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All You Wished For, All You Need.

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"Deanna…"

She doesn't look up from her preparations: tossing on her jacket, feeling around for her wallet, keys… everything she'll need when she takes Cas to… fuck if Deanna knows. A Chippendale's club, or another male strip club, some kind of brothel where they've got pretty boy-whores — wherever works, really.

"Deanna…"

Sighing, Deanna continues ignoring all the noise Cas is throwing up: they've gone over this so much already that Deanna wants to puke. Archangel Raphael of The Fucking Stupid Name might kill her ass tomorrow. He's already went and done that once before, when Sammy broke the Last Seal and Cas had to go and be a stupid bitch, standing with Chuck's drunk ass until she exploded… Deanna can still hear the so-called Prophet's description of it. Like a balloon full of chunky soup — like Hell if Deanna's letting that happen again when Cas hasn't even had her angelic hymen broken.

Figuratively speaking, Deanna figures, since Cas's vessel had a kid or whatever… but that doesn't suddenly make Cas not a virgin.

Never mind that the stupid, pretty angel hasn't gone and gotten this through her fucking head, yet. Deanna figures it'll sink in once they're in the car — and yet… Cas keeps calling her name. Keeps ignoring the way that Deanna hasn't turned around, or dignified her shameless cries for attention, or anything like that. Keeps whining as though it's going to change the fact that she's getting laid.

"Deanna!"

"What! What the fuck do you want, Cas?"

She turns. Finds Cas standing, unexpectedly. And holding eye-contact with her in a way that doesn't fit with the desperate, keening way she's mewled Deanna's name — they're still as big and blue as ever, but there's a cold resolve burning behind them. It flickers for a moment when Deanna meets her gaze — she fusses with the cuffs of her dirty, oversized trench-coat and she ducks her head. Lets her mussed up hair flop over her face like a veil. Her breaths come in rough and ragged, but long. Deep. Like she's freaking meditating… and Deanna feels a twinge of guilt in the pit of her stomach, but she says again:

"What. the fuck. do you want, Cas?" She huffs it, half-groans it… and Cas comes closer to her — not quite invading Deann's personal space yet, but inching toward Deanna like she wants to — She doesn't look up from the floor, probably playing some kind of wonky, angel mind-game. "I'm not buying the cute and innocent act, bitch, so come on already: what. the fuck. do you want? We're not going out to get you deflowered unless everything's right, and I can't get it perfect unless you—"

"I don't want to go, Deanna."

Deanna is going to smack something. Probably Sam, if she ever sees his gigantic ass again. "You want to run that by me again, Feathers?"

"I…" She grazes her teeth over her lower lip, trembles a bit as she readies herself— which Deanna thinks is stupid, really; Cas has taken on all kinds of crazy shit… She's faced an archangel, hordes of demons, fucking Alastair… And still, her voice shakes as she repeats: "I do not wish to go out, Deanna. Not if you mean to take me to a den of iniquity."

"Yeah, okay, you've said that about fifty times now, and I ain't heard a good reason out of you yet, Cas."

"I don't belong in one of those places, Dean."

"Oh, wow… using my nickname instead of the full one. That's… that's almost as serious business as Dad belting out some, Deanna Mary Winchester, what part of, 'always look out for your little brother' don't you understand crap on me — there's nothing to be freaking scared of, Cas!" And, really, the fact that they need to have this conversation is goddamn depressing. "I mean… Jamie had her kid or whatever—"

"Claire," Cas insists. "The name of my vessel and her husband's child is Claire."

Deanna shrugs. "Yeah, whatever — so Jamie had Claire, so it's not like it's gonna hurt… And the hookers aren't gonna bite, unless you're into that, so… There's no issue. And I've got condoms, so you won't get pregnant… if that's even possible—"

"Theoretically, my vessel could still conceive and bare children, if provided the sperm to do so—" She goes on explaining some weird shit about angel biology, and angel/vessel relations, and blah blah blah, Jesus Christ, she's talking like fucking Spock.

And, finally, Deanna cuts her off: "You know, if we don't go get in the car, and drive, and find a brothel for this shit to go down in, all the pretty hookers are gonna be gone."

She pauses, watching to see if Cas even remotely reacts to this. All the stupid angel does is furrow her brow and pout, as though she's unsure of whether to be confused by Deanna's threat or hurt by the interruption. "I mean it, Cas," Deanna goes on, thinking maybe Cas just needs it spelled out further. "We're gonna get there and you're gonna have to fuck some jacked up coke-head with three teeth, no abs, and stubble."

"Your legs have stubble," Cas points out. "As do your underarms."

"Yeah, but it's, like, feminist or some shit for me to not shave. It means I'm empowered and fighting the patriarchy or… some of that weird, Betty Freidan and bell hooks crap that Madison was into before the whole… werewolf meets silver bullet shit went down. On a male hooker, not shaving is just creepy."

Maybe this is a little bit too human-logical for Cas's angel-brain to process: she goes quiet for a long moment, tilting her head and making one of those faces like she's trying not to cry. One of the expressions that, on anybody else, would probably indicate a coming emotional breakdown… but that, on Cas, just means she's confused. Hopelessly fucking lost. Deanna sighs and starts to explain what the meant by that, but, no doubt taking the hint from Deanna's own behavior, Cas butts in:

"Be that as it may, Dean… Be all of that as it may… I have no desire to go to a brothel. Or one of the clubs where the women take their clothes off and you put money in their so-called underwear. Or… anywhere like that. I'm an angel; I do not belong in a den of iniquity like those places."

"What part of full-on rebelling against Heaven means that you still have to play by their rules, Cas? Dying a virgin hasn't been okay since Jesus did it, anyway."

Cas sighs, and finally gets to her usual distance from Deanna, which is to say up close and personal, hovering only a few inches away, staring up at Deanna and going too long without blinking. Long enough to make Deanna cough, just because it's fucking awkward to stand here in silence, with Cas looking at her and not saying anything — especially when Deanna threw out a blasphemy right there and maybe she's not up-to-speed on all that Bibles and God and angels dishing out punishment crap… but shouldn't there be some smiting going on for that?

Seriously, she's not asking for that much, here. Even just a smack across the face and an admonition would do… Anything that shows her that Cas — her Cas — is still in there. The strong, righteous, uppity little bitch who pulled Deanna out of Hell… the one who's spent the past year riding her ass in every way but the sexy one, getting up in her face and growling about everything from how she gripped Deanna tight and raised her from Perdition, so Deanna owes her some respect, to how she doesn't want Deanna torturing Alastair, but she needs to ask it… The look on Cas's face is so terrified, so wide-eyed and failing to disguise itself. She doesn't invade Deanna's personal space out of her usual ignorance of where boundaries are; she does it like she's clinging to a lifeline.

And the negative reaction Deanna wants never fucking comes. All Cas does is sigh again and duck her head. Were she anybody else, Deanna'd call her out for staring at her tits — the impulse to shout, my eyes are up here, Chuckles is immense — but because it's Cas, Cas who's trying everything short of setting herself on fire to get out of getting her cherry popped, Deanna just doesn't see the point.

There's something that sounds off about the way Cas makes that noise, though. Something that sounds exasperated, confessional — It sounds like Cas is trying to get something said, but she doesn't have the words, or she can't translate from Angel to Human properly, or something else is standing between her and being able to say what she wants… but, hey, what the fuck does Deanna know. She's far from being good at finding or reading the subtle hints people throw out there, at least not in situations like this one… Situations where there's any kind of honesty going on.

To say nothing of situations with other girls… Sure, Deanna's known forever that she isn't straight, not entirely — that she likes dick okay, but can't really have a relationship with guys who aren't named Sam and Bobby, and those aren't sexual, which is probably why Deanna hasn't intentionally fucked them over. She's liked fucking people since her first time, and she's had nurses roll their eyes and mutter slut under their breath because she likes to write yes, please under "Sex" on any forms that ask her for it.

But she's stupid when it comes to girls. She knows she is: Cassie and Lisa had to throw themselves at her, and even then, Deanna wasn't sure where it was going until they were naked. Lisa, once they'd gotten to the fucking, said she'd never met anybody so obtuse; so pretty, so intentionally provocative, and yet so oblivious to flirting aimed in her direction. Deanna didn't even know about Jo's crush on her until she'd gotten over it, started screwing around with some sweet little thing named Kat. Had Bela been a guy, the angry sex they had would've come long before she finally suggested it — but, since Bela was a girl, it took her blatantly objectifying and propositioning Deanna for anything to happen.

To say nothing of the fact that this is Castiel, Recently Rebelled Angel of the Lord, quite possibly Deanna's only still-living friend, aside from Jo, and Ellen, and Rufus (who sort of doesn't count, since he's Bobby's friend and not Deanna's)… To say nothing of the fact that Cas isn't acting like herself. She brushes her fingers over the collar of Deanna's flannel, teases at the buttons… but she won't look up, won't acknowledge blatant blasphemy. When Deanna tries to shift around, Cas moves with her, keeping close but never letting Dean meet her eyes…

She just keeps hiding behind the falls of her hair, staring at her shoes, as though they're the most interesting things in the entire world. She's paler than normal, which is saying a lot, since her skin's about the closest thing Deanna's ever seen to real alabaster stone. About the only reason she's not a porcelain doll is that it's harder to break an angel — even one who's out-of-touch with Heaven's home office, even one whose power might well be depleting itself faster than Deanna's let herself think… She tries to reach out, tries to take Cas's wrist in some gesture meant to tell her that it's all gonna be okay… But Cas just drops Deanna's collar. Jerks her hand away. Freezes up with a look on her face that just reeks of if I don't move, maybe Deanna won't be able to see me-style logic.

Every breath she takes seems like a Herculean endeavor for Cas: some come out quietly, some are half-groans, Deanna even catches the occasional whimper — she can actually make out Cas's Adam's apple when she swallows, and Deanna knows from years of Sam being a bitch and telling her so that girls' throats aren't supposed to make their larynxes so prominent.

Once again, Deanna gets that cold, twisting feeling in the pit of her stomach: it writhes around in there… drags her heart down into the pit of her chest… reminds her that okay, yeah, angels probably think about sex differently than humans, and maybe she's forcing this issue too hard on the being who's pretty much her best friend, or some fucking chick flick logic like that. Andrew did, kind of… but he was human, mostly. He'd lived as one for long enough, anyway, and when he and Deanna fucked in the backseat of the Impala, he moved underneath her like a human. Not some recoiling, dispassionate angel, but warm, and handsy, slumping against the window and holding Deanna close while she rode his dick.

Shaking her head, trying (and failing) not to roll her eyes at how Cas is acting over this, Deanna reaches down and tucks a piece of jet-black hair behind Cas's hair. She looks at the diamond stud earrings, some present from Amos — Jamie's husband back in Illinois — and it's totally inappropriate, but she still wants to gauge Cas's earlobes up, sometime, if the Teenage Mutant Ninja Angel doesn't rip her to pieces tomorrow. Deanna strokes her fingers behind Cas's ear again, over the hair she just put in place, but Cas doesn't say anything. Doesn't make a sound, though Deanna things. Doesn't even move, except to quiver a little bit under Deanna's touch.

She twitches like she's fighting off some urge to get away. Maybe even one to go running back to Heaven.

"Fine," Deanna huffs, glowering, close to snarling or at least smacking Cas, not even trying to hide her disappointment. "Sure, cool… whatever, we'll just, y'know… sit here quietly."

Cas's face falls, into that same mix of confusion and sadness she gets when someone makes a pop culture reference that she doesn't understand. "Deanna, I didn't mean—"

"What the Hell is even with you, lately?" Deanna snaps, and stomps her foot as though this makes her point so much more valid. By way of doing the same thing, and in response to some murmur of I have no idea what you mean, she backs up. Turns her back on the angel and takes a few steps away, then rounds on Cas again: "It's like you're not even you these days, Cas… I mean, not that I'm not flattered you rebelled for me, but what happened to the bigger picture? And thinking about it? You know… that thing you've spent the past year reaming me about?"

Cas blinks. Stares at her. And sure, Deanna's not some mind-reading psychic freak, but she guesses what Cas is going to say before Cas even opens her mouth: "I thought I was doing what you wanted… Fighting for free will, for humanity. Preserving the lives we would lose in the crossfire, if Michael and Lucifer — surely, you remember—"

"Yeah, well, I remember that, and you know what else I remember, Cas? …What about this fucking business with the pizza-eating Teenage Mutant Ninja Fuck-face Archangel Dude? The same douchebag who's blown you to high Hell before and he's probably going to fucking do it again? How's that supposed to be what I want? I mean… you stupid, soulless bitch, how is that supposed to be even close to what I want?"

The honesty of that statement burns in Deanna's throat the same way it burned when she was fifteen and Dad let her try smoking, pulled the manipulative, bullshit parent stunt of telling her the exact wrong way to do it… She might even start coughing, because sounding ill is a damn sight better than having to hear the way she's screaming, the way her voice cracks like it wants to start sobbing. It's bad enough that her face flushes, that she can feel it burning up as well as tears stinging at her eyes… The space she went and put between herself and Cas is palpable, the air in there crackling with a nauseating tension… All Deanna wants to do is punch something, or shoot it, or start a fire.

"I don't understand," Cas whispers, closes the distance again and — even though Deanna wants to hate her for this, for finally acting like herself — it's a sort of comfort that she fixes that hard, blue gaze on Deanna's eyes. Right on Deanna's eyes. "I told you…" Cas says, and for a moment, she sounds so much like she did on the night they first me. "I told you exactly what we're going to do tomorrow… We call down Raphael. We trap him, and he will tell us whatever he knows, where God is—"

"Yeah, and he probably blows your ass up, and then you're dead, and if God doesn't feel like throwing another 'Get Out Of Death Free' card at you, then what — then Archangel Mc-Dick-bag just kidnaps me off to Michael?"

"The oil is a precaution — I won't let that happen—"

"You'll still be leaving me alone, though, won't you?" She spits the words out without thinking — and once she does, they loom in the air, seem to echo off the walls, even though she knows there's no way they're doing that… The first of Deanna's tears well up, roll down her cheeks, and she hates them for existing but her hands won't fucking move to wipe them off. "Sam's gone, Cas — he fucking quit, and I can't even blame the son of a bitch because, you know what? He shouldn't be fucking hunting. He's a danger to himself and others and if I knew where he was, I'd probably lock him up in Bobby's panic room, just to be sure nothing could get at him, no more fucking demon chicks to get all up on him…"

"And Bobby…" Deanna sighs — Cas still hasn't broken eye-contact with her, now… even when she's in the position of trying to look anywhere else but at this fucking stupid angel. She's got no choice but to give up, just look Cas in the eye and get back to pleading: "Well, shit, Cas, I can't count on Bobby for anything right now — and, y'know, for good reason, since he's still recovering from stabbing himself with the fucking demon knife… I can't roll with Jo and Ellen or I'll put them in danger. Rufus doesn't work with anybody but himself…"

Her palms itch with the desire to punch something. Rage blazes through her throat — she's not even yelling, but it's going raw anyway… Speaking hurts. Breathing hurts. Looking Cas in her big, blue, stupid eyes hurts. But if she's going to insist on it, then Deanna can't back down. "All I've fucking got is you," she groans, "and you're lining right the fuck up to let those bastards kill you… What am I supposed to do after Raphael blows you up, Cas, huh? Can you answer that for me? Because I've got no fucking idea…"

And the next thing she knows, she's getting kissed.

Cas is kissing her. Cas has her hands knotted up in Deanna's collar, clinging so fierce that she's probably going to rip the fabric… And it's only how white her knuckles get as she tugs on Deanna's flannel, urging her closer, refusing to let her move away… Only the way Cas's hands tremble and look so fucking fragile makes reality sink in, drops a frigid, visceral awareness of everything into Deanna's stomach and claws at, twists around in, her lungs: Castiel is kissing her.

Wide-eyed, Deanna stares down at her angel's face, at how she's got her eyes clenched shut as she grinds her lips into Deanna's, tongues at Deanna's lips and then her teeth, bites into Deanna's lower lip — For her part, she moves her lips back against Cas's, knocks her tongue at Cas's with none of the deftness that can knot up cherry stems, when Deanna puts her mind to it. She wonders where the Hell some virginal, trenchcoat-wearing angel learned how to kiss, much less how to do it with the gnashing of teeth, or with the fumbling motions of her tongue… It occurs to her that maybe Cas has watched her going at it with her laundry list of partners, of one-night-stands, but Deanna can't think about that for too long.

Cas tries to relocate them — not that Deanna minds, not like standing here and making out is comfortable or anything. But how she does it turns problematic. Without pulling away, without stopping the kiss to breathe, Cas tries to move them back, toward the window and the sofa at the edge of the room. They stumble, but Deanna gets her hands underneath the trenchcoat, settles them on Cas's hips; she finds a balance for them, even if the way they move's still about as awkward as Sam that time he thought that he could go to prom like some normal high school kid. For (very pressing) fear of toppling over, their only option's inching toward their desired end — and as they do, Cas finally needs to breathe.

Catching her breath, though, takes Cas barely any time at all: she jerks away, pulls their mouths apart; arching her neck back with one upward snap of her head, throwing her hair behind her as she moves, she gasps, pants, looks like she's spasming; and she seems to settle immediately. To recover by getting interested in everywhere else within her reach. She moves her lips elsewhere, all across Deanna's cheeks and jaw, down to Deanna's neck… She ghosts her mouth over the skin there, with a flick of the tongue or a flashing caress of teeth. She strokes a hand over Deanna's cropped hair — and this is the first time Deanna thinks about recoiling, running out the door and ditching Cas, the way that Sam, and Dad, and everyone she cares about — at least everyone who's not named Bobby — has always ditched her. The way Cas is gonna ditch her, too, come morning.

She doesn't run, though. Deanna Winchester's a lot of things, but coward isn't one of them, and if Cas thinks she can just fling herself at Deanna like this, start getting slutty when there's maybe sixteen, eighteen hours left in her existence, kiss like she wants to bruise Deanna's lips and suck out her life and get away with this without any kind of fight… If she thinks even part of that, then she's got another thing coming. Deanna growls into her angel's mouth, tries to say something but can't find the words because, really, she has no idea what she wants to say… She rips off Cas's tie. Throws it to the floor. Drags Cas flush against her by the trenchcoat's filthy lapels and curls a hand up at the small of Cas's back.

And there's a desperation in the way she clings to Cas, in the way she tries to grope the angel's ass without going under the trenchcoat… Deanna knows that distress is there. She hears the misery in the moan she gives when Cas scrapes her nails along the back of her neck. And she hates them, wishes they were angry spirits so she could salt them, burn them, get them out of her fucking life… But they distract her from the skin-crawls, and her shaking hands, and the way she feels everything so sharply and all of it aches with some recognition that this first time kissing Cas will probably be Deanna's last one.

And if Cas won't listen to reason, then Deanna wishes she'd at least pick somebody better… If she's gonna be a lesbian angel, there are tons of places they can go and find her someone else. Someone with a plush, curvy body and not the fire-forged angles and muscles that Deanna has. Someone with fuller lips and rounder hips; someone whose hair celebrates her femininity, instead of eschewing it, threatening to kick anyone who calls her girly square in the fucking teeth.

It doesn't even make sense, the way her stomach drops and her heart starts racing, pumping with horsepower to rival her '67 lady's engine… The way her toes curl up inside her boots and the way that insecurity sets in… Especially not happening all over her fucking hair. Deanna's worn it short forever. Long enough for a lover to grab onto, sure, because it's more fun that way, but cut close to her head, a soldier's haircut… A boy's haircut, Sam always said. And Deanna's gotten used to the looks she gets, the way people look at her and hiss dyke like she can't hear them… She's thirty, this past January, she has to be used to all that crap…

But under Cas's touch, feeling Cas's fingers brushing over Deanna's hair, everything comes rushing back to her: the way Dad used to glare and tell her to cross her legs, stop grabbing at her crotch; the way he snapped things like, who the Hell do you think you're fooling, kid; I've only got the one son and it ain't you; the way girls like pretty, perfect, popular girls like Amanda Heckerling called her dyke, and tranny, and queer, and how they'd say things like, Aren't you supposed to go in the boys' bathroom, Dean?; and how, unlike that closet-case Amanda, most of them weren't repressed, or scared, or in need of a good fuck in the janitor's closet; most of them were just cruel, spiteful, teenage bitches…

She's off her guard, lets a whimper slip out — and Cas seems too understand it, even though Deanna doesn't. She nods, presses a gentle kiss to Deanna's lips, then slips her hand down the curve of Deanna's neck, down to her shoulder, then her collarbone…

And her fingers, Deanna notices, are warm, tingling; they sting at first, like she's got bugs or something kicking around in that body of hers, biting, trying to go for Deanna's blood… The touches get nicer, once Deanna gets used to the shocks… They feel right, in a way that no one else's contact ever has, with something stirring in her chest, rushing up, always charging after Cas's fingers, trying to wrap around them and never getting there in time. She slides her hands away, moves them so she can ease off Deanna's jacket or paw at her chest, and seems to do so long before whatever she's waking up can get close to her.

Wherever Cas puts her hands, Deanna feels her skin light up with sensation, her body's finer hairs prick up and her whole chest blaze like a forest fire, so thick and hot and laden with desire to just get Cas naked and rock her world — and then Cas's hand falls to Deanna's shoulder. The one with the handprint on it, that still-red, raised-up scar that's a perfect imprint of Cas's palm, her skinny, gorgeous fingers… Even with her t-shirt and her flannel between her skin and Cas's hand, Deanna gasps. The backs of her knees collide with the sofa and, as she topples to it, she tightens her hold on Cas's waist. Refuses not to drag the angel down here with her.

Cas falls into Deanna's lap as though it's nothing. Kisses harder than she's done before, in this position, resting a hand on the back of Deanna's neck, pulling her up into their rough embraces any time she tries to slump back onto the sofa, biting here and there like she's a vampire, not an angel after all. Her other hand ends up on the curve of Deanna's neck, right where it starts to meet her shoulder, and Cas digs her nails in so far that Deanna wonders if she'll bleed — if this vampire idea's not too far off — but even if Cas breaks the skin, all the does is use this for extra leverage. Uses it to keep yanking Deanna close to her, even when there's nowhere left to go, when there's barely room enough for breath between them — and through all of it, she lets her ass sink onto Deanna's legs, bucks her hips and grinds them against Deanna's thighs, her stomach — Cas tightens her thighs around Deanna like pleading, licks at Deanna's lips like she's deep in prayer.

Her eyes snap open so suddenly that, coupled with the way she wrenches out of the kiss, Cas almost gives Deanna a heart attack. Staring up at her angel, Deanna tries to speak, to ask what the fuck Cas is doing… mostly turns up with a bunch of half-words and garbled syllables, none of which communicate her meaning. Cas slides her hand under Deanna's t-shirt sleeve and splays her fingers over their mirror-image on Deanna's skin. The contact surges up and down Deanna's muscles like an electric shock and, reflexively, instinctively, she bucks her hips up into Cas's, tries to spread her legs just to give Cas's some resistance… Cas tightens her grip on the mark but, even when Deanna groans, begs her oh God, fucking… oh God, CAS, she keeps her face straight. Her expression distant and unmoving.

She shakes her head. She sighs. "Deanna, I… I am not going to a brothel," she whispers, forcing her eyes to lock on Deanna's. "I do not wish for you to purchase me a prostitute… If my virginity is of such great importance, there is only one person whom I wish to take it, and…" Cas's voice cracks, now, but in a smaller way than Deanna's did before… She chokes back a whimpering noise, licks at her lips and rubs them together, gets that far-away, glassed-over look in her eyes, the way she gets when she's deep in thought…

Deanna reaches up to stroke her hair, move the same clump from before back behind Cas's ear and this, finally, gets her to talk again: "I would prefer not to go find another vessel, Deanna. Jamie hasn't been in here with me since she begged me not to take her daughter, and so you can be sure that there are no issues of consent… That anything that happens is entirely my wish and being done only to me, but…" Cas licks at her lips again. Bites the lower one. Coughs out the proposition: "I know that you are fond of those so-called Busty Asian Beauties, and if you would rather I find a temporary vessel bearing that appearance—"

Deanna cuts her off, pulling Cas down into a kiss by that long, gorgeous hair of hers — and Deanna holds out a moment longer… Gives her idiot angel time to get the message through her pretty little head… Once she's kissing back, curling her fingers up on the back of Deanna's neck, Deanna moves to take advantage of the situation: she flips them both over, so that she's pressing Cas up into the sofa, instead of the other way around. Toying with another lock of Cas's hair, she explains that she can't pop Cas's cherry from the bottom — "Or, well, I mean… I could, but it'd be weird, so…"

Cas tilts her head, wrinkles her nose. Her eyes get wide again. "But I don't have any fruit with me, Deanna, and I thought you were allergic to cherries—"

"'s a figure of speech, virgin," Deanna snickers, ripping the first button of Cas's shirt off, not wanting to be so rough but needing Cas to shut up and pay attention.

She's more careful with the rest of the undressing process: she skates her hands down Cas's shoulders, easing off her trenchcoat, then the suit coat, then turns her attention to undoing all of Cas's buttons, to letting her fingertips brush just so against Cas's skin, first as she works her way down the column of buttons and then again as she fumbles to untuck Cas's shirt… Cas trembles under her touch again, and Deanna sees what she couldn't when Cas shook like this before: shades of lust flash across Cas's eyes; darken as Deanna finally gets her shirt off, drops it into the heap of clothes building up behind the angel; as she pulls Deanna down into another kiss, drags her teeth over Deanna's lips again, Cas's cheeks flush pink and she gives a little moan.

When she next needs to stop and breathe, Deanna pauses… looks over the sight of Cas, bra-less and naked to the waist, pale skin out on display… She ghosts her fingers over the white, gnarled stretch marks on Cas's tits, the ones on her stomach, these shows that her body had a life before she came and took over it… Before she turns her hands' attention to Cas's belt, to getting her trousers off, Deanna just takes time to appreciate Cas's current state: the way her fingers curl up into fists, flop down to the sofa's cushions like she's punching them, all from the feeling of Dean's coarse fingers teasing at her breasts' undersides, their nipples; the way that Jamie's body, where Deanna can see it, is mostly thin, right down to having the skinniest face Deanna's ever seen on anyone, but she's not toned, not in the least, and the way that, when Deanna slithers her fingers down Cas's chest and middle, she finds a bit of pudge sitting on Cas's waistline.

Not a lot of pudge, granted — with Cas clothed, Deanna's never noticed it; if they weren't on their way to fucking, maybe she never would've. But now that she's got Cas's shirt off, she can see it… a subtle, but discernible, curve outward, a bit of paunch or muffin-top or whatever Sam says the term is just sitting there and poking over her belt, and a bit of padding on the hips that makes them rounder, makes Deanna want to get her hands on them all the more… Enough loose flab for Deanna to get a handful of it, which, in turn, gets Cas to squeak and blush bright red… Deanna snickers. Gives Cas a nuzzle and playful smirk. Face still rosy, and burning up underneath Deanna's fingers, Cas mutters some explanation about weight gained during Jamie's pregnancy with Claire and then again when Cas had first started talking to her vessel and Amos insisted that Jamie take antipsychotic medications, and she's seen the bodies that the women in Deanna's skin-mags have, she knows hers must be thoroughly disappointing, all things considered…

Deanna chuckles into Cas's mouth, nudging her up into a gentle kiss so she'll shut up, fondling her little tummy. "Cas…" she whispers, stroking her hand up and down the curve of Cas's belly, caressing her sides and some rolls above her hips that Deanna thinks might be baby-love handles. "Cas, you're beautiful, okay? Even if you're not some stick figure with impossibly huge tits…" She kisses Cas again, teases her fingers at the lower curve of Cas's stomach, tries to think how much Cas might weigh, if she's probably standing five-nine, maybe five-ten. Less than Deanna does, given she's six feet even and takes super care of maintaining her musculature — she has to, what with her appetite and a Sasquatch little brother whose ass is in constant need of kicking.

She'd guess that she has maybe fifteen pounds on Cas — a tinier waist, sure, but that's just because it cuts right to Deanna's hips, because she's obsessed over her abs and keeping them so cut, so defined, since she was fifteen, sixteen, and because she has a boyish build, overall. Deanna presses her fingertips into Cas's stomach and can't feel that much muscle underneath the paunch — she doesn't entirely lose her fingers, but they definitely sink in past the first knuckle, and as she growls into Cas's mouth, grinds down onto Cas's lap and bucks her hips, exacts a rough, demanding kiss, Deanna feels a shiver of jealousy course up her back… She kneads both hands into Cas's plush sides, envying that she can have this pretty, sort of out-of-shape vessel and still be so strong herself… Fucking angels. Seriously.

Cas squirms a bit underneath Deanna, whines, slips her hands under the hem of Deanna's shirt, but only to dig her nails into Deanna's sides. And, as crap as Deanna is with signals and with honesty, she can guess that the angel's getting so fussy due to the attention being paid to her midsection — so she gives Cas a brief kiss, a gentler one, and moves her hands elsewhere. She cups Cas's tits and rubs them thoroughly, clenches her fingers against Cas's flesh, teases her thumbs over Cas's nipples… She keeps her hands there as she leans down to Cas's neck, kisses her over the jugular vein, the Adam's apple… Wherever Deanna puts her lips, she follows them with attention, teeth, tongue… She works these spots on Cas's neck over until she's wearing a choker of hickeys.

Groping at Cas's little baby-and-psych-meds gut again, sighing contentedly, Deanna mutters, whispers against a spot she's just been kissing, "Y'know what, no… Especially if you're not some stick figure with impossibly huge tits. I like you best when you're just like this… You're gorgeous, you know that? I wouldn't change a thing about you, Cas. I wouldn't."

She reaches up to twist her fingers up in Cas's hair again, but soon finds her t-shirt ripped off, herself shoved down to the floor, down to her knees. Deanna smirks up at her angel again, mutters that okay, Tiger, she's got the message — "Your vessel's a little chubby, but you've still got that killer angel strength and I should show it some respect, I'm guessing…" Her lips curl up further as she undoes Cas's belt, snaps it off, and goes about getting the trousers' button and zipper out of the way. "Arch your back a bit," she tells Cas. "Just get your hips off the sofa a little."

Cas does so, and Deanna yanks her trousers, her panties, down. Once she gets the things to Cas's knees, she's bored of them and gravity handles the rest of the work anyway. Like her arms and face, Cas's legs are skinny, almost unbelievably so given that she's been hiding some chub that, before she took over Jamie's body, was probably on its way to becoming a spare tire. As Deanna strokes her hands up and down Cas's thighs, she can feel the bones in them… Very little muscle, just like everywhere else on her, not that it really matters… Cas whines again and Dean tries to shush her up, whispering, It's okay, Cas, I promise… It'll all be okay and this is gonna be fun… I'll make it more than that, too… I promise… Just relax, okay? Relax…

Cas nods and, when Deanna tries to nudge her hips forward, Cas obliges… Deanna shifts off her knees and onto the balls of her feet instead. She leans forward, muttering to Cas the whole time, glancing up as she brushes her fingers over Cas's vulva and her nest of pubic hair, waiting for Cas's nod and eager little mewling noise — Once she's got that consent, Deanna starts with her fingers, slides them into Cas's pussy, grates her nails over the tender skin of Cas's lips and her callused fingertips along Cas's walls. She listens close to Cas's noises — the gasps, the sighs, the whines — and promises again that she'll take good care of Cas, that she'll make sure Cas enjoys this.

She finds Cas already slick and warm, prepared for her despite all of the flustering and hoo-ha she raised about getting them here, about where Deanna chose to grope… but she's tight around Deanna's fingers. Maybe she used her angel mojo, undid any loosening up that had happened with her cunt, took all of Jamie's mileage away — and Deanna wonders if she did that while they were making out, just as a present for Deanna, remembering how Cas didn't protest when she told her that Jamie's previous experience, Jamie's motherhood, meant she wouldn't hurt too much.

As she slides her fingers in and out, works her angel over and tries to get her used to the feeling of having something inside of her, prying her open, Deanna keeps her eyes fixed on Cas's face, not between Cas's legs… There's no eye-contact, not least because Cas has her eyes clenched closed; but at least the shape of her mouth and the contortions of her lips spell out contentment. Then, there are the noises she makes as Deanna teases at her clit, bats at it, squeezes it, tries to get it as hard as possibly — those noises that stumble out of Cas's mouth can't decide if they want to be gasps or moans, but they make Deanna's heart flutter anyway — she's the one making Cas's cheeks flush that frantic, bloody shade of red. Her fingers are the ones getting Cas to groan and beg her, oh, God, Deanna… please… please, Dean, please

In a flash, Deanna has her hand out of Cas's pussy — she balances on Cas's thighs for just a moment, slides her hands down Cas's hips, just to cop a feel — she leans back down and, egged on by Cas's pleas, the warbling quality of her voice, Dean slips her tongue into Cas, licks along her lips and walls and clit. She finds a good rhythm for them — stumbles in it when Cas's hand falls to her shoulder, brushes over the handprint, and once again, Deanna feels something warm and yearning stir inside her chest… Something that only wants one thing: Cas. Cas. Cas.

Sliding her fingers in again, she catches Cas's clit in her teeth — it's swollen, and Cas groans as Deanna works it over — she moans as Deanna works her fingers deeper, harders; as she breaks her movements of teeth on clit to lap at Cas's lips and walls again, taste her, taste all of her, feel her muscles spasm, tighten, release around two fingers and Deanna's tongue — and there's something odd about it, too…

Because Cas tightens her grip on the handprint and, out of nowhere, Deanna's body floods with warmth, with lust and oh fuck Cas I want you God fuck Cas — frenetic energy courses through her fingers. They writhe and arch in ways Deanna's never moved them; her tongue's a similar story… it seems to extend further into Cas than she's gotten it into anyone else before and, no matter how deep she goes into her angel, no matter how much Cas groans or how trembling takes over her whole body, makes her knees quiver around Deanna's shoulders, there's something missing. Some lack of satisfaction.

Because whatever piece of Cas keeps getting into Deanna through her angel's fingertips… whatever it is, it keeps trying to escape. Doesn't even seem to consider hanging around — not until Deanna pulls her mouth back, slides her fingers deeper, once more catches Cas's clitoris in her teeth and worries at it, tongues at it, scrapes her teeth up and down, all over it, feeling the same throbbing in her chest and pussy that Cas is feeling, the same rush and the same quivering, the same writhing in her stomach… Any barriers between them fall apart as this scalding thing blazes through their bodies, crackles in the air, blurs the line between Cas's Grace and Deanna's soul…

And with Deanna's teeth grinding on Cas's clit — with Cas dragging her nails down the handprint like she wants to pry it off Deanna's shoulders — they reach their climax, cum together… roll their shoulders in the same way, arch their necks back at the same angles, moan the same moan, feel the same onslaught of pure white heat… And in the back of her mind, Deanna hears Cas whispering, I won't leave you tomorrow, Deanna. Whatever happens, I won't die, neither of us will. I promise…