SPN Fic: I am Become as Sounding Brass
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I am Become as Sounding Brass
By: Vain
10/27/2008 - 2/2/2009
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Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Supernatural and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of Eric Kripke and the CW. This is entirely a work of fiction; no profit is being made. All biblical quotations are taken from the King James Bible.
Summary: 'And we all Fall down.' With Heaven on one side and Hell on the other, all Dean wants is Sam and the open road--but that choice may very well be out of his hands.
Pairings: (one-sided?) Castiel/Dean, Sam/Dean, & references to Sam/Ruby and past Alistair/Dean
Warnings: dubious consent, abuse of biblical and religious references, blasphemy, slash of the slashy variety, wincest, implied het, language, all sorts of Season 4 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S., and a hole in the bottom of the sea.
Rated: hard R
Length: about 10,400 words; complete.
Notes: This fic is the fourth in my Strange Angels 'Verse and follows " A Vast Image Out of Spiritus Mundi"; it takes place after episode 4.13: "After School Special."
Beta-ed by the ever lovely and inspirational seraphwings; all remaining errors are my own.
For reference, the title was taken from 1 Corinthians 13:1 and the opening line is from Shakespeare's "Hamlet," Act 1, scene 5.
Pimped at deancastiel & wincest.
Plagiarizers will be puppy chow, but reviews rock my salt.
Enjoy!
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Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way,
and to bring thee into the place which I have prepared.
Beware of him, and obey his voice, provoke him not;
for he will not pardon your transgressions: for my name is in him.
Exodus 23:20-21
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"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
Quarters clattered to the ground as Dean nearly jumped out of his skin.
He whirled with a scowl to face the angel suddenly standing at his side. "Jesus, Cas! You trying to kill me again?"
Castiel frowned, eyes going to where the human's left hand clutched his now-pounding heart and then to where his right hand had slid back towards the gun concealed in his waistband. Dean met his eyes for a moment, matching frown for frown, before his gaze flickered unnecessarily around the empty Laundromat as he eased his hand away from the gun again. Sam wasn't due back for hours--he'd gone off to 'look for a job,' which meant he'd be returning with damp hair and the smell of sulfur and perfume clinging to him--and the Laundromat’s manager, a slovenly man whom Dean had only seen once when Sam had dropped him off, had vanished into the back room well over an hour ago. That meant that Dean was alone. With Castiel.
So not awesome.
Figures he'd show up now, the hunter thought irritably as he bent to retrieve his money. It had been almost two months since South Dakota. Two months since the angel Anna had regained her Grace and vanished screaming into the cold white light. Two months since Castiel and Uriel had vanished from the barn with nary a 'thank you for not letting Alistair choke me to death.' And now, true to form, here was Castiel again, all giant blue eyes and flat, enigmatic expressions, as though nothing had ever happened.
He glared at the other man and edged back a little. The denizens of Heaven apparently didn't understand the concept of personal space. Which kind of made sense, actually, since the same could be said for the denizens of Hell. He quashed that thought fast.
No need to go there, Winchester. Not now. Not ever. He had a front row seat to Hell's Greatest Hits every time he slept or made the mistake of looking too long in the mirror, searching eyes for misplaced traces of demon black--he didn't need that crap to consume him during the day too.
"You've got a lot of nerve showing up here, you know." Dean shoved the recovered coins into his pocket with more aggression than necessary. He was angry and spoiling for a fight. Sam had been weird ever since the gig at Roosevelt High--back to his secrets and silences and sex with Ruby sessions. And Dean was in no real shape to call him on it these days. "After what you two nearly did to Anna--"
"Anna was . . ."
Dean turned to grab the detergent from the top of the machine he'd been loading before Castiel's arrival, still frowning as the angel trailed off. He paused when he saw Castiel avoiding his eyes almost guiltily and pursed his lips. "Anna was what?"
"A mistake," Castiel finished after a moment. He raised his too-sincere eyes to Dean again and the hunter felt his skin crawl beneath that perceptive gaze. It was weird to have Castiel focus his whole attention on him. Most of the time the angel looked like he was half-tuning into something else--angel radio, maybe--but sometimes he would look at Dean, really look at him, and it made all the hunter’s hair want to stand on end. The only person he'd ever seen someone look at him that intently was Sam and Sam was . . . well, Sam was intense in his own right. Dean had gotten used to that by the time he was five. But having an angel of the Lord fix that much attention on him made something at the base of his spine freeze.
"You and Sam were not supposed to be there."
The human covered his discomfort by shrugging slightly and pouring a good quarter of a box of value brand detergent into the washer. "That was the mistake? Sam and me getting in the way?" He glared at the other man. "You were going to kill that poor girl."
The intent look broke again as Castiel's eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment, listening to something only he could hear. "Anna was neither poor nor was she truly a girl. Falling as she did . . . Tearing out one's Grace . . . I do not think you quite understand what she did, Dean. It is not a simple amputation as she described it. It is a rejection of the Lord--of His Will and her place. Angels are not like humans. We are granted only one life. We do not have souls; we have Grace. And, unlike souls, Grace belongs not to us, but is a part of the Lord. We are a part of the Lord--small extensions of His Will: His love, His wrath, His mercy, and everything in between. Anna spat in the face of God when she tore out her Grace; she caused a wound felt by the whole Host. Not even Lucifer rejected his Grace. The Word, yes. But not his Grace."
Dean slammed the washing machine shut and turned to face the angel. "So she deserved to die?"
"Your view of life is limited." The calmness in his voice--the indifference--was maddening. "It would have only been mortal death."
The hunter snorted in irritation and contempt. "Well, aren't you just a sonofabitch?"
Again, Castiel tilted his head to the side. His expression was calm, but there was a trace of bitterness in his tone. "I believe you have already established as much."
"What will happen to her now then? You going to just hunt her down?"
"Not personally." There was no apology in his tone, nor was there room for argument. The angel was merely stating a fact. "That task belong to others now. Even with her Grace returned, she is not fully whole. She still presents too much of a threat to remain free."
The human sneered and shook his head, but said nothing. He turned back to the machine, cranking the dials irritably.
Castiel stared at him silently for a long moment before he spoke again. ". . . You did well, though."
Dean's head whipped around, uncertain he'd heard correctly. "What?"
A small smile played at the other man's lips. "Your plan . . . Playing to Alistair's baser nature and Uriel's prejudices . . . It was very clever."
"That was all Sam," the human replied. He dug out four quarters again and fed them to the change tray on the machine before casting the angel a sidelong glance. "He's good like that--coming up with the plan."
"And you handle execution?"
Dean shrugged uncomfortably, the wording evoking memories he'd rather not focus on. "Something like that." He shoved the quarter-laden tray into the machine, the act providing him with enough focus to remember his previous irritation. He wheeled around to face his companion as the washer sloshed to a start. "And another thing--" The hunter broke off, finally getting a good look at Castiel. "Is that blood?"
The angel looked down at himself and, sure enough, a fine smattering of blood liberally stained the right lapel his graying trench coat. He looked up again, eyes calm and serene. "It's not mine."
The taller man clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes. Part of him wanted to demand whose blood it was. And the rest of him remembered Uriel's breath, soft and warm on his neck, as he threatened to throw Dean back down into Hell. He shook his head, his annoyance resurfacing. He didn't think they'd really send him back to the Pit--he'd already gambled on it twice now and Heaven hadn't called his bluff--but it pissed him off that they'd think they could hold that over him. That they would hold Sam over him. It wasn't like they didn't have enough problems already.
He glared frowned at the ancient washing machine and held out his hand. "Take everything out of your pockets and give me your coat," he ordered without looking at the angel.
Castiel gave him a blank look even as his hands began to pull an odd assortment of things from his pockets. "Why?"
"You can't just walk around with blood on your clothes, man. It's kind of shady." He waved his hand impatiently. "Come on. You're in luck. This is the special Winchester bleach cycle, especially for bloodstains."
Castiel seemed to consider this for a moment as he dumped the contents of his pockets--ten packs of Sugar in the Raw, a used glow stick, three paperclips, and four crumpled twenty-dollar bills--on the adjacent washing machine. "I am capable of cleaning my own clothes."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Look, it's no skin off my nose. I'm already washing Sam's mess. Might as well add yours to the mix."
The angel quirked his brow at the comment, but handed over his coat without a word. The hunter opened the washer and stuffed it in under the spray of water filling the machine. He dropped the lid closed with a bang and turned from the row of washers to the rows of garish, uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs occupying the center of the room. The bright florescent light overhead seemed to drown out the sunlight that crept in through the front windows and highlighted the poor condition of the seats and floor tiles.
Dean slumped down into a chair that looked on the verge of falling off its row and leveled the other man with a tired look. "So why are you here quoting dead poets to me?"
Castiel eyed the chair at Dean's side somewhat skeptically, clearly not trusting the weathered plastic. The hunter only grinned at the expression and slumped further down in his seat. "Well?"
The angel huffed out a sigh and moved to sit beside the other man. He looked smaller without his coat somehow. And the air around him was intensely warm as he turned to meet Dean's eyes again. "Horatio was a man of reason. He had difficulty believing in what he could not see. "
The human smirked. "You think I'm like Horatio then?"
"You are a skeptic, Dean. And stubborn in your preconceptions."
"Should I be insulted?"
Castiel merely gave him one of those creepily serene smiles and said nothing. Dean frowned slightly and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and crossing his finger for a moment. "How do you know so much about human writing anyway? Isn't that a no-go up there in Heaven?"
"Humans are capable of tremendous beauty. We have always been privy to this, just as we have always been able to observe the horror you have wrought. In your artists and poets and creators--Virgil, Confucius, Michelangelo, and the like--the works of our Father are glorified. You are glorified."
"So you all are just lounging up there in the clouds, watching us all the time?"
A soft chuckle. "I think you overestimate your importance in the Universe. Humans are wondrous and fascinating creatures--the jewel of our Father's creation--but you are not the only things in creation."
"More things on Heaven and in the earth, right?" Dean shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face tiredly without waiting for a response.
The angel watched him silently for a long moment as the hunter seemed to gather his thoughts. Then: "Would you have truly betrayed her?"
The taller man looked over questioningly and watched as Castiel cocked his head to the side curiously. "Anna," he clarified. "If your plan had not worked, would you have truly betrayed her even after you'd lain with her?"
The hunter expression flattened for a moment and he looked back down at the floor, remembering the twist in his stomach when the young woman had translated the angels' message: "Either Dean Winchester hands over Anna by midnight, or we will cast his soul back into perdition." He closed his eyes to quell a shudder. "I'd have gone back to Hell."
It was the truth, but not really an answer.
Castiel leaned forward and he could feel the other man watching him closely. "But for Sam? Would you have betrayed her?"
The human looked over without sitting up. Castiel's eyes were clear and focused again, looking at him--looking into him. "Yeah," he replied without hesitation. "Yeah, I'd have done it."
The angel stared at him for a moment longer and then sat back again. Somehow Dean knew that wasn't the answer he'd wanted, but it was the only one he'd had to give. He looked back at the ancient linoleum between his feet. "He's my brother."
Castiel was silent for a long moment before sighing quietly. "She would be better off if she returned to our Father," he murmured at last. "She was never supposed to be human."
Dean looked up, abruptly feeling tired. Though he'd barely stumbled his way into thirty, he felt closer to seventy; every minute of his time in Hell weighed on him heavily. "Is it really so awful to you guys? Being human?"
The angel shook his head. "Contrary to what you have been told, Dean, we have feelings. We experience joy and pain and love and fear and loss . . . Just not in the same way. We are a part of the Almighty--Light of his Light. It is not a terrible thing to be mortal, but it is not what we were made for. The Eternal cannot be shed like an outgrown skin and mortality is not as easily worn as you might think. I have seen things beyond even your conception, and you have a much broader scope than most of your kind. I have heard the planets sing. Seen stars born and die. I have felt atoms crack apart in a span of eons and seen terrible war waged in the space of a breath. Creatures such as I are not supposed to be mortal."
The hunter sat back, still staring down. "Do you miss it?"
"Miss it?"
"Heaven. It's your home, right? Being down here--crawling around in the dirt with us mere mortals . . ." He turned and fixed the angel with an intent look. "It must suck."
A ghost of a smile twitched over Castiel's lips. "The human world--and humans themselves--are not without their charm. This is my Father's creation. I am . . . honored . . . to have been chosen for this assignment."
"Uriel doesn't seem that honored."
"Uriel was chosen for different reasons than I."
"Because he's a prick?"
"You shouldn't goad Uriel," the angel turned to him again, but the overly intent look was once more absent. "He is a proven soldier, tried and true. He was alive for an age before even I was created. He is not to be trifled with."
"And he's your brother," the hunter finished, watching him closely.
Castiel looked away. "He is. If he is stern or harsh, it is only out of concern for me or the mission."
"And never mind little ole me, right?" Dean made no effort to keep the bitterness from his voice.
"You are more than a tool, Dean," the angel chastised him sharply.
The hunter glared at him in warning. "Stay out of my head."
The two stared at one another for a long moment, gazes tangled together in strangely comfortable contest before Castiel finally looked away with a slight huff. "You think very loudly."
And it wasn't really an apology, but it was as close as he'd get. Dean's couldn't help but quirk his lips slightly and looked back down at the cracked floor beneath him. As much as he wanted to stay pissed at Castiel, he couldn't really. The angel had that affect on him--something about his magical angel hoodoo made it impossible for Dean to really hold a grudge, even if he scared Dean shitless half the time. ... Which was kind of funny because Sam was the exact same way. Especially these days.
The thought made his smile fade and for the two sat in silence, listening to the washing machine and dryers rumble around their loads. His sleepless nights were catching up with him, it seemed, and he badly wanted to take out the flask in his coat pocket. But dealing with Sam's bitchface every time he took a drink was bad enough; he didn't need to see Castiel's version of the expression. It probably wouldn't be so bad if Sam would just say something but . . .
Well, what the hell do you say when you find out your big brother had been the up and coming Torquemada of Hell? And that he'd been good at it? That he'd liked it? Liked Alistair's hand on his--guiding . . . praising--liked watching the flames and blade slice and purge, scream by achingly sweet scream . . .? He snorted quietly and rolled his shoulders.
You say nothing, that's what. You say nothing and you fuck a demon and you watch your stupid brother throw back shots while the apocalypse comes.
"You think too loudly," Castiel repeated softly. Sadly. And something in his tone made Dean ache.
The human cleared his throat and blinked rapidly, forcibly pushing away thoughts of his flask again. He didn't need this shit--not today. Not with everything between him and Sam going to Hell.
He turned away and stared at nothing in particular with unseeing eyes. "Can I . . . Can I ask you something?"
Castiel just kept staring at him. "Yes."
"What do you guys want from me?" Dean turned to look at the other man, brow furrowed slightly in a frown. "I mean . . . why me?"
Castiel didn't look away and it absently occurred to the hunter than the angel's eyes really were huge. Big and blue and completely guileless. He wondered if that was the vessel or more angel mojo.
The possessed man tilted his head to the side in that familiar RCA-dog way, just like he had that night in the barn. "There is work that must be done."
Dean sighed loudly and scrubbed a hand through his hair, annoyed. Sometime he couldn't tell if the angel was serious and maybe a little stupid, or if he was just the most infuriating thing on earth and dicking around with him. "Yeah, I got that. But why me? I mean . . . You know . . . You saw what it was like down there. What I was like. And don't say 'because God commanded it' either."
Castiel blinked at him, long and slow, as though that were some sort of response and then turned away to stare at the machines in front of them. "Destiny is not something to be dictated, Dean, and free will is tantamount in human experience." He turned back to the human at his side, head tilted as though listening to another side of the conversation that Dean couldn't hear. "I am not privy to my Father's thoughts and plans. And--even if I were to tell you all I know--it could sway you unfairly. You decisions must be yours and yours alone. I will stand by your side regardless."
The hunter snorted and turned away, irritated by the subterfuge. "Because God commanded it?"
". . . No. Because I want to. We do have free will, Dean. Lucifer could not have Sinned and Anna could not have fallen if we did not."
"So what if God tells you to leave me in my mess and fly back home?" There was a challenge in the question. And--though it didn't come through in his tone--a little bit of fear.
Christ, he needed a fucking drink.
The angel's expression softened. "All others may abandon you, but I will always stand by your side."
A dark smile, devoid of humor, quirked at the corners of the human's mouth and he turned away before it could break free. Second verse, same as the first. He'd heard that line a dozen times before. Different variations maybe, but it was still the same lie over and over: his mother's whispered promises, his father's solid, study deceptions, Cassie . . . Hell, even Alistair had whispered it, hungry and blood-drenched, into his ear. Carved it into his soul slice by exquisite slice. And Sam . . . Sam had made the exact same promises, but even by Dean's side, he was a thousand miles away these days.
And Dean was alone.
Yeah. He knew that lie already.
"You haven't been sleeping well. You should rest while you have time."
He hated how the angel could remain so expressionless, but sound so damn sad . . .
"You don't think you deserve to be saved."
Dean knew exactly what he deserved, and salvation was not on the list.
He shook his head and sat up straighter, flexing his shoulders slightly to shake off the ever-present weariness. He wished Sam were here. "I gotta put the clothes in the dryer when the cycle's done. Sam'll be here--"
"Sam won't be here for a while yet."
And then there were fingers pressed gently against his forehead.
He jerked back, but the heaviness was already washing over him. "Damnit--"
"Rest, Dean. I will watch over you."
Dean growled in slurred protest, but was gone before he could say anything more. Even without the angel whammy, it was too warm in the Laundromat for him to fight off his exhaustion--the air was too soft with fabric softener--and Castiel's warm presence in the uncomfortable seat beside him was too soothing. And he was so, so tired . . .
Nothing would happen to him here--not in the Laundromat. Not with Castiel here.
He head lolled slightly to the side and came to rest on the angel's shoulder, and if the last thing he knew was gentle, tentative fingers carding through his hair, and if the nightmares seemed to be held at bay by a warm, familiar presence . . . Well, it probably wasn't that big a deal.
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Dean awoke with the end of the delicate cycle to find Castiel doing Sudoku beside him. The angel's brow was contorted and his lips were pursed as though the little number-filled blocks held the secrets of the universe. The hunter found himself staring for a moment, a little bit surprised.
Angels. Doing Sudoku.
His gaze flickered back to the dryer across from him--the dryer that had been empty when he'd nodded off.
Doing Sudoku and laundry.
Huh.
He blinked and stretched without preamble, surreptitiously checking the other man's shoulder to make sure he hadn't drooled on him. That would have just been embarrassing.
Castiel did not look away from the puzzle. "Did you sleep well?"
It wasn't really a question, so Dean made a sour face at the angel in response before grabbing the bags from the seat beside him and heading towards the dryers. He had slept better than he had in months actually, but damned if he'd admit that to the guy who'd just angel-roofied him. ". . . You put the clothes in the dryer?"
"You were sleeping."
Dean narrowed his eyes curiously, wondering if this was some sort of weird, celestial apology or something. 'Sorry for being an ass and slipping you a holy Mickey. Your clothes are now Downy soft.' He snorted slightly and began pulling the clothes out of the dryer and neatly rolling them up and packing them into the bags. Castiel was still way better than that fabric softener bear. "So you really came here to watch me sleep, do our laundry, and work on puzzles? . . . And quote dead poets?"
Castiel tilted his head to the side in that weirdly bird-like fashion and watched him with wide, unblinking eyes. "No."
Dean made a skeptical noise and shook out a pair of jeans. Sam would probably bitch at him about wrinkles later, but it wasn't like either of them ever really dressed to impress. And anyway, if Sam was going to lie and stick him with laundry duty while he sneaked off to see his girlfriend, then he could just suck it up and deal with wrinkles in his gigantic freak jeans.
Not that Dean was jealous.
"So why are you here?" he pressed again, rolling the pants up more briskly than necessary.
Castiel sighed and for a moment he looked . . . guilty. It was a strange expression to see on the other's face and Dean felt his stomach fall a bit as it occurred to him that Castiel just might have been procrastinating on purpose. He swallowed hard as the angel set aside the puzzle he'd been working on. "There is an issue, Dean."
He dropped the rolled-up jeans in the bag and turned to fully face the other man. "What? You mean with the seals? We can--"
"No." The angel turned slightly, avoiding his eyes, and Dean felt his face twist slightly in confusion.
"No?" A rolled up salmon pink Abercrombie and Fitch shirt joined the giant jeans in the bag. Sometimes Dean had to wonder if Sam really was gay . . . And where the hell had he gotten enough money during Dean's trip downstairs to afford designer clothes?
"There is an issue with your brother--with Sam."
Dean paused in the middle of balling up a pair of socks and felt a familiar tension settle across his shoulders. 'If you can't save him, you have to kill him . . .' He swallowed hard, any vestiges of relaxation from his nap vanishing. He'd kind of expected this eventually to be honest, and he felt more weary than angry. "Is that why you came here, Cas?" He lifted tired eyes to the angel. "Did you come to tell me to kill my brother?"
The angel sighed quietly and stood, gaze half with Dean and half in angel land. "Dean, I know there are things that you don't want to hear about Sam, but you need to listen."
The hunter threw the socks in the bag and cut the angel off with a rough shake of his head, weariness vanishing beneath frustration. It was always the same thing--always the same push and pull with everyone trying to pit him against his brother. And he was sick of it. He shook his head a second time. "You know what? Save it, okay?" He began shoving clothing onto the bag haphazardly. "I already know how this one ends. And I won't hurt Sammy."
"Dean." The firm chastisement in his voice made the taller man pause in the middle of shoving a Led Zeppelin tour shirt into his bag, jaw set and body humming with tension. "I'm not asking anything of the sort."
Green eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Come again?"
"I am not asking you to hurt Sam," the angel repeated with intensity, his eyes locked on to Dean like a snake charmer trying to soothe a serpent.
The hunter broke the gaze with a skeptical scoff and resumed haphazardly pulling laundry from the dryers. To hell with the wrinkles. The sooner this conversation was over, the better.
"Will you stop and listen to me for a moment?"
Funny how much a plea could sound like a demand.
Fuck you, the hunter snipped in his mind, and viciously wondered if the angel could hear that, too.
"It is not difficult to hear you hurling vulgarities," the other man replied icily.
Dean shoved the last item of clothing into the bag and then pulled out the now-clean trench coat. He ignored the angel in favor of snapping the garment straight and glaring at the lapel. The blood was gone of course. Dean was a champion when it came to mixing cleaners to get out bloodstains. He shoved the clean garment at the blond, every line in his body taut with agitation and his green eyes hard as glass.
"Here. I don't want to hear it."
The angel's lips thinned slightly as he stared the hunter down, but he took the coat and shrugged it on with unnatural grace. "No good can come of your blind defensiveness of your brother."
The hunter shouldered the clothes-filled back and turned to the slightly shorter man with a mutinous expression. "You know what, Cas? I am tired of listening to you. All I do is listen to you people and all you do is screw me over. I owe you. I get that, okay? But when the hell have you guys ever listened to me? Or to Sam? Or, Christ, to Jess or my mother, or any other poor bastard that you all just let the darkness rip apart for that matter? You're fucking hypocrites and we're done talking about Sam."
He turned, bag swinging heavily and stalked towards the entrance.
The angel stared after him for a moment, an odd, pinched expression on his face. "The Lord is your Father, too, Dean, and He has always listened to you. Even when no one else did. Especially when no one else did. The Lord is not the issue here."
"Whatever." The cowbell attached to the door jangled loudly as he shoved it open roughly and stomped out into the parking lot. It was late afternoon and the February sun beat down on the dusty macadam, thin and tired. He walked around the side of the squat, brick building, tense and restless. He could feel his flask in his back pocket, heavy and tempting, and whatever peace his nap seemed to have instilled was gone entirely.
He wanted a drink.
He wanted to hit someone. . . . Preferably the black-eyed mockery of himself that had haunted his dreams ever since that stupid dreamroot case.
"This is what you're going to become!"
And it had been right. Dean could feel it: a steady pressure in his head, a film of red over his eyes, how damned good the hilt of a knife felt against his palm. There was a reason he slept with a gun instead of his blade nowadays.
The familiar rustle of feathers made him halt and Dean looked up from glaring at the ground just in time to see Castiel appear in front of him. The angel was frowning, earnest and distressed and desperate in a way that Dean didn't want to deal with, and the hunter clenched his free hand into a fist and barely managed to refrain from punching the blond’s pretty, dispassionate face in.
Probably wouldn't go down too well at the moment.
"Go away," he ground out in a voice like broken glass. He pushed past him, shoulder roughly bumping the other man. It was like hitting a brick wall and the angel didn't move a millimeter, but the rough contact made him feel a bit better. And where the hell was Sam? It had been three hours; the sex couldn't be that good.
"The Lord is not at issue here, Dean," the angel repeated, undeterred. "You are. You do not listen. You do not hear."
The words stopped Dean in his tracks and a painful, nameless anger swept through him. He turned, fist clenched so tightly it hurt. "Beg your pardon?"
Castiel sighed in obvious irritation and stepped closer, closing the distance and putting Dean between himself and the wall. Cutting off escape routes. "The Lord is speaking to you." And he sounded so sad again that Dean wanted to throttle him.
Dean's back stiffened visibly and he shifted to face him fully, giving the shorter man a look of blatant incredulity. The laundry bag dropped to the dusty ground, forgotten. "What?"
"You do not listen," Castiel repeated. His words were barely a murmur, but they sounded like a roar.
There was a long beat of silence before Dean's face crumpled into a harsh, wrathful expression and his lips pulled back into something that might have been a smile, but was more of a snarl. "God is speaking to me? God is--" he broke off with a growl of frustration and turned sharply, arms crossing over his chest as though he might hit the angel if he didn't restrain himself. He cast the other man a dark, bitter look, expression twisted in anger and poorly concealed self-loathing. "Please. That's bullshit and you and I both know it." His lips twisted in a viciously self-deprecating sneer. "I know how to follow orders, Cas, and I'm damned good at it. I don't think I would have missed your Lord's holy deployment notice."
"Respect, Dean." Castiel's warning fell cold and dangerous between them, shattering on the pavement like winter ice, but the human ignored it with a roll of his eyes.
Castiel pursed his lips in obvious anger and took another step forward. "God is with you, Dean. You too often forget that in your self pity."
"God is with me?" The hunter gaped for a moment, disbelief so evident it was painful for the angel to bear. "Then where is He, Castiel? Do you see Him here? I am elbow-deep in the fucking valley of shadow and I am alone!"
"You have never been alone," the angel retorted sharply.
Dean took one look at his angry, sincere expression and then bent over slightly and laughed in his face. It was a harsh, bitter bark of sound, devoid of humor, and it seemed to tear at his throat on its way out. He could feel an ugly sneer twisting his lips, but he didn't stop it. It felt too good. Anger--clean, righteous anger--burned through him. And he wasn't inclined to spare anyone who presumed to stand between him and Sam. Not even an angel. "Then where was God when Mom burned? When Jess burned? When Dad died? When Sam died?" His voice dropped low then, mouth moving too quickly and anger burning too brightly to stop himself. "Where was God when I burned, Cas? Where the hell was your God then?"
The silence stretched on between them for an uncomfortably long moment, heavy and dense with things unsaid. And somewhere, in the back of his head, Dean could hear chains singing to the tune of screams and he could taste blood on his tongue.
Castiel looked away first, mouth twisting in distaste at the too-vivid memories of Hell riding high in Dean's mind at the moment--at the remembered pleasure and hunger for destruction that still dogged the human, and the self-loathing and fear that accompanied those memories.
Dean closed his eyes and swallowed, tasting blood and ash. He clenched his fists. Sam. And the memories started to fade.
Castiel looked up and his eyes looked shadowed and strangely bruised for a moment. The expression on his face was strange. He took a step closer--too close now--pressing uncomfortably into the hunter's personal space. "You give him too much of yourself."
Dean smiled humorlessly and held his ground. "Who else should I give myself to?"
Castiel said nothing, eyes instead locked unblinking on the other man's face. The question was rhetorical, but the silence drew out too long. And Castiel was far too close. Frowning, Dean leaned away and then his eyes narrowed in a sudden, sharp realization. He knew that look. And he knew why Castiel wasn't responding to him. The angel was staring at him . . . or, more accurately, at his mouth.
The hunter had shoved the smaller man away and took three large steps backwards before he quite registered the act. His back hit the brick wall hard. His anger was gone so quickly, the loss left him a little breathless, and something far more unpleasant was moving in to take its place. Dean knew lust. And he knew the look in the other man's eyes well--he'd been seeing it since he was old enough to recognize it. But to see it coming from Castiel of all people . . .
"You see, he's got this weakness," the memory of Uriel's voice mocked him. "He likes you . . ."
"Jesus, Cas . . ." A suddenly shaky hand rose and he scrubbed it through his hair. He felt a little ill.
The angel looked away, jaw clenched in anger and a high flush on his cheeks. It was the most human the hunter had had ever seen him look and he didn't have a damned clue what to do about it.
"You are disgusted," Castiel said flatly. He sounded disgusted himself.
Dean winced and raised his hands, feeling weirdly defensive. "I . . . Yes. Well, no . . . I don't . . . Just . . ." He huffed out a sigh and ran a hand back through his hair again, still pressed against the wall as though it offered some sort of an escape. "Christ, Cas. What the hell am I supposed to think?"
Blue eyes flickered back to him, hard and uncompromising. For a moment, Castiel was every inch unfathomable angel. "Nothing," he said firmly. "There is nothing to be concerned about."
Dean grimaced and pushed away from the wall. "Nothing to be concerned about? Christ, man, I saw that. This was . . . I mean . . . This is not okay."
Castiel turned, shifting so that he was fully facing Dean again, and focused his entire attention on the hunter. His expression was disturbingly calm. It was more than a little disconcerting. "Why not? Isn't it the same thing you see when you look at Sam?"
Dean shuddered slightly and took another step back, only to realize there wasn't really anywhere for him to go. "That's what this is about, isn't it?" It was more a breath than a question and the hunter couldn't ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach that came with the realization. He and Sam . . .
Castiel's silence was his reply.
Dean looked away and rubbed his eyes, both angry and embarrassed by turns. "It's complicated."
"It is a sin." The angel's voice was barely above a whisper, but the condemnation was loud and clear.
The hunter clenched his jaw and green eyes met blue unflinchingly. "I love him." Uncompromisingly. Unconditionally.
Castiel's eyes flickered, but he stood his ground. "He stands between you and God."
"Then fuck your God." The words were hurled in anger, but the moment they left his mouth, Dean knew they were a mistake.
Something both bright and dark seemed to flare in the angel's eyes and anger and something more (Jealousy.) danced over his face. He moved faster than a human ever could and Dean had only an instant to register the act before he found himself gripped hard and slammed back into the rough bricks behind him by the front of his jacket. His head rang with the impact. Though he easily had a good inch or two on the angry angel, the hunter suddenly found himself straining to touch the ground, held up but Castiel's impossibly strong grip.
Their eyes met and what he couldn't suppress a shiver at what he saw in the angel's gaze. Gone was any semblance of humanity. Instead, the angel's gaze seemed massive, like quicksand, pulling him under until it became hard to breath. All he could see was a Light so bright it made his eyes water and his headache.
Close your eyes.
He couldn't look away--didn't want to. It was all he could see.
Dean. The voice was Castiel's. Don't look. Close your eyes.
Dean grit his teeth and forced his eyes wide. And there in the Light, he saw something that looked like a shadow.
The angel's eyes slid closed and his grip tightened until the leather squeaked. Dean felt the rough bricks scraping his back as he slid down until his feet touched the ground again, but the angel only seemed to push him harder against the wall, pinning him like a fly to a corkboard. The human shuddered and something close to panic moved through him as he realized it was getting harder to lift his chest to breathe.
His voice shook slightly, but it was more with anger than fear as he ground out, "Let. Me. Go."
Castiel opened his eyes again and they were ice blue, cold with hunger and brittle with anger. He gripped his collar tightly enough to belie the calm expression on his face and leaned in so closely that Dean could smell the scent of coffee on his breath. "You are a creature of carnality." And then he crushed their lips together.
There was nothing gentle about the angel's kiss. It was forceful to the point of violence, more of a conquering of enemy territory than a request. Nevertheless, Dean found a low groan escaping his chest as he leaned in and allowed his mouth to be plundered. His senses wheeled with the experience of Castiel before him, one leg shoved aggressively between Dean's parted thighs, supporting the human as his trench coat fluttered around them in the breeze like a flag of surrender. He could smell the soft, dry scent of feathers even though he couldn't see or feel them. It mingled oddly with the scents of ink, dust, eucalyptus, and fabric softener that clung to the body gripping him tightly. Beneath his hands, Castiel's biceps were hard and firm--unyielding--and the angel tasted of coffee and tart cherry pie and something else . . . something light and beautiful that Dean suddenly craved like air.
He couldn't breath--couldn't think--and when one of Castiel's hands suddenly let go of the collar of his jacket and grabbed at his shoulder, right over the brand, a wave of want hit Dean so hard that his knees literally buckled, dropping him down hard to press against the steady thigh between his legs. He tore his mouth free of the angel's with a stuttered groan. "G--God...!"
"No," Castiel whispered sharply, lifting him slightly and shoving him hard against the wall. His breath burst from him as though he'd been punched and another wave of need rose up in Dean at the rough handling.
"Just Castiel," the angel muttered before sealing their lips together again and stealing away any additional blasphemies.
Dean moaned, not really caring who the hell the other man was at the moment, as long as those finger kept digging into his scarred shoulder just. like. that.
DeanOursMine...
The thought was loud and painful and just plain wrong--more a sudden blaring of sensations and complex, indecipherable emotions than a true thought--and the hunter tried to jerk his head back, but, trapped between Castiel's mouth and the cold brick wall, there was nowhere to go.
No. His own counter to Castiel's voice in his mind was pitifully small.
Castiel hummed softly and sweetly and something like . . . Light--all light, every light, the Light--exploded in Dean's mind. He arched up hard against his captor, fingers digging into Castiel's biceps hard enough to bruise, and screamed into their shared kiss. The hum, burningly inhuman despite the human tone, made his eyes tear up as it vibrated through him. It felt like someone was pouring boiling hot water into him, scalding and drowning and cleansing him in the same motion. He was dying. He was painfully alive. He was exploding and on fire and shrinking and expanding all at the same time and he couldn't breath and he could think and everything hurt and felt so good and--and--
DeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMine--
Castiel...
Let me go.
Dean came hard as the taste of blood flooded his mouth and the Light and the voice vanished, blotted out in a wave of pain/pleasure/fear/need so strong that everything else spiraled away into darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, it could have been a minute later, or it could have been an hour. He didn't know and couldn't summon the energy to care. Castiel was still bracing him against the wall--still far too deep in his personal space--and watching him with dispassionate serenity. His release was sticky and cooling and wholly disgusting in his pants. Dean shuddered again, a garbled protest leaving him as an echo of pleasure moved through him from Castiel's continued grip on his arm.
The angel leaned forward so that their foreheads were a hair's breadth from touching and forced Dean to meet his eyes. "Here--" his grip on the human's shoulder tightened in time with his whisper-- "is where divinity laid its hands on you. Here--" another squeeze from Castiel, another whimper from Dean-- "is where I held you fast while Hell itself tore after us to regain you. Here--"
"Stop..."
"Is where I claimed you for Glory and for God."
His grip was so tight, Dean was amazed that his arm hadn't fallen off yet.
"Damnit--" Dean tried to move, but the motions were weak and sluggish. "Cas--"
Castiel cut him off by leaning in a bit more so that their lips brushed lightly. "And here is where I will claim my spoils of war."
Dean jerked his head back, slamming it into the wall and using the pain to ground himself and force back the heat still racing through him. Cas . . .
He could feel the press of the angel's mind in his head, foreign and massive, and the heavy force of it brought back bright, burning memories of LightLightLight all around and inside him as this thing wrenched him from his chains and pressed and forced--
The human gasped, eyes watering with the suddenly clear memory of Castiel's unyielding arms holding him tight in Hell. Castiel's lips pressed against him, washing away Alistair's taint. Castiel's Grace, pushing, driving, and insisting, drowning and reshaping him and pushing out out out . . .
Sammy.
Stop! "Stop!"
The mental shout and shove accompanied a physical one and suddenly that iron grip released him and the angel (blue blue eyes, the scent of feathers, the taste of sweet coffee) was wheeling back as though Dean had shoved him away with far, far more force than he had. Dean slumped heavily against the wall, panting and aching and shaking, and stared at the other man in wild disbelief. He could still taste him in his mouth. He could still feel his Light scorching its way through him.
Castiel stared at him, blue eyes huge and shadowed in his face, the blue only a thin electric ring around a sea of wide black pupil. His skin was white and his cheeks flushed. He looked like a wild thing.
He looked like a demon.
"You . . ." Dean wiped his mouth heavily with a shaking hand, trying to get a grasp on the situation. In his memory, buried somewhere beneath an ocean of fire, blood, and screams, he could still feel nonexistent lips brush his equally nonexistent ear. "Come with me. DeanOursMineChild, come with me."
Suddenly--stupidly--he really, really wished his brother were here.
Dean pushed himself up from the wall and hoped he looked stronger than he felt. Hoped he looked half as pissed off as he felt.
"You did that before." His voice was rough with anger and raw with exposure. He felt violated in a way he couldn't even begin to name and the only reason he didn't punch the angel in the face was that he didn't think he could make it those three steps without falling over. He wiped his mouth again roughly, pulling harshly at the skin in a futile attempt to push away the tingling he could feel on his lips. "What the hell was that?"
"Dean . . ." The angel seemed to shudder and looked away, unable to hold that outraged gaze. "You are more than your brother's keeper, Dean. And your life is worth more than the sum of your service to Sam."
"You kiss me--or do whatever the hell you were just doing to me--and then you . . . You just--" Words failed Dean for a moment and he hissed wordlessly. "You have no right, no right--" His hands balled into fists and he took a step forward. He could feel his cold release sticking to him. It made his stomach turn even as his body seemed to tighten in a frighteningly familiar way.
Castiel seemed to regain a measure of himself in the interim, straightening his loose tie and disheveled cuffs with hands that barely seemed to shake at all. He turned back to Dean, a semblance of normalcy returning to his eyes. "Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation," the angel quoted, still looking flushed and breathless. "The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak."
Dean stared at him, his anger a living thing between them. "You son of a bitch--"
Castiel flinched, but still didn't look the least bit chastised. Instead, his electric blue eyes narrowed and he turned away to look towards the slowly sinking sun. A muscle in his cheek twitched as he clenched his jaw. "Do you know why Uriel was sent here?"
Dean swallowed hard, but couldn't bring himself to look away from the other man (angel)--not with traces of that damned Light still burning through him like ozone. "Why?" His voice sounded as broken and off-kilter as he felt.
"My brothers think that my interactions with you are affecting my judgment, Dean." Castiel turned back to him and the shadows of the waning light suddenly fell over his face. They were different than the black shadows of wings that Dean had once seen. They were frightening. Sinister. The angel's lips (taste like coffee) twisted in what could have been a smile--could have been, but wasn't. "I think they may be right."
Dean clenched his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something stupid. He bit down until he tasted fresh blood joining the copper and coffee taste of the kiss lingering on his tongue.
"I . . . want, Dean. I . ." He broke off with a slightly shuddered breath, blue eyes staring at some point beyond Dean that only he could see. "It is a sin." At his side, his hand--the hand that had so recently clutched the human's shoulder and held him tight--opened and closed almost compulsively.
Dean shivered when he saw that the motion was moving in time to the throbbing moving through his body. His forced himself to stand, hating the shakiness of his limbs and the faint tremor in his voice. "What do you want from me, Castiel?"
The angel turned his head to spear him with that uncomfortably piercing gaze. Everything, his eyes seemed to whisper. But when he spoke, his voice was all cold, gravelly purpose: "Enter not into temptation."
A sneer twisted Dean's lips before he could stop it and suddenly righteous indignation flooded him. The taste of it washed away Castiel's lingering heat and strengthened his resolve. "Hypocritical much?"
"I did not mean with me."
Dean stiffened, anger burning away like morning mist. ". . . What?"
Castiel tilted his head to the side. "We knew of Hell. We knew of Sam's relationship with Ruby. Did you really think we also did not know about you and Sam?"
"Sam is . . ." The human swallowed hard and shook his head. "I love my brother, Cas."
"But not as you should, Dean."
"And if we don't stop?" He stood a little taller, pulling his height in as though it were a real advantage. "What then?
"The Lord's love is not about doing whatever you would like. There are consequences. God will always love you. But He will also punish you. His Will is absolute."
"All in the name of the greater good, right?" he sneered. "Your precious fucking plan?"
"Dean . . ." The warning was plain in Castiel's voice, but the hunter ignored it.
He was sick of this. Sick of getting pushed around. Sick of never having anything he did be enough. He shook his head and cut the angel off with a rough swipe of his hand. "No. You know what? I am getting damned tired of you people holding him over my head. You want my help? Then you fucking deal with me on the level. No more threats and no more blackmail."
Castiel's jaw clenched and his nostrils flared, a nerve clearly struck. He didn't move closer to Dean again, though. If anything, he seemed to pull away--to contain himself more. "The Lord is not a cheap crossroads demon to be bartered with."
"Then throw me back into the pit!" he shouted in frustration, arms thrown wide in offering. It was hard to breath--hard to think. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to rage. This wasn't fair. "At least down there I knew where I stood. Stop threatening my brother to get to me. You stone-hearted sons of bitches are no better than Alistair."
Castiel flinched. "We serve the Lord."
"Well, I don't serve anyone," Dean ground out in response.
"Not even yourself, it would seem." While his voice was free of contempt, there was something harsh and accusing in the angel's gaze.
The human stilled and forced himself not to reach for his piece. There was no hiding the threat of violence in his voice. "What?"
"Tell me, Dean," the angel took a step closer, but then seemed to think better of it. The hesitation didn't stop him from speaking though. "How long will you hide in your brother's shadow? How long will you allow your obligations to him to smother your Light?"
"I am not obliged to Sam," he snapped hotly in return. "Sam is my brother. My blood. My family. I walked willingly into Hell for him. I would do anything for Sam. Anything. Do you think anything you say to me can shake that?"
"We do not seek to take you from him, only to end this perversion--"
"There is no end! No middle ground--not with us. This is what we are."
"And that is why you will lose him," the angel whispered sadly. "Because you cannot deny him."
"I'm not . . ." he floundered for a moment, thrown off by the angel's rapid transition. "I'm not going to lose Sam," he snapped fiercely. "I can't lose you again, Dean." "We're doing fine."
The look in Castiel's eyes called him a liar. Dean looked away and closed his eyes.
"Just . . . Just don't give up on me, man. Don't let me go."
Anger and fear churned in him and he wondered just how much Castiel and his brothers thought they knew. He wondered at the darkness he sometimes saw in his brother's eyes--the flash of yellow that he didn't (could not have) seen that day by the Impala. He wondered at Sam's desperate grip on him in the darkness, and the way Ruby's eyes tracked his brother across the room.
"I'm not going to lose Sam," he repeated in a stronger voice. He could feel the angel's full attention shift to him again and met the gaze head-on this time, without flinching. If Heaven wanted to read his mind that damned much, let them. He wasn't ashamed of his brother and he damned sure wasn't afraid of him. Sam had been the only thing he'd had to hold onto in Hell. He'd remembered Sam even when the only reason he knew his own name was because Alistair's filthy voice (kniveshandsmouthblood) whispered it in his ear every day. He wasn't about to lose Sam now.
Castiel's eyes darkened at whatever he saw in Dean's mind and the hunter tensed, prepared this time for a second assault. But the angel did not move. Instead he shook his head wearily again, looking tired and bizarrely human, as though he had not had Light pouring out of his cracks and spilling into Dean mere minutes ago. Castiel took another step back, further removing himself from Dean's personal space.
"He is not fully human, Dean," the angel whispered after a long moment. "He is tainted. It is not wholly his fault, but it is true nonetheless."
"He is mine," the hunter hissed back in response, eyes blazing. His anger was something hard and frightening, tapping into a terrifying possessiveness he'd never known he'd had. He'd bought Sam with his own soul and paid for him in sweat and blood and tears. It had been all he'd had, all his life and all that time in Hell--SamSamSammySam--and he was not about to let some unknowable God who'd never done him any favors until He wanted something take Sam away from him. He wouldn't break his brother's heart--not for God. Not even for (Lightcoffeesweetsafetyfeatherswarmth) Castiel.
The angel narrowed his eyes as though reading Dean's thoughts. "You cannot save him like this." Sorrow colored his voice. "Sam is his own man. And you are the Lord's."
"And you're what?" the human sneered, the memory of the other man's lips pressed to his still strong. "My holy consolation prize?"
Castiel sighed softly and looked away. "I should not have done that." Now the regret appeared in his eyes, vibrant and shimmering. It turned them the color of the ocean. He clenched his fist again, looking distressed. "It was . . . Not right."
For a moment, Dean stared at him, anger slowly melting. He hated the angel for a moment--hated him for constantly turning the world on its head, for constantly threatening them. . . But it was hard to hold all that anger when Castiel was so obviously undone and there were still traces of LightLightLight thrumming through him and the feel of unyielding arms bearing him up and away from fire and sulfur and blood in his memory. The hunter humphed in disgust, both with himself and with the man in front of him. "Anna was right about you, wasn't she?"
Castiel looked up, shadows in his blue eyes. He looked weirdly lost.
"You don't really know, do you?" he clarified, holding the angel's gaze. He paused for a moment, scrambling to hold onto his righteous anger only to feel it slipping between his fingers and leaving weariness in its wake. ". . . What it's like to be human? You don't . . . feel things like we do."
Castiel stared at him hard, face expressionless even as darkness clouded his features again. His hands twitched towards fists once more, reminiscent of his talk of wants.
Dean leaned back slightly and sighed, feeling hunted. Anna had been right in some ways, but wrong in others. They weren't human, but they weren't emotionless either. This angel, at least, felt plenty. Maybe he just felt it too much.
"This is my test, as well as yours," Castiel murmured at last. He seemed to have to force his hands to unclench.
Dean looked down towards the dusty pavement--anything to avoid that gaze--and his face twisted in disgust. "Your God is fucking selfish, Cas," he whispered harshly to the ground. He braced himself, half expecting the angel to retaliate, but when he looked up again, Castiel was gone.
The human's legs finally gave out and he slumped down to the ground next to the laundry bag, his head impacting hard against the wall behind him. "Figures."
A dust devil in the distance was his only reply.
When Sam returned twenty minutes later, Dean was standing again and leaning heavily on the wall, his back to the road and his brother. His lips were still slightly kiss-swollen and red and his shoulder aching and bruised. It would be just one more thing for them to not talk about. One more thing to ignore while the rift between them grew like the Mariana Trench.
"Dean?" Sam slammed the car door too hard as he got out. "Hey, Dean? . . . Are you okay, man? Why didn't you wait inside? It's like 40 degrees out here."
Don't slam my doors, bitch. The words wouldn't come out, though. The hunter ignored the feel of the taller man behind him--No smell of soap and shampoo this time, just Sammy with that hint of sulfur--and closed his eyes.
He'd promised Sam he wouldn't give up on him, but more and more he felt like the one being left behind. It was a feeling that was achingly familiar.
"Dean?"
A hand gripped his shoulder--the unbranded shoulder--and it felt so different from the angel's touch that Dean had to suppress a shudder. He looked over, green eyes meeting worried hazel silently. Sam always looked worried these days. Or angry.
Castiel's condemnations twisted around his heart like a snake.
Don't let me go, Sam had pleaded that strange morning in the motel when Dean had awoken aching and tangled in the strong safety of his brother's limbs. And the most fucked up thing about it all was that Dean just wanted to lean against his brother and whisper, 'I won't . . . just take me with you.'
He turned away from that concerned gaze, unable to respond, and closed his eyes against the bleeding sky. His head was bowed and his shoulders were a strong, sharp line against the sunset, like a man awaiting execution.
"Dean . . .?"
"I'm good, Sammy." His scarred shoulder throbbed and he forced himself to smile, all bright lies and sharp edges. Sam did not look convinced. "Everything's fine." He pushed himself off the wall and stepped away from the support. And away from Sam. He was tired. His head hurt. And right now, all he wanted was his car, his music, his brother, and the open road.
Sam caught his eye as he picked up the bag of clean, wrinkled clothes. The bitchface was on again, now with that new dark undertone that had made Dean's skin crawl those first few weeks after Hell. Now it was just one more shade of Sammy. He met the other man's eyes. Tried not to think of Castiel's instead. "I'm good, man."
Just . . . take me with you.
And damned if he even knew whom he was talking to anymore.
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Polycom Speaker Phone
I am Become as Sounding Brass
By: Vain
10/27/2008 - 2/2/2009
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Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Supernatural and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of Eric Kripke and the CW. This is entirely a work of fiction; no profit is being made. All biblical quotations are taken from the King James Bible.
Summary: 'And we all Fall down.' With Heaven on one side and Hell on the other, all Dean wants is Sam and the open road--but that choice may very well be out of his hands.
Pairings: (one-sided?) Castiel/Dean, Sam/Dean, & references to Sam/Ruby and past Alistair/Dean
Warnings: dubious consent, abuse of biblical and religious references, blasphemy, slash of the slashy variety, wincest, implied het, language, all sorts of Season 4 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S., and a hole in the bottom of the sea.
Rated: hard R
Length: about 10,400 words; complete.
Notes: This fic is the fourth in my Strange Angels 'Verse and follows " A Vast Image Out of Spiritus Mundi"; it takes place after episode 4.13: "After School Special."
Beta-ed by the ever lovely and inspirational seraphwings; all remaining errors are my own.
For reference, the title was taken from 1 Corinthians 13:1 and the opening line is from Shakespeare's "Hamlet," Act 1, scene 5.
Pimped at deancastiel & wincest.
Plagiarizers will be puppy chow, but reviews rock my salt.
Enjoy!
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Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way,
and to bring thee into the place which I have prepared.
Beware of him, and obey his voice, provoke him not;
for he will not pardon your transgressions: for my name is in him.
Exodus 23:20-21
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"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
Quarters clattered to the ground as Dean nearly jumped out of his skin.
He whirled with a scowl to face the angel suddenly standing at his side. "Jesus, Cas! You trying to kill me again?"
Castiel frowned, eyes going to where the human's left hand clutched his now-pounding heart and then to where his right hand had slid back towards the gun concealed in his waistband. Dean met his eyes for a moment, matching frown for frown, before his gaze flickered unnecessarily around the empty Laundromat as he eased his hand away from the gun again. Sam wasn't due back for hours--he'd gone off to 'look for a job,' which meant he'd be returning with damp hair and the smell of sulfur and perfume clinging to him--and the Laundromat’s manager, a slovenly man whom Dean had only seen once when Sam had dropped him off, had vanished into the back room well over an hour ago. That meant that Dean was alone. With Castiel.
So not awesome.
Figures he'd show up now, the hunter thought irritably as he bent to retrieve his money. It had been almost two months since South Dakota. Two months since the angel Anna had regained her Grace and vanished screaming into the cold white light. Two months since Castiel and Uriel had vanished from the barn with nary a 'thank you for not letting Alistair choke me to death.' And now, true to form, here was Castiel again, all giant blue eyes and flat, enigmatic expressions, as though nothing had ever happened.
He glared at the other man and edged back a little. The denizens of Heaven apparently didn't understand the concept of personal space. Which kind of made sense, actually, since the same could be said for the denizens of Hell. He quashed that thought fast.
No need to go there, Winchester. Not now. Not ever. He had a front row seat to Hell's Greatest Hits every time he slept or made the mistake of looking too long in the mirror, searching eyes for misplaced traces of demon black--he didn't need that crap to consume him during the day too.
"You've got a lot of nerve showing up here, you know." Dean shoved the recovered coins into his pocket with more aggression than necessary. He was angry and spoiling for a fight. Sam had been weird ever since the gig at Roosevelt High--back to his secrets and silences and sex with Ruby sessions. And Dean was in no real shape to call him on it these days. "After what you two nearly did to Anna--"
"Anna was . . ."
Dean turned to grab the detergent from the top of the machine he'd been loading before Castiel's arrival, still frowning as the angel trailed off. He paused when he saw Castiel avoiding his eyes almost guiltily and pursed his lips. "Anna was what?"
"A mistake," Castiel finished after a moment. He raised his too-sincere eyes to Dean again and the hunter felt his skin crawl beneath that perceptive gaze. It was weird to have Castiel focus his whole attention on him. Most of the time the angel looked like he was half-tuning into something else--angel radio, maybe--but sometimes he would look at Dean, really look at him, and it made all the hunter’s hair want to stand on end. The only person he'd ever seen someone look at him that intently was Sam and Sam was . . . well, Sam was intense in his own right. Dean had gotten used to that by the time he was five. But having an angel of the Lord fix that much attention on him made something at the base of his spine freeze.
"You and Sam were not supposed to be there."
The human covered his discomfort by shrugging slightly and pouring a good quarter of a box of value brand detergent into the washer. "That was the mistake? Sam and me getting in the way?" He glared at the other man. "You were going to kill that poor girl."
The intent look broke again as Castiel's eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment, listening to something only he could hear. "Anna was neither poor nor was she truly a girl. Falling as she did . . . Tearing out one's Grace . . . I do not think you quite understand what she did, Dean. It is not a simple amputation as she described it. It is a rejection of the Lord--of His Will and her place. Angels are not like humans. We are granted only one life. We do not have souls; we have Grace. And, unlike souls, Grace belongs not to us, but is a part of the Lord. We are a part of the Lord--small extensions of His Will: His love, His wrath, His mercy, and everything in between. Anna spat in the face of God when she tore out her Grace; she caused a wound felt by the whole Host. Not even Lucifer rejected his Grace. The Word, yes. But not his Grace."
Dean slammed the washing machine shut and turned to face the angel. "So she deserved to die?"
"Your view of life is limited." The calmness in his voice--the indifference--was maddening. "It would have only been mortal death."
The hunter snorted in irritation and contempt. "Well, aren't you just a sonofabitch?"
Again, Castiel tilted his head to the side. His expression was calm, but there was a trace of bitterness in his tone. "I believe you have already established as much."
"What will happen to her now then? You going to just hunt her down?"
"Not personally." There was no apology in his tone, nor was there room for argument. The angel was merely stating a fact. "That task belong to others now. Even with her Grace returned, she is not fully whole. She still presents too much of a threat to remain free."
The human sneered and shook his head, but said nothing. He turned back to the machine, cranking the dials irritably.
Castiel stared at him silently for a long moment before he spoke again. ". . . You did well, though."
Dean's head whipped around, uncertain he'd heard correctly. "What?"
A small smile played at the other man's lips. "Your plan . . . Playing to Alistair's baser nature and Uriel's prejudices . . . It was very clever."
"That was all Sam," the human replied. He dug out four quarters again and fed them to the change tray on the machine before casting the angel a sidelong glance. "He's good like that--coming up with the plan."
"And you handle execution?"
Dean shrugged uncomfortably, the wording evoking memories he'd rather not focus on. "Something like that." He shoved the quarter-laden tray into the machine, the act providing him with enough focus to remember his previous irritation. He wheeled around to face his companion as the washer sloshed to a start. "And another thing--" The hunter broke off, finally getting a good look at Castiel. "Is that blood?"
The angel looked down at himself and, sure enough, a fine smattering of blood liberally stained the right lapel his graying trench coat. He looked up again, eyes calm and serene. "It's not mine."
The taller man clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes. Part of him wanted to demand whose blood it was. And the rest of him remembered Uriel's breath, soft and warm on his neck, as he threatened to throw Dean back down into Hell. He shook his head, his annoyance resurfacing. He didn't think they'd really send him back to the Pit--he'd already gambled on it twice now and Heaven hadn't called his bluff--but it pissed him off that they'd think they could hold that over him. That they would hold Sam over him. It wasn't like they didn't have enough problems already.
He glared frowned at the ancient washing machine and held out his hand. "Take everything out of your pockets and give me your coat," he ordered without looking at the angel.
Castiel gave him a blank look even as his hands began to pull an odd assortment of things from his pockets. "Why?"
"You can't just walk around with blood on your clothes, man. It's kind of shady." He waved his hand impatiently. "Come on. You're in luck. This is the special Winchester bleach cycle, especially for bloodstains."
Castiel seemed to consider this for a moment as he dumped the contents of his pockets--ten packs of Sugar in the Raw, a used glow stick, three paperclips, and four crumpled twenty-dollar bills--on the adjacent washing machine. "I am capable of cleaning my own clothes."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Look, it's no skin off my nose. I'm already washing Sam's mess. Might as well add yours to the mix."
The angel quirked his brow at the comment, but handed over his coat without a word. The hunter opened the washer and stuffed it in under the spray of water filling the machine. He dropped the lid closed with a bang and turned from the row of washers to the rows of garish, uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs occupying the center of the room. The bright florescent light overhead seemed to drown out the sunlight that crept in through the front windows and highlighted the poor condition of the seats and floor tiles.
Dean slumped down into a chair that looked on the verge of falling off its row and leveled the other man with a tired look. "So why are you here quoting dead poets to me?"
Castiel eyed the chair at Dean's side somewhat skeptically, clearly not trusting the weathered plastic. The hunter only grinned at the expression and slumped further down in his seat. "Well?"
The angel huffed out a sigh and moved to sit beside the other man. He looked smaller without his coat somehow. And the air around him was intensely warm as he turned to meet Dean's eyes again. "Horatio was a man of reason. He had difficulty believing in what he could not see. "
The human smirked. "You think I'm like Horatio then?"
"You are a skeptic, Dean. And stubborn in your preconceptions."
"Should I be insulted?"
Castiel merely gave him one of those creepily serene smiles and said nothing. Dean frowned slightly and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and crossing his finger for a moment. "How do you know so much about human writing anyway? Isn't that a no-go up there in Heaven?"
"Humans are capable of tremendous beauty. We have always been privy to this, just as we have always been able to observe the horror you have wrought. In your artists and poets and creators--Virgil, Confucius, Michelangelo, and the like--the works of our Father are glorified. You are glorified."
"So you all are just lounging up there in the clouds, watching us all the time?"
A soft chuckle. "I think you overestimate your importance in the Universe. Humans are wondrous and fascinating creatures--the jewel of our Father's creation--but you are not the only things in creation."
"More things on Heaven and in the earth, right?" Dean shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face tiredly without waiting for a response.
The angel watched him silently for a long moment as the hunter seemed to gather his thoughts. Then: "Would you have truly betrayed her?"
The taller man looked over questioningly and watched as Castiel cocked his head to the side curiously. "Anna," he clarified. "If your plan had not worked, would you have truly betrayed her even after you'd lain with her?"
The hunter expression flattened for a moment and he looked back down at the floor, remembering the twist in his stomach when the young woman had translated the angels' message: "Either Dean Winchester hands over Anna by midnight, or we will cast his soul back into perdition." He closed his eyes to quell a shudder. "I'd have gone back to Hell."
It was the truth, but not really an answer.
Castiel leaned forward and he could feel the other man watching him closely. "But for Sam? Would you have betrayed her?"
The human looked over without sitting up. Castiel's eyes were clear and focused again, looking at him--looking into him. "Yeah," he replied without hesitation. "Yeah, I'd have done it."
The angel stared at him for a moment longer and then sat back again. Somehow Dean knew that wasn't the answer he'd wanted, but it was the only one he'd had to give. He looked back at the ancient linoleum between his feet. "He's my brother."
Castiel was silent for a long moment before sighing quietly. "She would be better off if she returned to our Father," he murmured at last. "She was never supposed to be human."
Dean looked up, abruptly feeling tired. Though he'd barely stumbled his way into thirty, he felt closer to seventy; every minute of his time in Hell weighed on him heavily. "Is it really so awful to you guys? Being human?"
The angel shook his head. "Contrary to what you have been told, Dean, we have feelings. We experience joy and pain and love and fear and loss . . . Just not in the same way. We are a part of the Almighty--Light of his Light. It is not a terrible thing to be mortal, but it is not what we were made for. The Eternal cannot be shed like an outgrown skin and mortality is not as easily worn as you might think. I have seen things beyond even your conception, and you have a much broader scope than most of your kind. I have heard the planets sing. Seen stars born and die. I have felt atoms crack apart in a span of eons and seen terrible war waged in the space of a breath. Creatures such as I are not supposed to be mortal."
The hunter sat back, still staring down. "Do you miss it?"
"Miss it?"
"Heaven. It's your home, right? Being down here--crawling around in the dirt with us mere mortals . . ." He turned and fixed the angel with an intent look. "It must suck."
A ghost of a smile twitched over Castiel's lips. "The human world--and humans themselves--are not without their charm. This is my Father's creation. I am . . . honored . . . to have been chosen for this assignment."
"Uriel doesn't seem that honored."
"Uriel was chosen for different reasons than I."
"Because he's a prick?"
"You shouldn't goad Uriel," the angel turned to him again, but the overly intent look was once more absent. "He is a proven soldier, tried and true. He was alive for an age before even I was created. He is not to be trifled with."
"And he's your brother," the hunter finished, watching him closely.
Castiel looked away. "He is. If he is stern or harsh, it is only out of concern for me or the mission."
"And never mind little ole me, right?" Dean made no effort to keep the bitterness from his voice.
"You are more than a tool, Dean," the angel chastised him sharply.
The hunter glared at him in warning. "Stay out of my head."
The two stared at one another for a long moment, gazes tangled together in strangely comfortable contest before Castiel finally looked away with a slight huff. "You think very loudly."
And it wasn't really an apology, but it was as close as he'd get. Dean's couldn't help but quirk his lips slightly and looked back down at the cracked floor beneath him. As much as he wanted to stay pissed at Castiel, he couldn't really. The angel had that affect on him--something about his magical angel hoodoo made it impossible for Dean to really hold a grudge, even if he scared Dean shitless half the time. ... Which was kind of funny because Sam was the exact same way. Especially these days.
The thought made his smile fade and for the two sat in silence, listening to the washing machine and dryers rumble around their loads. His sleepless nights were catching up with him, it seemed, and he badly wanted to take out the flask in his coat pocket. But dealing with Sam's bitchface every time he took a drink was bad enough; he didn't need to see Castiel's version of the expression. It probably wouldn't be so bad if Sam would just say something but . . .
Well, what the hell do you say when you find out your big brother had been the up and coming Torquemada of Hell? And that he'd been good at it? That he'd liked it? Liked Alistair's hand on his--guiding . . . praising--liked watching the flames and blade slice and purge, scream by achingly sweet scream . . .? He snorted quietly and rolled his shoulders.
You say nothing, that's what. You say nothing and you fuck a demon and you watch your stupid brother throw back shots while the apocalypse comes.
"You think too loudly," Castiel repeated softly. Sadly. And something in his tone made Dean ache.
The human cleared his throat and blinked rapidly, forcibly pushing away thoughts of his flask again. He didn't need this shit--not today. Not with everything between him and Sam going to Hell.
He turned away and stared at nothing in particular with unseeing eyes. "Can I . . . Can I ask you something?"
Castiel just kept staring at him. "Yes."
"What do you guys want from me?" Dean turned to look at the other man, brow furrowed slightly in a frown. "I mean . . . why me?"
Castiel didn't look away and it absently occurred to the hunter than the angel's eyes really were huge. Big and blue and completely guileless. He wondered if that was the vessel or more angel mojo.
The possessed man tilted his head to the side in that familiar RCA-dog way, just like he had that night in the barn. "There is work that must be done."
Dean sighed loudly and scrubbed a hand through his hair, annoyed. Sometime he couldn't tell if the angel was serious and maybe a little stupid, or if he was just the most infuriating thing on earth and dicking around with him. "Yeah, I got that. But why me? I mean . . . You know . . . You saw what it was like down there. What I was like. And don't say 'because God commanded it' either."
Castiel blinked at him, long and slow, as though that were some sort of response and then turned away to stare at the machines in front of them. "Destiny is not something to be dictated, Dean, and free will is tantamount in human experience." He turned back to the human at his side, head tilted as though listening to another side of the conversation that Dean couldn't hear. "I am not privy to my Father's thoughts and plans. And--even if I were to tell you all I know--it could sway you unfairly. You decisions must be yours and yours alone. I will stand by your side regardless."
The hunter snorted and turned away, irritated by the subterfuge. "Because God commanded it?"
". . . No. Because I want to. We do have free will, Dean. Lucifer could not have Sinned and Anna could not have fallen if we did not."
"So what if God tells you to leave me in my mess and fly back home?" There was a challenge in the question. And--though it didn't come through in his tone--a little bit of fear.
Christ, he needed a fucking drink.
The angel's expression softened. "All others may abandon you, but I will always stand by your side."
A dark smile, devoid of humor, quirked at the corners of the human's mouth and he turned away before it could break free. Second verse, same as the first. He'd heard that line a dozen times before. Different variations maybe, but it was still the same lie over and over: his mother's whispered promises, his father's solid, study deceptions, Cassie . . . Hell, even Alistair had whispered it, hungry and blood-drenched, into his ear. Carved it into his soul slice by exquisite slice. And Sam . . . Sam had made the exact same promises, but even by Dean's side, he was a thousand miles away these days.
And Dean was alone.
Yeah. He knew that lie already.
"You haven't been sleeping well. You should rest while you have time."
He hated how the angel could remain so expressionless, but sound so damn sad . . .
"You don't think you deserve to be saved."
Dean knew exactly what he deserved, and salvation was not on the list.
He shook his head and sat up straighter, flexing his shoulders slightly to shake off the ever-present weariness. He wished Sam were here. "I gotta put the clothes in the dryer when the cycle's done. Sam'll be here--"
"Sam won't be here for a while yet."
And then there were fingers pressed gently against his forehead.
He jerked back, but the heaviness was already washing over him. "Damnit--"
"Rest, Dean. I will watch over you."
Dean growled in slurred protest, but was gone before he could say anything more. Even without the angel whammy, it was too warm in the Laundromat for him to fight off his exhaustion--the air was too soft with fabric softener--and Castiel's warm presence in the uncomfortable seat beside him was too soothing. And he was so, so tired . . .
Nothing would happen to him here--not in the Laundromat. Not with Castiel here.
He head lolled slightly to the side and came to rest on the angel's shoulder, and if the last thing he knew was gentle, tentative fingers carding through his hair, and if the nightmares seemed to be held at bay by a warm, familiar presence . . . Well, it probably wasn't that big a deal.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Dean awoke with the end of the delicate cycle to find Castiel doing Sudoku beside him. The angel's brow was contorted and his lips were pursed as though the little number-filled blocks held the secrets of the universe. The hunter found himself staring for a moment, a little bit surprised.
Angels. Doing Sudoku.
His gaze flickered back to the dryer across from him--the dryer that had been empty when he'd nodded off.
Doing Sudoku and laundry.
Huh.
He blinked and stretched without preamble, surreptitiously checking the other man's shoulder to make sure he hadn't drooled on him. That would have just been embarrassing.
Castiel did not look away from the puzzle. "Did you sleep well?"
It wasn't really a question, so Dean made a sour face at the angel in response before grabbing the bags from the seat beside him and heading towards the dryers. He had slept better than he had in months actually, but damned if he'd admit that to the guy who'd just angel-roofied him. ". . . You put the clothes in the dryer?"
"You were sleeping."
Dean narrowed his eyes curiously, wondering if this was some sort of weird, celestial apology or something. 'Sorry for being an ass and slipping you a holy Mickey. Your clothes are now Downy soft.' He snorted slightly and began pulling the clothes out of the dryer and neatly rolling them up and packing them into the bags. Castiel was still way better than that fabric softener bear. "So you really came here to watch me sleep, do our laundry, and work on puzzles? . . . And quote dead poets?"
Castiel tilted his head to the side in that weirdly bird-like fashion and watched him with wide, unblinking eyes. "No."
Dean made a skeptical noise and shook out a pair of jeans. Sam would probably bitch at him about wrinkles later, but it wasn't like either of them ever really dressed to impress. And anyway, if Sam was going to lie and stick him with laundry duty while he sneaked off to see his girlfriend, then he could just suck it up and deal with wrinkles in his gigantic freak jeans.
Not that Dean was jealous.
"So why are you here?" he pressed again, rolling the pants up more briskly than necessary.
Castiel sighed and for a moment he looked . . . guilty. It was a strange expression to see on the other's face and Dean felt his stomach fall a bit as it occurred to him that Castiel just might have been procrastinating on purpose. He swallowed hard as the angel set aside the puzzle he'd been working on. "There is an issue, Dean."
He dropped the rolled-up jeans in the bag and turned to fully face the other man. "What? You mean with the seals? We can--"
"No." The angel turned slightly, avoiding his eyes, and Dean felt his face twist slightly in confusion.
"No?" A rolled up salmon pink Abercrombie and Fitch shirt joined the giant jeans in the bag. Sometimes Dean had to wonder if Sam really was gay . . . And where the hell had he gotten enough money during Dean's trip downstairs to afford designer clothes?
"There is an issue with your brother--with Sam."
Dean paused in the middle of balling up a pair of socks and felt a familiar tension settle across his shoulders. 'If you can't save him, you have to kill him . . .' He swallowed hard, any vestiges of relaxation from his nap vanishing. He'd kind of expected this eventually to be honest, and he felt more weary than angry. "Is that why you came here, Cas?" He lifted tired eyes to the angel. "Did you come to tell me to kill my brother?"
The angel sighed quietly and stood, gaze half with Dean and half in angel land. "Dean, I know there are things that you don't want to hear about Sam, but you need to listen."
The hunter threw the socks in the bag and cut the angel off with a rough shake of his head, weariness vanishing beneath frustration. It was always the same thing--always the same push and pull with everyone trying to pit him against his brother. And he was sick of it. He shook his head a second time. "You know what? Save it, okay?" He began shoving clothing onto the bag haphazardly. "I already know how this one ends. And I won't hurt Sammy."
"Dean." The firm chastisement in his voice made the taller man pause in the middle of shoving a Led Zeppelin tour shirt into his bag, jaw set and body humming with tension. "I'm not asking anything of the sort."
Green eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Come again?"
"I am not asking you to hurt Sam," the angel repeated with intensity, his eyes locked on to Dean like a snake charmer trying to soothe a serpent.
The hunter broke the gaze with a skeptical scoff and resumed haphazardly pulling laundry from the dryers. To hell with the wrinkles. The sooner this conversation was over, the better.
"Will you stop and listen to me for a moment?"
Funny how much a plea could sound like a demand.
Fuck you, the hunter snipped in his mind, and viciously wondered if the angel could hear that, too.
"It is not difficult to hear you hurling vulgarities," the other man replied icily.
Dean shoved the last item of clothing into the bag and then pulled out the now-clean trench coat. He ignored the angel in favor of snapping the garment straight and glaring at the lapel. The blood was gone of course. Dean was a champion when it came to mixing cleaners to get out bloodstains. He shoved the clean garment at the blond, every line in his body taut with agitation and his green eyes hard as glass.
"Here. I don't want to hear it."
The angel's lips thinned slightly as he stared the hunter down, but he took the coat and shrugged it on with unnatural grace. "No good can come of your blind defensiveness of your brother."
The hunter shouldered the clothes-filled back and turned to the slightly shorter man with a mutinous expression. "You know what, Cas? I am tired of listening to you. All I do is listen to you people and all you do is screw me over. I owe you. I get that, okay? But when the hell have you guys ever listened to me? Or to Sam? Or, Christ, to Jess or my mother, or any other poor bastard that you all just let the darkness rip apart for that matter? You're fucking hypocrites and we're done talking about Sam."
He turned, bag swinging heavily and stalked towards the entrance.
The angel stared after him for a moment, an odd, pinched expression on his face. "The Lord is your Father, too, Dean, and He has always listened to you. Even when no one else did. Especially when no one else did. The Lord is not the issue here."
"Whatever." The cowbell attached to the door jangled loudly as he shoved it open roughly and stomped out into the parking lot. It was late afternoon and the February sun beat down on the dusty macadam, thin and tired. He walked around the side of the squat, brick building, tense and restless. He could feel his flask in his back pocket, heavy and tempting, and whatever peace his nap seemed to have instilled was gone entirely.
He wanted a drink.
He wanted to hit someone. . . . Preferably the black-eyed mockery of himself that had haunted his dreams ever since that stupid dreamroot case.
"This is what you're going to become!"
And it had been right. Dean could feel it: a steady pressure in his head, a film of red over his eyes, how damned good the hilt of a knife felt against his palm. There was a reason he slept with a gun instead of his blade nowadays.
The familiar rustle of feathers made him halt and Dean looked up from glaring at the ground just in time to see Castiel appear in front of him. The angel was frowning, earnest and distressed and desperate in a way that Dean didn't want to deal with, and the hunter clenched his free hand into a fist and barely managed to refrain from punching the blond’s pretty, dispassionate face in.
Probably wouldn't go down too well at the moment.
"Go away," he ground out in a voice like broken glass. He pushed past him, shoulder roughly bumping the other man. It was like hitting a brick wall and the angel didn't move a millimeter, but the rough contact made him feel a bit better. And where the hell was Sam? It had been three hours; the sex couldn't be that good.
"The Lord is not at issue here, Dean," the angel repeated, undeterred. "You are. You do not listen. You do not hear."
The words stopped Dean in his tracks and a painful, nameless anger swept through him. He turned, fist clenched so tightly it hurt. "Beg your pardon?"
Castiel sighed in obvious irritation and stepped closer, closing the distance and putting Dean between himself and the wall. Cutting off escape routes. "The Lord is speaking to you." And he sounded so sad again that Dean wanted to throttle him.
Dean's back stiffened visibly and he shifted to face him fully, giving the shorter man a look of blatant incredulity. The laundry bag dropped to the dusty ground, forgotten. "What?"
"You do not listen," Castiel repeated. His words were barely a murmur, but they sounded like a roar.
There was a long beat of silence before Dean's face crumpled into a harsh, wrathful expression and his lips pulled back into something that might have been a smile, but was more of a snarl. "God is speaking to me? God is--" he broke off with a growl of frustration and turned sharply, arms crossing over his chest as though he might hit the angel if he didn't restrain himself. He cast the other man a dark, bitter look, expression twisted in anger and poorly concealed self-loathing. "Please. That's bullshit and you and I both know it." His lips twisted in a viciously self-deprecating sneer. "I know how to follow orders, Cas, and I'm damned good at it. I don't think I would have missed your Lord's holy deployment notice."
"Respect, Dean." Castiel's warning fell cold and dangerous between them, shattering on the pavement like winter ice, but the human ignored it with a roll of his eyes.
Castiel pursed his lips in obvious anger and took another step forward. "God is with you, Dean. You too often forget that in your self pity."
"God is with me?" The hunter gaped for a moment, disbelief so evident it was painful for the angel to bear. "Then where is He, Castiel? Do you see Him here? I am elbow-deep in the fucking valley of shadow and I am alone!"
"You have never been alone," the angel retorted sharply.
Dean took one look at his angry, sincere expression and then bent over slightly and laughed in his face. It was a harsh, bitter bark of sound, devoid of humor, and it seemed to tear at his throat on its way out. He could feel an ugly sneer twisting his lips, but he didn't stop it. It felt too good. Anger--clean, righteous anger--burned through him. And he wasn't inclined to spare anyone who presumed to stand between him and Sam. Not even an angel. "Then where was God when Mom burned? When Jess burned? When Dad died? When Sam died?" His voice dropped low then, mouth moving too quickly and anger burning too brightly to stop himself. "Where was God when I burned, Cas? Where the hell was your God then?"
The silence stretched on between them for an uncomfortably long moment, heavy and dense with things unsaid. And somewhere, in the back of his head, Dean could hear chains singing to the tune of screams and he could taste blood on his tongue.
Castiel looked away first, mouth twisting in distaste at the too-vivid memories of Hell riding high in Dean's mind at the moment--at the remembered pleasure and hunger for destruction that still dogged the human, and the self-loathing and fear that accompanied those memories.
Dean closed his eyes and swallowed, tasting blood and ash. He clenched his fists. Sam. And the memories started to fade.
Castiel looked up and his eyes looked shadowed and strangely bruised for a moment. The expression on his face was strange. He took a step closer--too close now--pressing uncomfortably into the hunter's personal space. "You give him too much of yourself."
Dean smiled humorlessly and held his ground. "Who else should I give myself to?"
Castiel said nothing, eyes instead locked unblinking on the other man's face. The question was rhetorical, but the silence drew out too long. And Castiel was far too close. Frowning, Dean leaned away and then his eyes narrowed in a sudden, sharp realization. He knew that look. And he knew why Castiel wasn't responding to him. The angel was staring at him . . . or, more accurately, at his mouth.
The hunter had shoved the smaller man away and took three large steps backwards before he quite registered the act. His back hit the brick wall hard. His anger was gone so quickly, the loss left him a little breathless, and something far more unpleasant was moving in to take its place. Dean knew lust. And he knew the look in the other man's eyes well--he'd been seeing it since he was old enough to recognize it. But to see it coming from Castiel of all people . . .
"You see, he's got this weakness," the memory of Uriel's voice mocked him. "He likes you . . ."
"Jesus, Cas . . ." A suddenly shaky hand rose and he scrubbed it through his hair. He felt a little ill.
The angel looked away, jaw clenched in anger and a high flush on his cheeks. It was the most human the hunter had had ever seen him look and he didn't have a damned clue what to do about it.
"You are disgusted," Castiel said flatly. He sounded disgusted himself.
Dean winced and raised his hands, feeling weirdly defensive. "I . . . Yes. Well, no . . . I don't . . . Just . . ." He huffed out a sigh and ran a hand back through his hair again, still pressed against the wall as though it offered some sort of an escape. "Christ, Cas. What the hell am I supposed to think?"
Blue eyes flickered back to him, hard and uncompromising. For a moment, Castiel was every inch unfathomable angel. "Nothing," he said firmly. "There is nothing to be concerned about."
Dean grimaced and pushed away from the wall. "Nothing to be concerned about? Christ, man, I saw that. This was . . . I mean . . . This is not okay."
Castiel turned, shifting so that he was fully facing Dean again, and focused his entire attention on the hunter. His expression was disturbingly calm. It was more than a little disconcerting. "Why not? Isn't it the same thing you see when you look at Sam?"
Dean shuddered slightly and took another step back, only to realize there wasn't really anywhere for him to go. "That's what this is about, isn't it?" It was more a breath than a question and the hunter couldn't ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach that came with the realization. He and Sam . . .
Castiel's silence was his reply.
Dean looked away and rubbed his eyes, both angry and embarrassed by turns. "It's complicated."
"It is a sin." The angel's voice was barely above a whisper, but the condemnation was loud and clear.
The hunter clenched his jaw and green eyes met blue unflinchingly. "I love him." Uncompromisingly. Unconditionally.
Castiel's eyes flickered, but he stood his ground. "He stands between you and God."
"Then fuck your God." The words were hurled in anger, but the moment they left his mouth, Dean knew they were a mistake.
Something both bright and dark seemed to flare in the angel's eyes and anger and something more (Jealousy.) danced over his face. He moved faster than a human ever could and Dean had only an instant to register the act before he found himself gripped hard and slammed back into the rough bricks behind him by the front of his jacket. His head rang with the impact. Though he easily had a good inch or two on the angry angel, the hunter suddenly found himself straining to touch the ground, held up but Castiel's impossibly strong grip.
Their eyes met and what he couldn't suppress a shiver at what he saw in the angel's gaze. Gone was any semblance of humanity. Instead, the angel's gaze seemed massive, like quicksand, pulling him under until it became hard to breath. All he could see was a Light so bright it made his eyes water and his headache.
Close your eyes.
He couldn't look away--didn't want to. It was all he could see.
Dean. The voice was Castiel's. Don't look. Close your eyes.
Dean grit his teeth and forced his eyes wide. And there in the Light, he saw something that looked like a shadow.
The angel's eyes slid closed and his grip tightened until the leather squeaked. Dean felt the rough bricks scraping his back as he slid down until his feet touched the ground again, but the angel only seemed to push him harder against the wall, pinning him like a fly to a corkboard. The human shuddered and something close to panic moved through him as he realized it was getting harder to lift his chest to breathe.
His voice shook slightly, but it was more with anger than fear as he ground out, "Let. Me. Go."
Castiel opened his eyes again and they were ice blue, cold with hunger and brittle with anger. He gripped his collar tightly enough to belie the calm expression on his face and leaned in so closely that Dean could smell the scent of coffee on his breath. "You are a creature of carnality." And then he crushed their lips together.
There was nothing gentle about the angel's kiss. It was forceful to the point of violence, more of a conquering of enemy territory than a request. Nevertheless, Dean found a low groan escaping his chest as he leaned in and allowed his mouth to be plundered. His senses wheeled with the experience of Castiel before him, one leg shoved aggressively between Dean's parted thighs, supporting the human as his trench coat fluttered around them in the breeze like a flag of surrender. He could smell the soft, dry scent of feathers even though he couldn't see or feel them. It mingled oddly with the scents of ink, dust, eucalyptus, and fabric softener that clung to the body gripping him tightly. Beneath his hands, Castiel's biceps were hard and firm--unyielding--and the angel tasted of coffee and tart cherry pie and something else . . . something light and beautiful that Dean suddenly craved like air.
He couldn't breath--couldn't think--and when one of Castiel's hands suddenly let go of the collar of his jacket and grabbed at his shoulder, right over the brand, a wave of want hit Dean so hard that his knees literally buckled, dropping him down hard to press against the steady thigh between his legs. He tore his mouth free of the angel's with a stuttered groan. "G--God...!"
"No," Castiel whispered sharply, lifting him slightly and shoving him hard against the wall. His breath burst from him as though he'd been punched and another wave of need rose up in Dean at the rough handling.
"Just Castiel," the angel muttered before sealing their lips together again and stealing away any additional blasphemies.
Dean moaned, not really caring who the hell the other man was at the moment, as long as those finger kept digging into his scarred shoulder just. like. that.
DeanOursMine...
The thought was loud and painful and just plain wrong--more a sudden blaring of sensations and complex, indecipherable emotions than a true thought--and the hunter tried to jerk his head back, but, trapped between Castiel's mouth and the cold brick wall, there was nowhere to go.
No. His own counter to Castiel's voice in his mind was pitifully small.
Castiel hummed softly and sweetly and something like . . . Light--all light, every light, the Light--exploded in Dean's mind. He arched up hard against his captor, fingers digging into Castiel's biceps hard enough to bruise, and screamed into their shared kiss. The hum, burningly inhuman despite the human tone, made his eyes tear up as it vibrated through him. It felt like someone was pouring boiling hot water into him, scalding and drowning and cleansing him in the same motion. He was dying. He was painfully alive. He was exploding and on fire and shrinking and expanding all at the same time and he couldn't breath and he could think and everything hurt and felt so good and--and--
DeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMineDeanOursMine--
Castiel...
Let me go.
Dean came hard as the taste of blood flooded his mouth and the Light and the voice vanished, blotted out in a wave of pain/pleasure/fear/need so strong that everything else spiraled away into darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, it could have been a minute later, or it could have been an hour. He didn't know and couldn't summon the energy to care. Castiel was still bracing him against the wall--still far too deep in his personal space--and watching him with dispassionate serenity. His release was sticky and cooling and wholly disgusting in his pants. Dean shuddered again, a garbled protest leaving him as an echo of pleasure moved through him from Castiel's continued grip on his arm.
The angel leaned forward so that their foreheads were a hair's breadth from touching and forced Dean to meet his eyes. "Here--" his grip on the human's shoulder tightened in time with his whisper-- "is where divinity laid its hands on you. Here--" another squeeze from Castiel, another whimper from Dean-- "is where I held you fast while Hell itself tore after us to regain you. Here--"
"Stop..."
"Is where I claimed you for Glory and for God."
His grip was so tight, Dean was amazed that his arm hadn't fallen off yet.
"Damnit--" Dean tried to move, but the motions were weak and sluggish. "Cas--"
Castiel cut him off by leaning in a bit more so that their lips brushed lightly. "And here is where I will claim my spoils of war."
Dean jerked his head back, slamming it into the wall and using the pain to ground himself and force back the heat still racing through him. Cas . . .
He could feel the press of the angel's mind in his head, foreign and massive, and the heavy force of it brought back bright, burning memories of LightLightLight all around and inside him as this thing wrenched him from his chains and pressed and forced--
The human gasped, eyes watering with the suddenly clear memory of Castiel's unyielding arms holding him tight in Hell. Castiel's lips pressed against him, washing away Alistair's taint. Castiel's Grace, pushing, driving, and insisting, drowning and reshaping him and pushing out out out . . .
Sammy.
Stop! "Stop!"
The mental shout and shove accompanied a physical one and suddenly that iron grip released him and the angel (blue blue eyes, the scent of feathers, the taste of sweet coffee) was wheeling back as though Dean had shoved him away with far, far more force than he had. Dean slumped heavily against the wall, panting and aching and shaking, and stared at the other man in wild disbelief. He could still taste him in his mouth. He could still feel his Light scorching its way through him.
Castiel stared at him, blue eyes huge and shadowed in his face, the blue only a thin electric ring around a sea of wide black pupil. His skin was white and his cheeks flushed. He looked like a wild thing.
He looked like a demon.
"You . . ." Dean wiped his mouth heavily with a shaking hand, trying to get a grasp on the situation. In his memory, buried somewhere beneath an ocean of fire, blood, and screams, he could still feel nonexistent lips brush his equally nonexistent ear. "Come with me. DeanOursMineChild, come with me."
Suddenly--stupidly--he really, really wished his brother were here.
Dean pushed himself up from the wall and hoped he looked stronger than he felt. Hoped he looked half as pissed off as he felt.
"You did that before." His voice was rough with anger and raw with exposure. He felt violated in a way he couldn't even begin to name and the only reason he didn't punch the angel in the face was that he didn't think he could make it those three steps without falling over. He wiped his mouth again roughly, pulling harshly at the skin in a futile attempt to push away the tingling he could feel on his lips. "What the hell was that?"
"Dean . . ." The angel seemed to shudder and looked away, unable to hold that outraged gaze. "You are more than your brother's keeper, Dean. And your life is worth more than the sum of your service to Sam."
"You kiss me--or do whatever the hell you were just doing to me--and then you . . . You just--" Words failed Dean for a moment and he hissed wordlessly. "You have no right, no right--" His hands balled into fists and he took a step forward. He could feel his cold release sticking to him. It made his stomach turn even as his body seemed to tighten in a frighteningly familiar way.
Castiel seemed to regain a measure of himself in the interim, straightening his loose tie and disheveled cuffs with hands that barely seemed to shake at all. He turned back to Dean, a semblance of normalcy returning to his eyes. "Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation," the angel quoted, still looking flushed and breathless. "The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak."
Dean stared at him, his anger a living thing between them. "You son of a bitch--"
Castiel flinched, but still didn't look the least bit chastised. Instead, his electric blue eyes narrowed and he turned away to look towards the slowly sinking sun. A muscle in his cheek twitched as he clenched his jaw. "Do you know why Uriel was sent here?"
Dean swallowed hard, but couldn't bring himself to look away from the other man (angel)--not with traces of that damned Light still burning through him like ozone. "Why?" His voice sounded as broken and off-kilter as he felt.
"My brothers think that my interactions with you are affecting my judgment, Dean." Castiel turned back to him and the shadows of the waning light suddenly fell over his face. They were different than the black shadows of wings that Dean had once seen. They were frightening. Sinister. The angel's lips (taste like coffee) twisted in what could have been a smile--could have been, but wasn't. "I think they may be right."
Dean clenched his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something stupid. He bit down until he tasted fresh blood joining the copper and coffee taste of the kiss lingering on his tongue.
"I . . . want, Dean. I . ." He broke off with a slightly shuddered breath, blue eyes staring at some point beyond Dean that only he could see. "It is a sin." At his side, his hand--the hand that had so recently clutched the human's shoulder and held him tight--opened and closed almost compulsively.
Dean shivered when he saw that the motion was moving in time to the throbbing moving through his body. His forced himself to stand, hating the shakiness of his limbs and the faint tremor in his voice. "What do you want from me, Castiel?"
The angel turned his head to spear him with that uncomfortably piercing gaze. Everything, his eyes seemed to whisper. But when he spoke, his voice was all cold, gravelly purpose: "Enter not into temptation."
A sneer twisted Dean's lips before he could stop it and suddenly righteous indignation flooded him. The taste of it washed away Castiel's lingering heat and strengthened his resolve. "Hypocritical much?"
"I did not mean with me."
Dean stiffened, anger burning away like morning mist. ". . . What?"
Castiel tilted his head to the side. "We knew of Hell. We knew of Sam's relationship with Ruby. Did you really think we also did not know about you and Sam?"
"Sam is . . ." The human swallowed hard and shook his head. "I love my brother, Cas."
"But not as you should, Dean."
"And if we don't stop?" He stood a little taller, pulling his height in as though it were a real advantage. "What then?
"The Lord's love is not about doing whatever you would like. There are consequences. God will always love you. But He will also punish you. His Will is absolute."
"All in the name of the greater good, right?" he sneered. "Your precious fucking plan?"
"Dean . . ." The warning was plain in Castiel's voice, but the hunter ignored it.
He was sick of this. Sick of getting pushed around. Sick of never having anything he did be enough. He shook his head and cut the angel off with a rough swipe of his hand. "No. You know what? I am getting damned tired of you people holding him over my head. You want my help? Then you fucking deal with me on the level. No more threats and no more blackmail."
Castiel's jaw clenched and his nostrils flared, a nerve clearly struck. He didn't move closer to Dean again, though. If anything, he seemed to pull away--to contain himself more. "The Lord is not a cheap crossroads demon to be bartered with."
"Then throw me back into the pit!" he shouted in frustration, arms thrown wide in offering. It was hard to breath--hard to think. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to rage. This wasn't fair. "At least down there I knew where I stood. Stop threatening my brother to get to me. You stone-hearted sons of bitches are no better than Alistair."
Castiel flinched. "We serve the Lord."
"Well, I don't serve anyone," Dean ground out in response.
"Not even yourself, it would seem." While his voice was free of contempt, there was something harsh and accusing in the angel's gaze.
The human stilled and forced himself not to reach for his piece. There was no hiding the threat of violence in his voice. "What?"
"Tell me, Dean," the angel took a step closer, but then seemed to think better of it. The hesitation didn't stop him from speaking though. "How long will you hide in your brother's shadow? How long will you allow your obligations to him to smother your Light?"
"I am not obliged to Sam," he snapped hotly in return. "Sam is my brother. My blood. My family. I walked willingly into Hell for him. I would do anything for Sam. Anything. Do you think anything you say to me can shake that?"
"We do not seek to take you from him, only to end this perversion--"
"There is no end! No middle ground--not with us. This is what we are."
"And that is why you will lose him," the angel whispered sadly. "Because you cannot deny him."
"I'm not . . ." he floundered for a moment, thrown off by the angel's rapid transition. "I'm not going to lose Sam," he snapped fiercely. "I can't lose you again, Dean." "We're doing fine."
The look in Castiel's eyes called him a liar. Dean looked away and closed his eyes.
"Just . . . Just don't give up on me, man. Don't let me go."
Anger and fear churned in him and he wondered just how much Castiel and his brothers thought they knew. He wondered at the darkness he sometimes saw in his brother's eyes--the flash of yellow that he didn't (could not have) seen that day by the Impala. He wondered at Sam's desperate grip on him in the darkness, and the way Ruby's eyes tracked his brother across the room.
"I'm not going to lose Sam," he repeated in a stronger voice. He could feel the angel's full attention shift to him again and met the gaze head-on this time, without flinching. If Heaven wanted to read his mind that damned much, let them. He wasn't ashamed of his brother and he damned sure wasn't afraid of him. Sam had been the only thing he'd had to hold onto in Hell. He'd remembered Sam even when the only reason he knew his own name was because Alistair's filthy voice (kniveshandsmouthblood) whispered it in his ear every day. He wasn't about to lose Sam now.
Castiel's eyes darkened at whatever he saw in Dean's mind and the hunter tensed, prepared this time for a second assault. But the angel did not move. Instead he shook his head wearily again, looking tired and bizarrely human, as though he had not had Light pouring out of his cracks and spilling into Dean mere minutes ago. Castiel took another step back, further removing himself from Dean's personal space.
"He is not fully human, Dean," the angel whispered after a long moment. "He is tainted. It is not wholly his fault, but it is true nonetheless."
"He is mine," the hunter hissed back in response, eyes blazing. His anger was something hard and frightening, tapping into a terrifying possessiveness he'd never known he'd had. He'd bought Sam with his own soul and paid for him in sweat and blood and tears. It had been all he'd had, all his life and all that time in Hell--SamSamSammySam--and he was not about to let some unknowable God who'd never done him any favors until He wanted something take Sam away from him. He wouldn't break his brother's heart--not for God. Not even for (Lightcoffeesweetsafetyfeatherswarmth) Castiel.
The angel narrowed his eyes as though reading Dean's thoughts. "You cannot save him like this." Sorrow colored his voice. "Sam is his own man. And you are the Lord's."
"And you're what?" the human sneered, the memory of the other man's lips pressed to his still strong. "My holy consolation prize?"
Castiel sighed softly and looked away. "I should not have done that." Now the regret appeared in his eyes, vibrant and shimmering. It turned them the color of the ocean. He clenched his fist again, looking distressed. "It was . . . Not right."
For a moment, Dean stared at him, anger slowly melting. He hated the angel for a moment--hated him for constantly turning the world on its head, for constantly threatening them. . . But it was hard to hold all that anger when Castiel was so obviously undone and there were still traces of LightLightLight thrumming through him and the feel of unyielding arms bearing him up and away from fire and sulfur and blood in his memory. The hunter humphed in disgust, both with himself and with the man in front of him. "Anna was right about you, wasn't she?"
Castiel looked up, shadows in his blue eyes. He looked weirdly lost.
"You don't really know, do you?" he clarified, holding the angel's gaze. He paused for a moment, scrambling to hold onto his righteous anger only to feel it slipping between his fingers and leaving weariness in its wake. ". . . What it's like to be human? You don't . . . feel things like we do."
Castiel stared at him hard, face expressionless even as darkness clouded his features again. His hands twitched towards fists once more, reminiscent of his talk of wants.
Dean leaned back slightly and sighed, feeling hunted. Anna had been right in some ways, but wrong in others. They weren't human, but they weren't emotionless either. This angel, at least, felt plenty. Maybe he just felt it too much.
"This is my test, as well as yours," Castiel murmured at last. He seemed to have to force his hands to unclench.
Dean looked down towards the dusty pavement--anything to avoid that gaze--and his face twisted in disgust. "Your God is fucking selfish, Cas," he whispered harshly to the ground. He braced himself, half expecting the angel to retaliate, but when he looked up again, Castiel was gone.
The human's legs finally gave out and he slumped down to the ground next to the laundry bag, his head impacting hard against the wall behind him. "Figures."
A dust devil in the distance was his only reply.
When Sam returned twenty minutes later, Dean was standing again and leaning heavily on the wall, his back to the road and his brother. His lips were still slightly kiss-swollen and red and his shoulder aching and bruised. It would be just one more thing for them to not talk about. One more thing to ignore while the rift between them grew like the Mariana Trench.
"Dean?" Sam slammed the car door too hard as he got out. "Hey, Dean? . . . Are you okay, man? Why didn't you wait inside? It's like 40 degrees out here."
Don't slam my doors, bitch. The words wouldn't come out, though. The hunter ignored the feel of the taller man behind him--No smell of soap and shampoo this time, just Sammy with that hint of sulfur--and closed his eyes.
He'd promised Sam he wouldn't give up on him, but more and more he felt like the one being left behind. It was a feeling that was achingly familiar.
"Dean?"
A hand gripped his shoulder--the unbranded shoulder--and it felt so different from the angel's touch that Dean had to suppress a shudder. He looked over, green eyes meeting worried hazel silently. Sam always looked worried these days. Or angry.
Castiel's condemnations twisted around his heart like a snake.
Don't let me go, Sam had pleaded that strange morning in the motel when Dean had awoken aching and tangled in the strong safety of his brother's limbs. And the most fucked up thing about it all was that Dean just wanted to lean against his brother and whisper, 'I won't . . . just take me with you.'
He turned away from that concerned gaze, unable to respond, and closed his eyes against the bleeding sky. His head was bowed and his shoulders were a strong, sharp line against the sunset, like a man awaiting execution.
"Dean . . .?"
"I'm good, Sammy." His scarred shoulder throbbed and he forced himself to smile, all bright lies and sharp edges. Sam did not look convinced. "Everything's fine." He pushed himself off the wall and stepped away from the support. And away from Sam. He was tired. His head hurt. And right now, all he wanted was his car, his music, his brother, and the open road.
Sam caught his eye as he picked up the bag of clean, wrinkled clothes. The bitchface was on again, now with that new dark undertone that had made Dean's skin crawl those first few weeks after Hell. Now it was just one more shade of Sammy. He met the other man's eyes. Tried not to think of Castiel's instead. "I'm good, man."
Just . . . take me with you.
And damned if he even knew whom he was talking to anymore.
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