fic: As Soon as the Storm is Over (Dean/Castiel)
Fic: As Soon as the Storm is Over
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Fic. No sue me.
Warnings: Castiel POV, angel sex, Wincest forever
Word Count: 2,800
Spoilers: post-5.03, set in S5
Summary: Angels are masters of seduction, whether they know it or not.
*
Angels are not real. Demons are not real. Dean is real.
That is what Dean believes. And yet he lies, even to himself.
We have been hiding in this abandoned motel. Abandoned among many. It is Apocalypse. Dean is soaked to the skin, possibly injured - things come from him to me in flashes now - and tired. As am I, I suppose. I can’t tell the difference all the time - what is him and what is me and what is the both of us.
He asks me: “What good is an angel who can’t save me anymore?”
I am independent. I could bend the reality of the world, but all I would ever ask for is Dean’s help, which he only gives if I ask.
I can’t help it. I run to the only one who would save me. The one I need. The only one left.
- What can they do to us? If you are sent to Hell, I will pull you out again. If you are sent to Heaven, I will come to you. -
He knows this about me. He knows without even asking.
*
His dreams can’t teach me how to dream. They are too difficult.
- Sam dragged away. A black hole for him to drop through. If Dean cannot kill Lucifer, if… Michael will come. Raphael. Gabriel. Black hole. White rabbit.-
“What is the white rabbit?”
Dean’s eyes are glassy. “What the hell are you talking about this time, Chuckles?”
- Sam used to drag him like a comet across the sky. The sound of his heart’s sinking. -
Like me, like me. Although - “What would make me real, to you, Dean? You’re trying to make me lesser. Closer to yourself.”
His head tilts towards the ceiling when he gets frustrated. “I’m trying to make you real.”
Until Dean, I had only wanted in all the world to be who I was. When he lies to me, I disappear, because the truth is deafening.
“But you’re not real, Dean. You lie. All the time. Even trivial things.”
“I’m real, because I’m a human being.” - Sam asleep next to Dean. First, he’s too small for the bed. Then, his hands, his feet, dangling off the ends of limbs, the ends of the bed. - “Not some skeevy demon. Or some angel.”
“Angels are worse to you than… skeevy demons?”
“Yes.”
- I only see it when I look down. Jimmy is screaming at me. A knife in my chest. -
He remembers the strangest things about me most. “Why?”
“Because you’re hypocrites. Angels are supposed to be… different.”
“You keep saying that. We are what we have always been.”
The storm continues like a tantrum.
I am light. They are lightning. They threaten. Storms. Orphans. They are tired of being what they are.
We all are. Just a little. Just enough.
*
Meal times are difficult. I pick food from Dean’s memory; Dean tells me I remember it wrong. I tell him that is impossible. He think it’s because I don’t need food, so I can never understand it; I’m purposefully making the coffee bad.
“Real people do things. You can’t laugh or cry or come or eat or take a crap. Raphael cried. I’ve seen you get angry. Which means you just won’t do any of the rest.”
Dean doesn’t respect any of the rest. I can’t tell him that things like context matter. I want to disappear, but the lightning won’t let me. Not right now.
The archangels are right at least. There is no real privilege except for those who can make it up. Determined animals with good intentions cannot, however beautiful they might be. Things are not right.
I should not try to be human. “There would be no point.”
Dean closes his eyes. - I am blown up like a balloon. Popped. Stabbed in the face with a thin fragile blade with precision. -
I want to talk with him this way, closed-eyed and silent. He still won’t allow it.
I have keen understanding of humiliation and shame. Dean enjoys seeing every shade of it. I know this is what it takes:
I’ve been all this time before he came a tenant, working to earn my home. Nothing more. No. Worse than that.
I want to know what he thinks. “Would you like me to eat something? Then, afterwards…”
“No.” He snarls it. Like those dogs he runs away from.
Dean eats a mound of melted sugar in silence. He offers me half, but I won’t have it.
He chews, and thinks of me. He is embarrassed, but I don’t know why.
Then, he drinks, because I can do that right, and tired of me, imagines he’s alone in this room, but not quite.
*
He’s not sleeping either.
“Are you going to mope in the corner all night?”
“I’m going to sit here quietly until the storm passes.”
“Suit yourself.”
I invade what he calls his personal space, taking up the empty place next to him on the floor. He has nothing, not even a blanket.
His hands explore with the curiosity of a child, but sure and aware. He undoes buttons, zippers, ties, and does them up again when he’s finished. We practice through the night, and I’m not sure what we are practicing for, if all of this will be over soon. His hands teach me social rituals of a doomed people, over and over again, and determined.
I think there is something important, because Dean’s angry. I think it is anger. Something in this room. This empty courage alone in the room with us, and Dean’s thoughts, and every part of me alone and unseen, even by god.
Afterwards, when Dean tells me to sleep - it’s creeping him out - I try.
*
I wake up to darkness, lightning like a bell, and flashes from Dean’s soul. Sam and blankets. Sulfur and blood. Ozone and honey. Honey?
I sit in the dark and watch the flashes of Dean’s dream pass. He dreams of Sam and only Sam. His brother. His love. The dark bringer of light. It is all there. I understand now. It is more real than I am.
I’ve made my own decisions, no matter what Dean says he wants. I know better. I cannot give up every manner of heavenly conduct. I cannot lose everything this way.
The pendulum swings, stuck to the earth. The storm will fade away and return. More important things are coming.
The night repeats itself a thousand ways.
*
“Would you like me to cry? I’ve come close before. Almost, when…”
Dean opens his eyes enough so I can see green slivers, and some of the light that is Dean and always there.
“You’re just about the sorriest angel I’ve ever seen. Where is all that courage you used to have, when you were threatening me with hell and bullshit?”
“That was a lie.”
“A lie?”
“A lie I thought was true.”
- Father, golden and lying. Strong as a gun. Whispering the truth like a poison prayer. Not saying anything. Then, the dark comes. - Sometimes I understand Dean’s flashes. I do.
“You guys have no sense of honesty whatsoever, do you?” He says it fast. “I think it’s all fake, and then…”
I understand. The world is a truer place without the angels, though we do not lie. We are like oil in water. Grease in skin. The moment Azazel set foot on the earth, all that was true about paradise had changed. We knew about the kings at the top and the backs of the angels beneath.
I don’t want to look at his eyes anymore. But he doesn’t stop talking.
“And then, you get angry. And it’s usually when I get angry. But it’s a strange kind of anger, Cas. It doesn’t fit you. Or, if it does, then I haven’t seen you yet.”
My righteous anger over you. Not for me. Never for me. “You have not seen me, Dean. You can never really see me, unless you become Michael’s sword. Even then, you will not know.”
The image in Dean’s mind’s eye shifts to his brother again. - Sam leaving a brochure for Stanford on his pillow and closing their motel room door. Dean breathlessly awake. -
This is the real Dean I see, all the time, behind his eyes. I can’t question it, it is everything - and yet it counts for nothing. Dean cannot see me. He can’t -
He’s walking for the door. “Where are you going?”
Lightning and thunder shake the earth. There is little mercy tonight.
Instead, there’s anger and the slightly sick taste of courage. If he leaves, they will take him. They cannot take him.
If I hold him against the wall like this, he will stay. But he will not like it. I don’t know how to name the expression on his face.
- The nasal sound of Alastair’s voice, buzzing deep in the brain, making you deaf over a thousand years. All Sam does and does not know about him, I see. -
“Aren’t you gonna even ask permission? Aren’t you supposed to be an angel?”
I don’t know what he means.
“That thing you’ve got shoved against me. You need consent.”
It is an exercise, to deal with things so small and yet so consequential as Dean’s body. It is all at once shameful and the most important thing in all the world. If we were two beings of light, the fate of all of this would not rest on our shoulders. Dean thinks flesh is all that is real. I wish to be rid of it. Light doesn’t ask permission because it never means to hurt. “I don’t have consent to give.”
Dean waits exactly ten seconds. “Would you let go of me. Please.”
I do. He wants me to ask him for his body, but he will say no if I do, so I will not ask. I feel the anger and the courage at once - just like he said - I cannot tell the difference - and I let go of him, and it all stops. Except for the lightning storm, in my head like a bell.
*
Sitting on the floor with our backs to the wall is the safest place. Also, sitting far away from Dean. Ten more seconds pass before he sighs. He doesn’t speak. He is upset about his lack of bodily integrity. The entire fate of the world resting on Dean’s overdeveloped sense of bodily integrity.
So I do. “Angels don’t have consent. You are able to give it. Demons just take.”
“As a rule?”
“As a concept. Archangels live by the word…”
“And the word is whatever they say?”
“… and the word is…” I don’t have an answer for him. “Yes.”
“Ok. So this is a fucked up state of things.”
I agree. At least, I’m pretty certain.
- Voice too loud to hear and body too hard to feel and wings too awesome to see. Black hole. White rabbit. Yellow-eyed brother. -
“I was trying to keep you inside during the storm.”
“We’ve talked about personal space before, Cas. You can’t just hold me down and use your strength against me.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
Dean nods his head, at what I’m not sure.
He’s thinking of me now, but it does not comfort him - the dreams we used to dream together after I saved him from hell. Sometimes talking in circles.
“Fuck, are you even hard? I can’t tell. Hey, do you wear briefs? Underwear. What kind of underwear do you have on?”
I look. “Yes, they are brief.”
Dean waits ten more seconds. “So you are like a statue?”
In no way am I like a statue. “I am not stone. This vessel is small. My form is dense.” -
I think, again, that I’ve done something wrong. “What do you want from me, Dean?”
“Whatever you can’t give me.”
“Just say it.”
“I want decent, real, human being contact, for once.”
I think I would give just about anything to give him that. I’m not sure what he even means. “It is too dangerous outside.”
“I know. I’m stuck with you. That’s my problem. I’ve been trapped with demons more fun than you. Actually, most demons are more fun than you.”
“I am fine.”
“All you do is mope around. It can feel good sometimes too, you know. There are good, you know, feelings.”
His eyes are wide, his words slow. I don’t know what it means.
“Ok, I have an answer for you. You ask me all the time about what I mean by “real” because you apparently don’t have a good grasp of it.”
I let him speak.
“Happiness isn’t real if you’re just doing what you’re told.”
“Why not?”
“It just isn’t. That’s, like, the rules of fun.”
“Rebellion isn’t for fun. This is not fun, Dean.” It’s not fun.
“Because you’re not doing it right. Nothing good is coming, Cas. You have to take some chances here. Get pleasure where you can.”
“Like what?”
“Does anything on this earth not make you nervous?”
“I don’t belong here.”
“I know, Cas.”
He gives up, but he doesn’t leave.
*
After the storm ends, the air will be crisp and clean, the earth renewed. It will smell like home. But Raphael is angry and it does not end.
“What are we doing here, Cas?” The voice is buzzing, yellow eyes leering, faceless nameless forces against him, with wings.
I know what he’s thinking: You destroyed my family. You can’t save my brother. I shouldn’t be here at all, and this has gone too far already. “I’ve told you. I pulled you from hell. I rebelled against heaven for you.”
“Don’t take your decisions out on me, Cas. You force me to make them. Because when the shit hits the fan, all you’ll ever say is no. No isn’t a position to take.”
“You don’t take no for an answer, Dean. Just ask Sam.”
He raises his hand to my face but it never hits.
“That’s not what I’m saying. You did right by him.”
“What do you know about right?”
“You love Sam.”
“But, I…” - One thousand ways of undressing Sam. He sees the shape of his ribs still, when he lifts his shirt. The scowl that doesn’t go away, no matter what, unless he takes him up on his knee, on his knees, grabbing the back of his knees, biting there, Sam. - “Look what happened.”
“The one, good, true thing in his life.”
“Is?” Dean knows I know. He always has. And waits.
“Yes.”
This time, the slap connects. He holds his hand, his fingers numb. I will wait for him.
“And now, I’m seducing an angel. Do you… Do you think it’s wrong, Cas?”
I do think. It’s a strange idea, that anyone would ever consider seducing an angel. Though I already know my answer. “No.”
“Will you say it this time? Just one word? Make it up if you have to.”
“Yes, Dean.”
He shows me. On the worn mattress, messy clothes, wet, on top of me. Flimsy cotton over skin, softness everywhere, hardness poking through in places.
I grab his ass, as Dean would say. His hands on me.
He is all over me, on top of me. Moving too fast, hand on me. Moves faster. His skin, this skin, speed, vibrations. His weight on my leg, wet skin, cloth. His belly, my bones.
His hand so fast, so fast he’s not paying attention. Thinking of what Sam looks like - arms holding on, flushed, sweaty strands on his face, neck arched, jaw clenched, breath through his teeth, more - underneath him when he, when he -
His hand squeezing, pulling, not soft, not soft at all. No thought at all. Not even caring.
I want. I want -
Dean opens his eyes. The feeling, outracing the thought, the feeling and -
His heart turned to me like a cup, for just a heartbeat, my only measure of time, a heartbeat - All that Dean can’t see, I remember, I seek, I miss in him.
His hand covers my mouth. Consciousness flashes.
It’s nothing like paradise. It’s the opposite of paradise. It’s Dean.
I think I do. I think I do want it more than paradise. Sometimes. I don’t want all of this, down here, to be over. I don’t want the victors and the punished.
I want the hope that we are all wrong. There are things we have not discovered yet, things we do not yet know.
*
I wake up to darkness, but the storm has passed.
The sense memory flashes again. The same one for weeks. “Dean? Do I taste like honey?”
“Yes.”
“That is something new, Dean?”
“Yes. Now go back to sleep.”
*
the end
Feedback is love!
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Fic. No sue me.
Warnings: Castiel POV, angel sex, Wincest forever
Word Count: 2,800
Spoilers: post-5.03, set in S5
Summary: Angels are masters of seduction, whether they know it or not.
*
Angels are not real. Demons are not real. Dean is real.
That is what Dean believes. And yet he lies, even to himself.
We have been hiding in this abandoned motel. Abandoned among many. It is Apocalypse. Dean is soaked to the skin, possibly injured - things come from him to me in flashes now - and tired. As am I, I suppose. I can’t tell the difference all the time - what is him and what is me and what is the both of us.
He asks me: “What good is an angel who can’t save me anymore?”
I am independent. I could bend the reality of the world, but all I would ever ask for is Dean’s help, which he only gives if I ask.
I can’t help it. I run to the only one who would save me. The one I need. The only one left.
- What can they do to us? If you are sent to Hell, I will pull you out again. If you are sent to Heaven, I will come to you. -
He knows this about me. He knows without even asking.
*
His dreams can’t teach me how to dream. They are too difficult.
- Sam dragged away. A black hole for him to drop through. If Dean cannot kill Lucifer, if… Michael will come. Raphael. Gabriel. Black hole. White rabbit.-
“What is the white rabbit?”
Dean’s eyes are glassy. “What the hell are you talking about this time, Chuckles?”
- Sam used to drag him like a comet across the sky. The sound of his heart’s sinking. -
Like me, like me. Although - “What would make me real, to you, Dean? You’re trying to make me lesser. Closer to yourself.”
His head tilts towards the ceiling when he gets frustrated. “I’m trying to make you real.”
Until Dean, I had only wanted in all the world to be who I was. When he lies to me, I disappear, because the truth is deafening.
“But you’re not real, Dean. You lie. All the time. Even trivial things.”
“I’m real, because I’m a human being.” - Sam asleep next to Dean. First, he’s too small for the bed. Then, his hands, his feet, dangling off the ends of limbs, the ends of the bed. - “Not some skeevy demon. Or some angel.”
“Angels are worse to you than… skeevy demons?”
“Yes.”
- I only see it when I look down. Jimmy is screaming at me. A knife in my chest. -
He remembers the strangest things about me most. “Why?”
“Because you’re hypocrites. Angels are supposed to be… different.”
“You keep saying that. We are what we have always been.”
The storm continues like a tantrum.
I am light. They are lightning. They threaten. Storms. Orphans. They are tired of being what they are.
We all are. Just a little. Just enough.
*
Meal times are difficult. I pick food from Dean’s memory; Dean tells me I remember it wrong. I tell him that is impossible. He think it’s because I don’t need food, so I can never understand it; I’m purposefully making the coffee bad.
“Real people do things. You can’t laugh or cry or come or eat or take a crap. Raphael cried. I’ve seen you get angry. Which means you just won’t do any of the rest.”
Dean doesn’t respect any of the rest. I can’t tell him that things like context matter. I want to disappear, but the lightning won’t let me. Not right now.
The archangels are right at least. There is no real privilege except for those who can make it up. Determined animals with good intentions cannot, however beautiful they might be. Things are not right.
I should not try to be human. “There would be no point.”
Dean closes his eyes. - I am blown up like a balloon. Popped. Stabbed in the face with a thin fragile blade with precision. -
I want to talk with him this way, closed-eyed and silent. He still won’t allow it.
I have keen understanding of humiliation and shame. Dean enjoys seeing every shade of it. I know this is what it takes:
I’ve been all this time before he came a tenant, working to earn my home. Nothing more. No. Worse than that.
I want to know what he thinks. “Would you like me to eat something? Then, afterwards…”
“No.” He snarls it. Like those dogs he runs away from.
Dean eats a mound of melted sugar in silence. He offers me half, but I won’t have it.
He chews, and thinks of me. He is embarrassed, but I don’t know why.
Then, he drinks, because I can do that right, and tired of me, imagines he’s alone in this room, but not quite.
*
He’s not sleeping either.
“Are you going to mope in the corner all night?”
“I’m going to sit here quietly until the storm passes.”
“Suit yourself.”
I invade what he calls his personal space, taking up the empty place next to him on the floor. He has nothing, not even a blanket.
His hands explore with the curiosity of a child, but sure and aware. He undoes buttons, zippers, ties, and does them up again when he’s finished. We practice through the night, and I’m not sure what we are practicing for, if all of this will be over soon. His hands teach me social rituals of a doomed people, over and over again, and determined.
I think there is something important, because Dean’s angry. I think it is anger. Something in this room. This empty courage alone in the room with us, and Dean’s thoughts, and every part of me alone and unseen, even by god.
Afterwards, when Dean tells me to sleep - it’s creeping him out - I try.
*
I wake up to darkness, lightning like a bell, and flashes from Dean’s soul. Sam and blankets. Sulfur and blood. Ozone and honey. Honey?
I sit in the dark and watch the flashes of Dean’s dream pass. He dreams of Sam and only Sam. His brother. His love. The dark bringer of light. It is all there. I understand now. It is more real than I am.
I’ve made my own decisions, no matter what Dean says he wants. I know better. I cannot give up every manner of heavenly conduct. I cannot lose everything this way.
The pendulum swings, stuck to the earth. The storm will fade away and return. More important things are coming.
The night repeats itself a thousand ways.
*
“Would you like me to cry? I’ve come close before. Almost, when…”
Dean opens his eyes enough so I can see green slivers, and some of the light that is Dean and always there.
“You’re just about the sorriest angel I’ve ever seen. Where is all that courage you used to have, when you were threatening me with hell and bullshit?”
“That was a lie.”
“A lie?”
“A lie I thought was true.”
- Father, golden and lying. Strong as a gun. Whispering the truth like a poison prayer. Not saying anything. Then, the dark comes. - Sometimes I understand Dean’s flashes. I do.
“You guys have no sense of honesty whatsoever, do you?” He says it fast. “I think it’s all fake, and then…”
I understand. The world is a truer place without the angels, though we do not lie. We are like oil in water. Grease in skin. The moment Azazel set foot on the earth, all that was true about paradise had changed. We knew about the kings at the top and the backs of the angels beneath.
I don’t want to look at his eyes anymore. But he doesn’t stop talking.
“And then, you get angry. And it’s usually when I get angry. But it’s a strange kind of anger, Cas. It doesn’t fit you. Or, if it does, then I haven’t seen you yet.”
My righteous anger over you. Not for me. Never for me. “You have not seen me, Dean. You can never really see me, unless you become Michael’s sword. Even then, you will not know.”
The image in Dean’s mind’s eye shifts to his brother again. - Sam leaving a brochure for Stanford on his pillow and closing their motel room door. Dean breathlessly awake. -
This is the real Dean I see, all the time, behind his eyes. I can’t question it, it is everything - and yet it counts for nothing. Dean cannot see me. He can’t -
He’s walking for the door. “Where are you going?”
Lightning and thunder shake the earth. There is little mercy tonight.
Instead, there’s anger and the slightly sick taste of courage. If he leaves, they will take him. They cannot take him.
If I hold him against the wall like this, he will stay. But he will not like it. I don’t know how to name the expression on his face.
- The nasal sound of Alastair’s voice, buzzing deep in the brain, making you deaf over a thousand years. All Sam does and does not know about him, I see. -
“Aren’t you gonna even ask permission? Aren’t you supposed to be an angel?”
I don’t know what he means.
“That thing you’ve got shoved against me. You need consent.”
It is an exercise, to deal with things so small and yet so consequential as Dean’s body. It is all at once shameful and the most important thing in all the world. If we were two beings of light, the fate of all of this would not rest on our shoulders. Dean thinks flesh is all that is real. I wish to be rid of it. Light doesn’t ask permission because it never means to hurt. “I don’t have consent to give.”
Dean waits exactly ten seconds. “Would you let go of me. Please.”
I do. He wants me to ask him for his body, but he will say no if I do, so I will not ask. I feel the anger and the courage at once - just like he said - I cannot tell the difference - and I let go of him, and it all stops. Except for the lightning storm, in my head like a bell.
*
Sitting on the floor with our backs to the wall is the safest place. Also, sitting far away from Dean. Ten more seconds pass before he sighs. He doesn’t speak. He is upset about his lack of bodily integrity. The entire fate of the world resting on Dean’s overdeveloped sense of bodily integrity.
So I do. “Angels don’t have consent. You are able to give it. Demons just take.”
“As a rule?”
“As a concept. Archangels live by the word…”
“And the word is whatever they say?”
“… and the word is…” I don’t have an answer for him. “Yes.”
“Ok. So this is a fucked up state of things.”
I agree. At least, I’m pretty certain.
- Voice too loud to hear and body too hard to feel and wings too awesome to see. Black hole. White rabbit. Yellow-eyed brother. -
“I was trying to keep you inside during the storm.”
“We’ve talked about personal space before, Cas. You can’t just hold me down and use your strength against me.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
Dean nods his head, at what I’m not sure.
He’s thinking of me now, but it does not comfort him - the dreams we used to dream together after I saved him from hell. Sometimes talking in circles.
“Fuck, are you even hard? I can’t tell. Hey, do you wear briefs? Underwear. What kind of underwear do you have on?”
I look. “Yes, they are brief.”
Dean waits ten more seconds. “So you are like a statue?”
In no way am I like a statue. “I am not stone. This vessel is small. My form is dense.” -
I think, again, that I’ve done something wrong. “What do you want from me, Dean?”
“Whatever you can’t give me.”
“Just say it.”
“I want decent, real, human being contact, for once.”
I think I would give just about anything to give him that. I’m not sure what he even means. “It is too dangerous outside.”
“I know. I’m stuck with you. That’s my problem. I’ve been trapped with demons more fun than you. Actually, most demons are more fun than you.”
“I am fine.”
“All you do is mope around. It can feel good sometimes too, you know. There are good, you know, feelings.”
His eyes are wide, his words slow. I don’t know what it means.
“Ok, I have an answer for you. You ask me all the time about what I mean by “real” because you apparently don’t have a good grasp of it.”
I let him speak.
“Happiness isn’t real if you’re just doing what you’re told.”
“Why not?”
“It just isn’t. That’s, like, the rules of fun.”
“Rebellion isn’t for fun. This is not fun, Dean.” It’s not fun.
“Because you’re not doing it right. Nothing good is coming, Cas. You have to take some chances here. Get pleasure where you can.”
“Like what?”
“Does anything on this earth not make you nervous?”
“I don’t belong here.”
“I know, Cas.”
He gives up, but he doesn’t leave.
*
After the storm ends, the air will be crisp and clean, the earth renewed. It will smell like home. But Raphael is angry and it does not end.
“What are we doing here, Cas?” The voice is buzzing, yellow eyes leering, faceless nameless forces against him, with wings.
I know what he’s thinking: You destroyed my family. You can’t save my brother. I shouldn’t be here at all, and this has gone too far already. “I’ve told you. I pulled you from hell. I rebelled against heaven for you.”
“Don’t take your decisions out on me, Cas. You force me to make them. Because when the shit hits the fan, all you’ll ever say is no. No isn’t a position to take.”
“You don’t take no for an answer, Dean. Just ask Sam.”
He raises his hand to my face but it never hits.
“That’s not what I’m saying. You did right by him.”
“What do you know about right?”
“You love Sam.”
“But, I…” - One thousand ways of undressing Sam. He sees the shape of his ribs still, when he lifts his shirt. The scowl that doesn’t go away, no matter what, unless he takes him up on his knee, on his knees, grabbing the back of his knees, biting there, Sam. - “Look what happened.”
“The one, good, true thing in his life.”
“Is?” Dean knows I know. He always has. And waits.
“Yes.”
This time, the slap connects. He holds his hand, his fingers numb. I will wait for him.
“And now, I’m seducing an angel. Do you… Do you think it’s wrong, Cas?”
I do think. It’s a strange idea, that anyone would ever consider seducing an angel. Though I already know my answer. “No.”
“Will you say it this time? Just one word? Make it up if you have to.”
“Yes, Dean.”
He shows me. On the worn mattress, messy clothes, wet, on top of me. Flimsy cotton over skin, softness everywhere, hardness poking through in places.
I grab his ass, as Dean would say. His hands on me.
He is all over me, on top of me. Moving too fast, hand on me. Moves faster. His skin, this skin, speed, vibrations. His weight on my leg, wet skin, cloth. His belly, my bones.
His hand so fast, so fast he’s not paying attention. Thinking of what Sam looks like - arms holding on, flushed, sweaty strands on his face, neck arched, jaw clenched, breath through his teeth, more - underneath him when he, when he -
His hand squeezing, pulling, not soft, not soft at all. No thought at all. Not even caring.
I want. I want -
Dean opens his eyes. The feeling, outracing the thought, the feeling and -
His heart turned to me like a cup, for just a heartbeat, my only measure of time, a heartbeat - All that Dean can’t see, I remember, I seek, I miss in him.
His hand covers my mouth. Consciousness flashes.
It’s nothing like paradise. It’s the opposite of paradise. It’s Dean.
I think I do. I think I do want it more than paradise. Sometimes. I don’t want all of this, down here, to be over. I don’t want the victors and the punished.
I want the hope that we are all wrong. There are things we have not discovered yet, things we do not yet know.
*
I wake up to darkness, but the storm has passed.
The sense memory flashes again. The same one for weeks. “Dean? Do I taste like honey?”
“Yes.”
“That is something new, Dean?”
“Yes. Now go back to sleep.”
*
the end
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