MMOM #1: Glory be to god for dappled things (Dean/Castiel)
Title: Glory be to god for dappled things
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Dean/Castiel; pre-4.20
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Rating: R
Notes: Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation 31-Day Fic-a-thon, for which this is fic #1. Castiel deserves a break tonight after 4.20, so I’m posting a Cas fic first. Dean-centric wing!porn comes tomorrow!
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
-- Gerard Manley Hopkins, “Pied Beauty”
Castiel’s wings are white, pale, like his skin. Like a marble statue.
Cas sits in the forest among giant redwoods and butterflies. He lets the sun fall on his naked body, lets the sun make his body grow and flex.
It is warmth and comfort. If he knew what it meant, he would watch the birds with wings, watch the clouds and insects, and think freedom.
The sunlight plays in his eyes. He can’t stare at the sun. He misses that.
Still, he praises.
He feels the wind through his wings, through his soul. He praises.
His body rises up to meet the sun he knows is there, even though he cannot look at it. He praises.
He looks at the bumpy toads, the light sparrows, the spotted butterflies. Everything is green and brown and golden.
He thinks of Dean when he is praising. When all around him is green and brown and golden, and he feels a communion with the sunlight, his light and this body, rising up to praise.
Such beautiful colors.
If Dean could rise to his full glory, he would have wings. Dean with dappled, freckled, wings. Soft white, wide and strong and shining. Like Dean. Beige and brown flecks, like the golden flecks in his eyes. His eyes warm olive green, even in the night. All of him shining and heart.
Such beautiful colors. So worthy of praise.
Oh if he could, if he could feel this, any of this, really…
He knows how to rise up. He knows how to shiver. He knows new beginnings and bright ideas.
He does not know endings. He does not know sensory rapture. He only knows sustenance. He knows eternity.
Now, his eternity will be with Dean. No matter what.
He knows how to praise.
But Dean is deaf to it. He can’t believe it; he can’t even hear it. Worst of all, he doesn’t want it.
Cas is allowed to praise and allowed to punish. He understands, when he cannot do the one to Dean, he wants to do the other. He understands his Father’s way.
Please Father, show me how to make Dean understand.
What Castiel cannot tell, not anymore, is whether he likes his Father’s way. Or whether he likes Dean’s way. He does not understand like. He only understands fire, and the cold.
A breeze rolls through and he shivers. The sun is still beating down, but he feels it pulling back the warmth. Castiel’s vessel responds with a stretch and a tightening of skin. Hairs stand up on his arms. It begins to rain.
Cas grows cold, his body forgotten. The tightening and sensitivity dissipates. His wings get soaked; his hair is spiky. Water drops fall from the ends of the spikes of his hair and eyelashes.
The birds are gone now; the sunlight.
He sits on the soft moss, not really feeling it, and lets his wing feathers get thin and scraggly. A bluish tint forms against the bone, so light in the rain.
The sparrows are gone. At his feet, an earthworm crawls over his toes, squirming, covered in dirt.
He sits in the rain and wonders what the feeling is called, this one he is feeling. He senses it as a blankness, but not a blankness he is used to. A bad kind. He is not at ease.
He disappears, his wings throwing water that falls on empty space.
The End
... though there is a sequel
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Dean/Castiel; pre-4.20
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Rating: R
Notes: Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation 31-Day Fic-a-thon, for which this is fic #1. Castiel deserves a break tonight after 4.20, so I’m posting a Cas fic first. Dean-centric wing!porn comes tomorrow!
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
-- Gerard Manley Hopkins, “Pied Beauty”
Castiel’s wings are white, pale, like his skin. Like a marble statue.
Cas sits in the forest among giant redwoods and butterflies. He lets the sun fall on his naked body, lets the sun make his body grow and flex.
It is warmth and comfort. If he knew what it meant, he would watch the birds with wings, watch the clouds and insects, and think freedom.
The sunlight plays in his eyes. He can’t stare at the sun. He misses that.
Still, he praises.
He feels the wind through his wings, through his soul. He praises.
His body rises up to meet the sun he knows is there, even though he cannot look at it. He praises.
He looks at the bumpy toads, the light sparrows, the spotted butterflies. Everything is green and brown and golden.
He thinks of Dean when he is praising. When all around him is green and brown and golden, and he feels a communion with the sunlight, his light and this body, rising up to praise.
Such beautiful colors.
If Dean could rise to his full glory, he would have wings. Dean with dappled, freckled, wings. Soft white, wide and strong and shining. Like Dean. Beige and brown flecks, like the golden flecks in his eyes. His eyes warm olive green, even in the night. All of him shining and heart.
Such beautiful colors. So worthy of praise.
Oh if he could, if he could feel this, any of this, really…
He knows how to rise up. He knows how to shiver. He knows new beginnings and bright ideas.
He does not know endings. He does not know sensory rapture. He only knows sustenance. He knows eternity.
Now, his eternity will be with Dean. No matter what.
He knows how to praise.
But Dean is deaf to it. He can’t believe it; he can’t even hear it. Worst of all, he doesn’t want it.
Cas is allowed to praise and allowed to punish. He understands, when he cannot do the one to Dean, he wants to do the other. He understands his Father’s way.
Please Father, show me how to make Dean understand.
What Castiel cannot tell, not anymore, is whether he likes his Father’s way. Or whether he likes Dean’s way. He does not understand like. He only understands fire, and the cold.
A breeze rolls through and he shivers. The sun is still beating down, but he feels it pulling back the warmth. Castiel’s vessel responds with a stretch and a tightening of skin. Hairs stand up on his arms. It begins to rain.
Cas grows cold, his body forgotten. The tightening and sensitivity dissipates. His wings get soaked; his hair is spiky. Water drops fall from the ends of the spikes of his hair and eyelashes.
The birds are gone now; the sunlight.
He sits on the soft moss, not really feeling it, and lets his wing feathers get thin and scraggly. A bluish tint forms against the bone, so light in the rain.
The sparrows are gone. At his feet, an earthworm crawls over his toes, squirming, covered in dirt.
He sits in the rain and wonders what the feeling is called, this one he is feeling. He senses it as a blankness, but not a blankness he is used to. A bad kind. He is not at ease.
He disappears, his wings throwing water that falls on empty space.
The End
... though there is a sequel