Chapter 3: The Altar of Flesh
The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle.It was an annexation.
God’s mouth claimed his, and Dean tasted ozone and pomegranates, the char of a dying sun, the sweet nectar of a first creation. It was a flavor that bypassed tastebuds and went straight to the primal brain, to the marrow. Dean’s hands came up, instinctively pushing against the immaculate black suit, but the strength there was absolute, a wall of willing reality. The push became a clutch, fabric twisting in his fists as his knees threatened to buckle.Behind him, heat. A solid, lean presence fitted itself against his back.Jesus. His breath was warm against the sweaty skin of Dean’s neck, a shocking contrast to the celestial cold front currently rearranging his mouth. Lips brushed his jugular, followed by the gentle scrape of teeth.“See?” Jesus murmured, the word vibrating into Dean’s spine. “How you fit?”
God broke the kiss, a thread of something silver and luminous stretching between their lips for a phantom second before dissolving.His golden eyes were storms. His hand, which had been cupping Dean’s face, slid down his chest, over the frantic hammer of his heart, down the taut plane of his stomach. It came to rest, heavy and deliberate, over the denim straining at his groin.Dean jolted.A full-body flinch that had nowhere to go. He was pinned between them.God squeezed, not hard, but with an impossible, knowing precision. A pulse of pure, undiluted sensation ripped through Dean, short-circuiting thought. He gasped, the sound ragged and too loud in the vaulted silence. His hips bucked forward, a traitorous, involuntary surrender.
“There it is,” God said, His voice a low vibration Dean felt in his teeth.“That stubborn, beautiful fire. All for us.”
From behind, Jesus’s hands slipped under Dean’s leather jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. It fell to the flagstones with a heavy, discarded thud. Then those clever fingers found his nipples through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, rolling, pinching just shy of pain. Sparks shot downwards, merging with the heat building under God’s palm. Dean’s head dropped back against Jesus’s shoulder, a choked groan escaping him.“I… This is…” Words failed.Protocol didn’t exist.
“It is,” Jesus answered simply, biting the shell of his ear.
In one smooth, terrifying motion, God’s arm hooked behind Dean’s knees. He was lifted, weightless, the world tilting.The cracked, mossy altar stone came up to meet his back. The cold of it seared through his shirt, a shocking counterpoint to the fever in his skin. He was laid out like an offering, which, he supposed numbly, he was.
God loomed over him, one knee pressing between his legs, spreading them. The golden eyes held him more firmly than any physical restraint.“Watch,” He commanded, and Dean couldn’t look away.
Jesus appeared at the side of the altar.His dark hair fell across his face as he leaned over Dean’s body. His hands, those carpenter’s hands that had once shaped wood and now shaped worlds, went to the buckle of Dean’s belt.The metallic rasp was obscenely loud. The button of his jeans popped.The zipper parted.Dean squeezed his eyes shut.Too much. This was too much.A touch on his forehead.He opened his eyes. God was staring down, a strange, almost tender frustration on His face.“No.You don’t hide from this. You feel all of it.” He placed His palms on either side of Dean’s head, not holding him down, but caging him in. “Every second.”
Jesus peeled denim and cotton down, exposing him fully to the cool, sacred air. The fractured moonlight played across his skin, blue and silver and deep violet from the stained glass.Then Jesus bent his head.
The first touch of that mouth—worshipful, hungry, utterly human and profoundly divine—unmade him. Dean cried out, a raw, broken sound. His back arched off the cold stone, but God was there, leaning over, pressing him down.Not with force, but with the sheer, unbearable mass of presence.
“He’s waited so long to know you like this,” God whispered, His lips brushing Dean’s temple. His own desire was a palpable thing, a pressure in the air like the moment before a lightning strike.Yet He held Himself back, watching, allowing His son this first taste.
Dean’s hands flew up, grappling for purchase, finding God’s shoulders. The fabric of the suit was unnervingly real. He dug his fingers in, anchoring himself against the tidal pull of sensation building from Jesus’s mouth.His thighs trembled. Sounds fell from his lips—half-formed curses, prayers, desperate pleas he didn’t understand.
God caught one of his wrists, then the other. Gently, firmly, He drew them up above Dean’s head, pinning them to the altar stone with one of His own hands.The position stretched him open, vulnerable, completely offered.
“Mine,” God breathed the word into the hollow of his throat. “Ours.”
Jesus moaned against him, the vibration shooting up his spine, and Dean shattered. A white, silent detonation behind his eyes, cosmic and utterly personal. His body bowed, held in place by God’s grip and Jesus’s mouth, shaking through waves of release so intense they bordered on violence.
When it ebbed, he was a void.Spent, hollowed out, weeping silently. The cold of the stone seeped back into his awareness.
Jesus lifted his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and satisfied.God released Dean’s wrists. His hand, large and warm, smoothed the tears from Dean’s cheeks.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of Dean’s ragged breathing echoing in the ruined vault. The world outside—the rustle of trees, the distant hum of the highway—seemed to seep back in, faint and irrelevant.Dean stared up at the broken roof, at the stars winking through the gaps. The hollow ache was gone, but so was the familiar armor of his loneliness.He felt skinned alive. Owned.
God straightened, adjusting the cuff of His suit jacket with a casualness that was surreal.He looked down at Dean, a playful, predatory light in His golden eyes.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” He said, His voice back to that rumble of amused thunder. “We’ve only just started.” He glanced at Jesus, a silent communication passing between them that Dean couldn’t hope to decipher. “Bring him home.”
Jesus nodded, reaching down to gather Dean’s limp form from the altar. He was effortlessly lifted, cradled like something precious and fought-for.Dean didn’t have the strength to protest, to walk. He let his head loll against Jesus’s shoulder, smelling rain and sun-warmed wood.
As Jesus carried him towards the shattered doorway, Dean looked back over his shoulder. God stood by the altar, a silhouette against the kaleidoscope moonlight, watching them go. He raised a hand in a slow, unmistakable gesture of blessing, of claiming, of promise.
Then the shadows of the archway swallowed them, and Dean Winchester, hunter of the supernatural, borne in the arms of salvation, understood one clear, chilling, exhilarating truth.There was no case to close.No monster to gank.
This was his life now.