it before, weren't you? All the times I've had you just like this."

His blush deepened, spreading down his neck and disappearing into his collar. He didn't deny it.

"Tell me," you said, and your voice was almost gentle now. "Tell me what you were thinking about."

"That first time." His eyes were still closed, but you could see the way his pupils moved beneath his lids, the way he was losing himself in memory. "When you put your mouth on me. I thought I was going to- I didn't know what was happening."

"You came." You smiled at the memory. "Just from my mouth. You came so hard you almost passed out."

"I didn't know what it was-" His voice was shaking. "The feeling. I didn't know it was supposed to feel like that. I thought I was dying."

"That was just the beginning, baby." You leaned down, your mouth hovering over his. "We've come a long way since then, haven't we?"

He nodded frantically, and you could feel the way his whole body was quivering with need.

"Open your eyes," you commanded, and he obeyed immediately, looking up at you with those dark, desperate eyes. "Tell me what you want."

"You." The word came out on a sob. "Just you. I want to feel you. Please, I need to."

"Shh." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I'll give you what you need. But first, I need you to be good for me. Can you be good?"

"Yes." He was nodding frantically. "Yes, I'll be good, I'll be so good, please just-"

You silenced him with another kiss, and felt the way he melted into it. The way his hands came up to cup your face, the way he kissed you back with desperate, hungry need.

"Take off your clothes," you murmured against his lips. "All of them. And don't move until I tell you."

He scrambled to obey, his fingers clumsy with need, and you watched as he fumbled with buttons and zippers. His shirt came off first, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, the hard lines of his muscles. Then his pants, kicked off with desperate haste. His boxers followed, and you felt your mouth go dry at the sight of him.

He was gorgeous. Utterly, stunningly gorgeous. His body was lean and hard, all sharp angles and smooth planes, and his cock was already hard and leaking against his stomach.

"Look at you." You climbed off the bed, and he made a desperate little sound of protest. "Don't move. I'm just going to watch you for a moment."

He was trembling, his hands clenched in the sheets, his eyes fixed on you with single-minded intensity. "Please," he breathed. "Please, I need you to touch me."

"I will." You circled the bed slowly, taking in every inch of him. "But first, I want you to tell me something. Do you remember what I said I'd do to you if you ever told anyone about us?"

His eyes went wide. "I—no- I didn't mean to-"

"I know you didn't." Your voice was soft. "But you still did. And now Dean and Sam know. They know what we've been doing. And I know you didn't mean to. But you still broke the rules, Castiel. And when you break the rules..."

You leaned down, your mouth against his ear. "..You get punished."

He shuddered beneath you, and you felt the way his cock twitched against your thigh.

"punished?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"Mmhmm." You kissed down his jaw, feeling the racing pulse beneath your lips. "I'm going to be so rough with you, baby. So rough. And you're going to take it, aren't you? Because that's what good angels do."

"Yes." He was already arching into you, already surrendering. "Please. Please be rough."

You cut him off with a kiss, and this time there was no softness to it. Your teeth caught his lower lip, and he whined in response, the sound swallowed by your mouth.

"This is what happens," you said against his lips, "when you can't keep your mouth shut. I have to remind you who you belong to."

"I belong to you." The words came out on a gasp. "Only you. Always."

"That's right." You kissed down his neck, feeling the way his pulse raced under your lips. "And you're never going to forget it again, are you?"

"No." He was shaking his head frantically. "No, never. I'll—I'll be good. I'll be so good. Just please—"

You smiled against his skin. "Good boy."

And then you took him in your mouth.

He choked on a moan, his hands flying to your hair, and you felt the way his hips bucked up into you. You let him, taking him deep, feeling the way he filled your mouth. He tasted like salt and heat and something that was purely him.

"Please," he was gasping, his hands fisting in your hair. "Please,pleaseplease—"

You pulled off with a wet pop, and he made a sound of desperate protest. "You can take it." you said.

His eyes were wild, his pupils completely blown. I'll take anything."

"Don't worry, baby." You climbed back up his body, your lips hovering over his. "I'm not going to stop. I'm going to take you apart piece by piece, and then I'm going to put you back together."

"You're so beautiful," you murmured. "So perfect. Do you know that?"

He shook his head, unable to speak.

"Then let me show you." You reached down, guiding him to your entrance, and felt the way he shuddered beneath you. "Do you feel that? That's how much I want you."

You sank down onto him, and he whimpered. High and broken, almost keening. His back arched off the bed, his hands gripping your hips so tight you knew you'd have bruises.

"Shh." You pressed a hand over his mouth. "You have to be quiet. We can't have anyone hearing us."

He nodded frantically, his eyes wild and struggling not to cross, and you felt the way his whole body was trembling.

"You're so big," you breathed, beginning to move. "So perfect. Filling me up so good."

He whimpered against your palm, his hips thrusting up to meet yours.

"That's it." You rode him faster, harder, feeling the way he was losing control. "You're so good for me, Castiel. So perfect."

He was close, you could feel it, and you leaned down to kiss him again.

"Come for me," you breathed against his lips. "Come for me, baby."

The light exploded.

It came from everywhere and nowhere, filling the room with a warmth that felt like standing in sunlight. His grace touched you, and you felt your own orgasm crash over you, amplified and intensified by whatever was happening between you.

---

Three hours later Dean was staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. Finally, he said, "He makes you happy?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation. "More than I've ever been."

"Then I guess that's all that matters." He stood up, pulling you into a rough hug. "God, I can't believe my sister's banging an angel."

"Dean!" But you were laughing, the tension finally breaking. "It's not like that."

"It is exactly like that." He pulled back, shaking his head. "My sister. And Cas. I need a drink."

"A bottle," Sam muttered, finally turning back to face you. "We need a bottle. Maybe several."

But he was smiling, a little, and you knew it would be okay.

"It's going to be weird," Dean said. "You know that, right? We're never going to be able to look at him the same way."

"I know." You smiled. "But you'll get used to it."

"I really don't think I will." But there was no heat in his voice. "Just... keep it down, okay? I don't need to hear—"

"Dean." You cut him off. "I'm not going to talk about this with you."

"Thank God." He shuddered. "I think I'd rather face another demon."

once he got a taste of your kisses, he was hooked. nobody could pull him away from you.

castiel would press up against you every single chance he got, moving his head to catch your gaze. once he had locked eyes with you, he knew he had your attention. therefore, he would kiss you, sloppily but eagerly, even if he didn’t know how to do it. his hands, unsure but desperate, would find your arms, waist, torso, shoulders; anything that would ground him. “cas— hey, ‘nough. i got work.” you muttered against his lips. the angel didn’t even register your words. he continued pressing kisses to your lips, his breath ragged, hands clammy. eventually, you turned your head away to try and refocus on the papers in front of you. castiel let out a small involuntary huff of frustration, instead opting to mouth at your jaw, keeping his body close to yours. “settle down, cas, c’mon.” you urged him, moving a hand to his chest, pushing him away. he immediately resisted, his hand grasping your wrist. he whined softly in protest, the sound low and quiet, keeping his lips attached to your skin. your shoulders sagged as you realized how needy he was. “cas.” you said firmly. that did get his attention, but he looked up at you with his nose scrunched and eyes narrowed as if he was offended. giving him a pointed look, his slight scowl became more prominent, though he leaned in and nuzzled his nose against your cheek. “you can’t be doin’ this while i’m workin’..” you muttered with a gentler tone, patting the side of his face with your hand. “why not?” he questioned immediately. “because i’m working.”

castiel huffed, and you knew that was an angry sound. he didn’t kiss you anymore, but he was still very much clinging to you, his body pressed to yours. he felt like he was starving for the contact. he couldn’t wait til you were finished.