lovemesomepie314 | NSFW Open RP post

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NSFW Open RP post

1. Leave me a prompt, picture, lyrics, etc.
2. I'm going to tag you back eventually!
3. RP magic is happening.
4. Are we threading already?
5. You are going to get sick of my forever back tagging.
6. Get used to it, I'm in your inbox.

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Dear Dean,

Hello. Unfortunately, I am unused to writing letters and find the concept behind this to be somewhat tedious. Fortunately, one of the lovely ladies in our camp (I believe her name is Esmerelda, or maybe it is Jennifer, or it could be Amanda) informed me of the proper way to begin these things. Letters are strange, aren't they? They seem extremely superfluous, and I am unsure where the lady in question procured not only a pen, but also paper. This paper is also intact. I'm certain that her breasts could not create either, but she pulled both out of her bra when I mentioned my interest in writing one.

I am writing you this letter for two reasons: first, to thank you for your leadership skills so far throughout this trying ordeal, and secondly, I would like to make a proposition. As you may be aware, this is the end of life as we know it. It is a rather bleak time in our lives, and we've lived through many things together. We have seen good days, bad days, and... strange days, as well. I am still unsure of what a goat was doing in the backyard of the one house we occupied, but watching you attempting to milk it was amusing, and has become a fond memory for me.

We have experienced many things together, except for one thing: sex. I would like to change that, if you are willing. I do not believe that this is outside the scope of our relationship, and lately, I have noticed that you are more on edge than usual. To the point where many of our allies are growing wary of saying anything that may upset you. As such, I believe that you may be in need of special attention in order to help alleviate some of that stress, and my thorough studies of the pizza man's methods when I first came to earth have been perfected over the time since then. I believe you will find them satisfactory, at minimum.

If this appeals to you, then please let me know. If you would prefer discretion be used, no one needs to know of this. I would not like our affairs to affect your ability to lead, and I do not want the stresses of leading to also affect your ability to be the best capable leader that you can be.

Thank you for your time. I am told that it is customary to thank a person for reading these sorts of letters.

Sincerely,
Castiel

Dean will never come to understand the bizarre ways Castiel's mind works. He goes from being a clueless angel to pod smoking orgy angel in a span of a couple of years of apocalypse. Dean will just have to admit his defeat, honestly. The letter he receives is pretty much just more in the same scheme of things: insane.

It sits on the dash of his car one day and Dean takes it with him when he heads out of the camp to scout for fuel and ammo. He reads it on a lunch break that he takes on the middle of an abandoned street, laying on the nose of his car. He doesn't quite finish it right away because a swarm of croats rush him. He drops it. It gets stampeded on. Then blood splatters on it. Dean wipes it onto his sleeve and then drives away.

It's wrinkled, muddy and patterned with blood when Dean waves it at Castiel's face that night. He arrived back to the camp and decided to give his reply to the ex-angel right away. It meant breaking one of Castiel's little sessions with the female crowd. They marched out while giving him murderous glances, glances that he ignored. Then he closed the door, locked it and grabbed Castiel by his collar to lift him up so Dean can press the letter to his chest.

"What's this?"

Said females look much more than simply murderous. If Castiel were to label their expressions, he's not sure what he would call it... but he would be concerned for Dean's wellbeing. Fortunately, these lovely ladies are not the type to turn on their leader because he decided to be a cockblock. (He's heard the term enough from said ladies that he has adopted its usage in the most dire of circumstances.)

It is rather unfortunate that Dean took this moment to air his grievances.

What's what-- "Ah." He brightens. "That is a letter, Dean."

Upon closer inspection, he notices the paper is no longer in pristine condition, and that there--is that blood? His brows furrow. How could blood have possibly gotten onto his work? And a footprint, as well? He reaches down to gingerly lift the paper, crinkled and rustly in his hand, as he shoos Dean's hand from his shirt.

"I hope that you were able to at least read its contents." When his eyes flick back up to Dean, the unspoken question of Did you? is there, in plain sight.

"Yeah, there were some mooks," Dean mutters as he waves a dismissive hand towards the paper, then hurries to add: "I killed them, no problem."

As is evident in the splatter of blood on the paper. "So don't go licking that blood, okay."

He settles, arms over his chest and staring at Castiel. They both fuck a lot of people. Just not each other. Castiel is his rock, they've been doing this shit just the two of them for too long for him to still see Castiel as just an angel or an ally. They're brothers.

Casual sex usually doesn't lead to great results when it comes to relationships. Usually.

"I read it. Why not just come talk with me?"

There's no concern about Dean's wellbeing, because he's here, obviously. The pregnant silence that falls between them is punctuated by a look that says: don't be an idiot. "It wasn't my intention to." He doesn't particularly enjoy the taste of blood.

Ah, but here comes the key part of this. Writing versus verbally making the offer. Castiel's gaze drops back down to the page. Considering the state of his well crafted letter, perhaps talking would have been the better route. Talking, however, has never much been their strong point, has it?

"Writing was considered a method of courtship at some point in history. To my recollection," he absently adds, reaching up with his free hand to rub the stubble on his chin. "My aim was to offer, not proposition you like a prostitute."

He looks back up at Dean. Watches him steadily.

"I was wary of my words alluding to that, if we discussed this in person, first."

"So, wait..." Dean unfolds his arms and rubs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. "You wrote me that you want to have sex with me but you didn't want to say it in person so I wouldn't see it too promiscuous?"

There's some giggle coming in from behind Castiel's window and Dean steps to it, pulling the curtains shut on the few girls that just remained there to spy on them. Harpies.

The cabin becomes a strange land of orange and red light then, seeping through the cotton of the curtains. They don't have electricity and during daylight there's no need to burn candles. But then the curtains are closed, the daylight doesn't get to stream in freely but bleeds through the colorful fabric.

Dean crosses the floor again, this time right into Castiel's personal space, then he reaches up to grab Castiel's shirt front and pushes him back against the wall, then leans in to slowly, slowly kiss his lips.

Castiel doesn't sleep.

Well, he could if he really wanted to, same as he could eat or drink. The human body is a machine, and it's not so difficult to operate; Castiel has learned how to ride it with ease, each day easier than the one before it until at last this skin began to feel like his own. He'll never fit into it entirely, not really. He's an angel, and nothing will ever change that, he cannot be what he is not, and however many millenia he spends in a vessel will not make him any more or less than what he is, but there is a comfortable plateau that he has found. This is his body, now. He fits into it as well as he is able, as well as he ever will.

But he doesn't sleep, or eat, or drink. He's pretended to sleep before, to make Sam and Dean more comfortable, but it isn't something he's made a habit of. Sleep is an unfortunate necessity for most carbon based life forms, but really it's entirely inefficient, and an enormous waste to spend one third of your short life unconscious.

There's something similar to sleep that he can achieve, however. The closest angels can come to real sleep, is simple rest. He's suspended, awake but not entirely aware, his thoughts slowed from the usual ceaseless riot into a slow and easy trance. It's not often that he does this, either, but after he and Dean collapsed on one another, slicked with sweat and fluid, tangled up in damp sheets, it had seemed only proper. The moments after called for it, for silence and appreciation, to not ruin the space between them with words, but to instead soak up the feel, the sounds and smells of their bodies and breathing, and the distant crash of waves past the open windows that rolls on even though the sun has long set.

Dean falls asleep easily, draped over him heavily like a dog after a meal, and Castiel doesn't mind the weight, he likes it. Dean feels warm and solid against him, miles of skin that's smooth and soft once the cool coastal air has dried the sweat from them, and with his eyelids heavy and low Castiel listens to the sound of Dean's steady breathing, and the slow, even pound of his heartbeat too faint for humans to hear but Castiel can hear it, and feel it too, he can feel all of Dean, the hum of his soul, warm and inviting, the course of his blood, he can feel the weight of his bones, and all the things that knit him together, everything that is Dean.

Castiel isn't sure he's ever known peace like this. Certainly he's always seeking it, prefers quiet vistas and gentle heavens, and he's known comfort similar to this before, but these long night hours while Dean sleeps, and they exist in a warm, thoughtless tangle, are better than any sweet spring meadow he has ever known. In silence, Castiel draws his fingers through Dean's hair and down the nape of his neck, tracing idle patterns against his spine before moving up again to repeat the process, over and over, his eyes shutting and thoughts slipping into that tranquil angelic trance where there is no pain, no hurry, and the hours pass deep into the night until the first rays of pale pink dawn begin to lighten the sky.

Dean is 37, he's almost 40. Had this happened at an earlier point of his life, he would have been wrecked and devastated for a long, long while without a real good reason for it. However, he's almost forty and everyone he knows except for Sam and Castiel are dead, taken by this life. He's tired. He's exhausted by the constant pain and loss.

The fact that Castiel is a dude has lost its meaning. Dean fell asleep thinking about it while his nose was buried in Castiel's neck against his stubble and scent of his sweat. He knows dicks, having had one for almost forty years. That's the only essential fact about this whole thing that he can think of. Castiel has a cock, so does Dean, bumping them together feels pretty damn good.

He sleeps like a baby, heavily on Castiel's chest, his arm wrapped around Castiel's middle in a gesture that seems and is quite a possessive one. He dreams about nothing, thankfully, just darkness and the feeling of safety, of peace. Dean never sleeps for more than four or five hours, usually with the help of some liquor. His mind is on a constant alarm mode. Because he never feels safe. He doesn't fail to go to bed without a gun and a knife at hand.

Except it seems that Castiel is a real security blanket. His chest rising and falling under Dean's rocks him into deeper sleep than he usually would enter at all. And when he finally stirs after hours and hours, it's already light outside, well tipping into the day.

Dean gives a groan as the first thing and stretches his limbs out while burying his face against Castiel's neck. Then he pushes himself up onto his arms and stares at Castiel beneath him. Something in his gut tells that this is going to turn awkward. Or maybe not.

"Mornin'," he says, voice gravely and low.

Castiel is still in sleep mode when daylight comes, but Dean stirring above him pulls him out of it easily enough, like a light switch flicking on. He's not groggy, because he wasn't really asleep, but he feels still more calm and peaceful than he has in a long time, and his voice is quiet, eyelids heavy when he looks up to meet Dean's face.

It's awkward. But it's no more awkward than anything ever is, for Castiel. He's kind of awkward given shape and voice. So this is no different for him than anything else is, and yet it is somehow, because he knows that what's happened between them is something.. profound. It was entirely natural, felt right from the moment Dean's hands landed on its body, but he still feels he needs to give it justifiable respect, to let it sink in.

"Good morning," he says, simply, making no attempt to move, his eyes still up and on Dean's face, gauging it for reactions, waiting to see what he will do.

They're like two vipers staring at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Or maybe two puppies. Whatever happens next is probably going to determine just how this all goes down. Dean knows that.

And yet, he feels exhausted by the idea that he should make a big deal out of this.

So he snorts softly and smiles. It's not the kind of lewd grin he might give the girls he sleeps with, or a shit eating one that he sometimes throws at Sam, but a real one, pale and small but so achingly real.

Then he slowly leans forward and presses the line of his lips to Castiel's. It's a chase kiss, a simple one. Mostly because he knows his morning breath is potent and there's no need to make Castiel taste that. (Hey, he can be thoughtful at times.)

"You don't sleep." He arches his brows in a mild question.

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