Rock Salt And Feathers ~ Holy Multiverse, Batman

Just A Little While By Feldspar2
Home ~ Holy Multiverse, Batman
Rating: NC-17 Disclaimer: SPN is Eric Kripke's. Dollhouse is Joss Whedon's. I recycled. Summary: Dean clenched his jaw, concentrating on the view. His baby, parked under a willow tree beside the locked gates, was the only spot of real in all this perfection. Warning: Possible hints of RPF (open to interpretation), crossover with Dollhouse, Doll!Castiel
Sunlight bounced off the silver tea set, making the silverware glitter as they clicked against a china plate, and the sweet, sticky scent of orange marmalade battled the perfume of furled roses spilling from a pair of massive urns at each end of the stone patio. Dean clenched his jaw, concentrating on the view. Cut grass, sleek as a carpet, swept down to an ornamental pool flanked on both sides by tall, manicured trees. His baby, parked under a willow tree beside the locked gates, was the only spot of real in all this perfection. He turned to see Hiram Carter wiping his lips with a cloth napkin. It was half past ten and he was wearing a monogrammed robe over purple silk pjs; he must have thought he looked Hugh Hefner-y, but to Dean he looked stupid. "Dean?" "Yeah," he replied, looking up at the incredible wedding-cake of a house. Until last night it had been loudly haunted by the original owner, a silent-film star whose portrait hung over a fireplace inside: she was a tiny thing, all tumbling blonde curls and pearls, wearing a filmy green dress. Too bad this guy, some minor-league Internet king, didn't care about or appreciate the history of the mansion he'd bought with his new money. Carter scraped his chair back and stood, digging into his robe pocket, and brought out a neat wad of cash, its paper sash intact, and held it out with a beaming, boyish smile. "It's all there. You can count it if you like." Dean just tucked the money away; the whole business had left a bad taste in his mouth. "Thanks," he said, and turned to go. "Wait, there's more. My partner left me over this. He thought I was lying about the voices, the noises, the stuff moving around, like I'd made up some crazy story so I could bail on him, but we've made up now and he's moving back in, so..." He gave Dean a sly once-over. "Have you heard of the Dollhouse?" "You're kidding. That's just some freaky urban legend." "Oh, no, my man, it's not." Carter grinned. "I got one." "A Doll?" "Yep. He's in the summerhouse 'til the end of the week. I call him Castiel, Cas for short. I Yahooed it. It's the name of an angel. I was lonely, okay?" He shrugged his bony shoulders. "Look, Dean, I think you're a pretty cool guy, so if you've ever been, y'know, curious..." He dragged out the word as if it were chocolate on his tongue. "...this is your chance to satisfy your curiosity." He actually snickered, and Dean's empty stomach turned. "He's healthy; I've got hard-copy proof if you need to see it." Dean's head churned in a tango with his gut. He'd actually collected a fee, and finished a gig early; Dad expected him in Utah. But right now he didn't have anywhere else to be, or anyone to be with. And Sammy had left him to hit the books at Stanford U(and no, he was not going to drive up and check on him). Clueless, Carter chuckled. "Hey, man, I didn't mean anything. You two could just play poker, fold washcloths into roses, who cares? Do what you want, he'll never tell. Next week he could see you on the street and not know you." He turned at the sound of a car coming up the gravelled drive at the front of the house, then scooped up a folded piece of paper from the table. "The summerhouse's fully stocked. There's a phone, but it's only wired to the house. Call the servants if you need anything, and please don't break the merchandise, okay? It's on my dime." The paper was a crude map, but it was clear enough for Dean to play angel/devil in his head as he walked deeper and deeper into the woods surrounding the estate. He'd heard all kinds of rumors about the Dollhouse. It was secret. It was somewhere here in Los Angeles, somewhere underground. The Dolls were people, programmed to do anything. They killed. They fucked. They were volunteers. They weren't people. They were robots. Zombie slaves. And they were available to anyone rich or powerful enough to afford them. What did Dolls look like? Act like? Smell like? He turned a curve in the path, and there was the summerhouse. He stopped and stared at it. It was a perfect copy of the mansion, just downsized. Its front doors opened and a man stepped out. He had dark hair, wore gray sweatpants and a green t-shirt, and was barefoot. He seemed small in size and shape, but that had to be the clothes. His smile was gentle, and as Dean got close he saw that the man's eyes were a deep, startling blue, almost the color of a new pair of jeans. "Hello," he said, and his voice was rough silk. "I'm Castiel. You must be Dean. Hiram told me you were coming." He came forward, reaching for Dean's duffel. "Can I take that for you?" Dean sidestepped. "No!" he yelped, and he felt his face heat. "Thanks," he tacked on, and entered the house. The furnishings were simpler, but just as sumptuous as in the mansion, and arrangements of ferns and wildflowers in vases gave the room a fresh, homey atmosphere. "There's four bedrooms here." Dean spun round. Shit, can Dolls read minds? Castiel was leaning against the door, his arms loosely folded, his mouth curved. He pointed toward a hallway. "Down that way. I'm on the end, so pick any other one you like." He sounded amused. Dean's back prickled. Was this manwhore laughing at him? "Thanks," he ground out, and marched down the hall and into the first bedroom he found. The bed and curtains were pale green, with a print of white pussy willows; slightly girly, but nice. He dropped his duffle and went to inspect the suite's bathroom. It had plenty of thick green towels, a fresh terrycloth robe, and enough soaps, shampoos and lotions to stock a drugstore. Small clicks came from the living room. Sighing, he hung his jacket in the closet and went to investigate. Castiel was setting the table. "Hiram just called," the Doll said as he worked. "He said you hadn't had breakfast, and to be sure to feed you. Are you hungry?" "No," Dean said. His stomach growled. Castiel looked at him, lifting an elegant brow. "Sure about that?" Crap. Dean shrugged. "Serve it up." It was a weird lunch, but a good one. Steak, baked potatoes, crisp string beans and ice-cold beer. Castiel served, and Dean couldn't get over how, well, graceful he was, for a guy. Good training. No wasted moves. He kept watching Castiel on the sneak, not really sure what he was looking for. Seams? Screws? A freaking key sticking out of his back? Castiel looked human. He acted human. "Christo," he muttered. "What?" "Nothing." Castiel took a healthy swallow of beer, then put down the bottle. "Dean...I don't know what Hiram told you." Those blue eyes were lagoons in the soft light of the crystal lamps. "I like sex. I like men. I like having sex with men. But nothing will happen here that you don't want to happen." Well, that was good to know, since he wasn't into guys. "Great," he croaked, coughing up a crumb. "You play poker?" Dean woke next morning to the marvelous aromas of eggs, bacon, and coffee. He washed, went commando under his jeans and padded shirtless into the kitchen. No more acting like some nervous chick around Castiel; he was twenty-fucking-six, and it was time he stood his ground with the Doll, especially since he'd won a whole box of matchsticks last night. "Hey," he grunted as he shuffled over to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. He got his own breakfast, too; it made him feel kind of Hiram-like to have Castiel waiting on him. "What would you like to do today?" the Doll asked. "Thrill me, dude." Shrugging, Dean drank more coffee. Castiel nodded, and went on whisking more eggs in a pan. He wore another pair of gray sweats and a blue tee, and his hair looked like it needed fingers or a comb. Dean let his eyes wander down to his feet. For somebody who didn't wear shoes, Dean would bet money that the soles of Castiel's feet were almost as soft as a girl's. "You've been watching me. That's all right. I've been watching you, too." He shut off the burner and slid the eggs--which were perfect, not too dry or runny--onto a plate. "Dean, you're a good-looking man, but I'm sure you've been told that a lot." He stacked buttered toast in a silver rack and placed it on the tray beside the eggs. "What I've learned about you is...I think that one way to your heart is through your stomach." He brought the tray to the table. "Maybe you'll tell me the others." Dean's jaw sagged. He had no answer to that, and he only shut his mouth when Castiel carefully forked some fresh eggs into it. After breakfast they spent the day exploring the nearby grounds, and Dean started to relax with Cas. The Doll was human, after all, and good company. They discovered a nearby lake, bright and clear as a polished mirror, and Dean missed a few strokes and swallowed water at the sight of Cas in black swim trunks. He'd jumped in buck naked, to see if he could freak the Doll out, but the covered curve of Cas's ass and the bulge of his dick was damn sexy, and Dean needed a second dunking to cool off his boner. Almost a third, at the sight of Cas's wet skin and sleek hair. The grass was so soft and thick that they didn't need a blanket to sit on, but Cas had casually tossed Dean a towel while he'd stood waist-deep in water, soothing his cock. He'd wrapped up and dripped his way out of the lake to where Cas lay curled in dappled shadows, taking a catnap. His blue eyes slitted as he patted the ground next to him, and Dean lay down beside him, close enough to reach out and touch the Doll. If he wanted to. Did he? He'd never done a guy. Never had one do him. He'd had offers, but sucking off some toothless trucker didn't turn his crank. But when Dad was off hunting and the girls weren't hot and all he had was his own right hand...the idea of a man's mouth or paw didn't make him puke. But that was it. No backdoor action, no way. He turned his head on the grass and studied Cas' face. His eyes were closed. He lay on his side, turned toward Dean, as if Dean were the sun and Castiel needed him to dry off. Dean felt his pulse kick a little. He swallowed, and moved a bit closer. Now he knew what a Doll smelled like. Skin and water and a lingering whisper of soap. Wet drops were scattered in Castiel's hair like beads, and when he exhaled his breath (not sweet, not horrible) washed over Dean's face. He looked down at Cas's hand, close to his, the fingers relaxed in sleep, and reached for it with his forefinger. Just one finger, and ran it down the back of Castiel's hand. He traced the knuckles, the nails, then turned the hand over and stroked the palm. No calluses, just a good, strong hand. He fitted his own palm to it, tingling as flesh met flesh and rubbed together. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Castiel's fingers folded over and trapped his. "Dean." Ice zipped down his spine as he tried to pull free, and couldn't. He pushed up on his elbow, staring into Castiel's eyes, which were open and very awake. The Doll relaxed his grip without letting go. "Yes," he said. "Yes, what?" Dean rasped. His head was screaming letgoletgoletgo; he was in the woods with a Doll, a man who could be programmed to kill--and then his hand was free. His back slapped against the tree trunk, the towel riding up to his waist as he fumbled for a missing weapon, staring at Castiel as he came up on his knees, both hands spread, visible, harmless. "Dean," he said. Was he pleading? Had he put something in the food, the beer? Dean slumped against the tree, his heartbeat slowing. "You're afraid of me," Cas whispered. "Why?" He didn't know what he was? Like "Blade Runner"? And this had to be the porn outtakes, because he did nothing but watch as Castiel straddled him, their wet thighs brushing together, close enough for Dean to look deep into those Christ-I-hope-they're-real blue eyes. "Anything," Cas said, reaching up to cup his face. "Yes, Dean. To all of it." He leaned in, but Dean held back, pushing his head against the tree trunk until the bark scraped his skull. "I d-don't," he stuttered, "I'm not--" "I know," Cas replied softly. "And I'm honored, very honored, to be your first." At that he closed the gap, brushing his mouth against Dean's. It was a glancing blow, a hummingbird's wing, sizzling, shivering, fanning sparks deep in his gut. Cas bent closer, scattering more kisses over his face and forehead and down his nose. "Open," he murmured against his lips, "just a little. For me..." The serious kissing started in the green bedroom, with the covers down and Dean splayed across the sheets, watching as Castiel undid the knot in his towel, pulled it loose and tossed it aside, then hooked his fingers in his own trunks. "God," Dean whispered. His spit dried up and his heart hammered and his nails dug into the sheets as Cas peeled out of his wet trunks and climbed onto the bed, his cock curved and flushed and bobbing as if it were looking for his. He pretty much fell apart after that, since there wasn't a single spot on him that Castiel didn't want to touch or kiss; he turned into a Doll, his legs and arms all hot and limp, letting Cas move them any way he wanted, and then he flopped over onto his belly, groaning into the pillows as Cas sucked his way down his spine. He fisted the sheets, heard them rip and didn't give a damn, just pushed back toward that mouth that went lower and lower...he pulled his knees under him and pushed his butt up, gooseflesh spreading in the cool air. Cas moaned and licked him there, right at the crack, and Dean gasped, giving in. "Yeah..." "What?" "Do me, fuck me--" Dean squirmed, pushing against the body curved over him; where the hell was Cas's dick? "No...no..." Wet, frantic mouth kissing his ears, his shoulders, the back of his neck. "No?!" Dean found him, hard and hot and slick and almost, almost--"y-you said 'anything,' Cas--" Damn, did he want him to go out of his mind? "Not yet--later--" Cas was trying to multitask, grabbing for Dean's cock while keeping his own away from Dean. But there wouldn't be a later. Or next week. Dean slapped Cas away and flopped onto his back. Unused pillows flew everywhere and springs squeaked as he spread his legs wide enough for Cas to see his tonsils. "Do it, or I swear I'll jam my fingers up there and make you watch--" Cas slid a pillow under his hips with a surgeon's precision, and seconds later his slick fingers went where no man had gone before. It shocked Dean how little it hurt, how empty he felt, how much he wanted it, needed it. Cas was over him now, his blue eyes almost black, pushing in slow, burning him, burning them up, together. Low moans and sharp cries rolled through the room and Dean couldn't tell if they were coming from him or Cas or both of them. Cas angled his body and suddenly slid deep inside him, shooting fireworks into his brain-- And that was just the first time. On the last day Cas woke him with a kiss and an expert blowjob, then pulled him into the shower, saying, "Hiram's invited us to the house for coffee and croissants." "So?" Dean drawled, and used up half a bottle of sandalwood soap gel before his Doll screamed for mercy. They were late. A black van was waiting outside, and a man in a plain dark suit was sipping a cup of tea. Dean would never forget Cas's blank, placid expression when the man greeted him. Dean took a step, but Hiram shook his head. Castiel left with the man and got into the van. He didn't look back. He opened his eyes as the chair gently tilted up to an upright position, and looked around. Everything looked the same, and he felt warm and safe and loved. His handler touched his shoulder. She smelled nice. "Hello, Misha," she said. "How do you feel?"
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