fic | 003
if heaven is vacant; supernatural; sam winchester/castiel, nc-17, 1078 words
notes: don't know where this came from. don't want to think about it. slight spoilers and AU-ness for 4x16, but other than that, go nuts.
The angel had lost track of time.
His human host would have been previously accustomed to the unpleasantness of hospitals. He himself, however, his angelic soul, which was more used to looking from outside in than actually experiencing for himself, was not.
The smells were clean, the smells were filth. Blood and pus and disease, soaps and sterile metals and chicken and lettuce sandwiches from the cafeteria two floors below; a too-confusing paradox for one such as he, one so used to a single divine sense and not the painfully simplistic five gifted to his Holy Father's youngest creations. The smells were dreadful.
But it was the walls that affected his mood the most. The walls were green, but not like pine or moss or grass, not like emeralds or jade or verdelite, not like any of the beautiful greens he had yet to see with his host's own two eyes. This was a sickly green, like decayed and rotted green apples, and it made sense to him now that the walls would be the shade of temptation, his short fingernails tearing off bits of cheap paint as he clawed at the wall for support. Human construction baffled him. They could make towers and spirals to reach up to the Heavens, and yet the inside of such an important place, a place of healing, was decorated with paint that scabs and dries and peels off, like mortal skin aged too long and cared for too poorly.
The skin before him would provide the support he needed. Samuel Winchester's skin wasn't aged too long or cared for too poorly, it wasn't dry or scabbed or peeling; it was scarred, yes, but every warrior, mortal or divine, has scars to show. The angel's fingers dug into the strongly muscled back, felt Sam's body respond to his touch just as he heard the hunter's low moan of approval, as if any touch from the angel was a sign that it was alright to continue. Castiel gasped and struggled for air at each thrust, his host's clothing discarded in a chair next to the hospital bed, leaving him naked and revealed and slightly shamed by his own nudity while Sam was still mostly clothed; his jeans shoved down his thighs, along with his boxers, just low enough for him to be able to bury his hardness over and over and over into the once-virgin hole of a once-pure angel.
The grunts and dirty words and curses spilling into the room weren't Castiel's. They were breathed and growled against his throat, tickling his ear, making him tighten and close up around Sam, although both angel and mortal thought it impossible, with the hunter's thickness and Castiel's insides still virtually untouched, save for one perfect time he had lain with Dean as he knew he was never supposed to with a man, let alone with a human. Dean was older, and yet Sam knew more of what he was doing, and now the angel understood what it was to be lost in the throes of passion, to become a slave to the carnal desires of mankind.
Dean made love. Sam did not.
His arms wrapped around Sam, holding him close, aching for an intimacy he'd felt with the elder Winchester, but Sam did not comply, his hips never slowing even as he looked into Castiel's face, making an attempt to record and remember every single flicker of pleasure and ecstasy on the angel's usually serene face.
The Boy King whispered sin into Castiel's ear, against his lips, pondering aloud just how much more the angel could take. Each word was emphasized with a cruel thrust, a jerk, a push forward into a tight sheath that now wasn't quite so tight, wasn't quite so chaste, not with Sam having been fucking him for the better part of an hour. Even an angel can stretch, he discovered, when played with for long enough. Sam asked, again, his words becoming shaken and unsure of even his own ability to last much longer under the exquisite torture of an angel's spit-slick hole clenched around him like a fitted gloved.
The angel begged.
The angel begged and pleaded, sickened by the way his own voice sounded, his words slurred by desire as he begged and begged and begged to be taken mercy on, his bare legs clamping around Sam's waist, attempting to draw him deeper still, to make Sam's length dig into his sensitive spot just once more, just enough to send him over the edge, and when he finally screamed for Sam's mercy, Sam obliged.
Thrust after thrust after thrust and Sam was still spilling into the angel, following him into an Eden they had created in the paradoxical scents and unappealing sights of a hospital room. Sam lied to the angel, words of love and affection that he didn't mean, couldn't mean, but Castiel moaned at each and every delicious piece of fiction the younger Winchester whispered to him in the almost-silence of the room, quiet save for the beep-beep-beep of the man-made machines keeping Dean Winchester alive.
The last thing the angel saw before Sam began rocking into him again was a twitch of emotion in Dean's face. He was still asleep, still hours away from waking, but to the angel, the damage was already done. The tear that slid down Dean's cheek would have been from a nightmare, anyone would tell you it must have been so, but the angel knew better. Somewhere, somehow, Dean was aware of this betrayal, and Castiel should have told the boy still inside of him to stop it, stop it so the angel could go comfort the love of his life, reassure him that it was he and he alone that the angel would fall from grace for.
He didn't tell Sam to stop.
The angel begged and begged and begged, begged for Sam to make his guilt go away, begged for Sam to keep him warm and satisfied and cared for until his lover woke from his tormented slumber.
The angel begged, and he was rewarded just.
Across the room, Dean felt cold and helpless as he drifted back to sleep. He wondered when these waking-nightmares and hallucinations would stop.
After all, an angel was waiting for him to wake up.
"An angel loves me," Dean Winchester thought to himself with a smile, his dreams turning bright again; "I must be the luckiest guy in the world."
END
notes: don't know where this came from. don't want to think about it. slight spoilers and AU-ness for 4x16, but other than that, go nuts.
The angel had lost track of time.
His human host would have been previously accustomed to the unpleasantness of hospitals. He himself, however, his angelic soul, which was more used to looking from outside in than actually experiencing for himself, was not.
The smells were clean, the smells were filth. Blood and pus and disease, soaps and sterile metals and chicken and lettuce sandwiches from the cafeteria two floors below; a too-confusing paradox for one such as he, one so used to a single divine sense and not the painfully simplistic five gifted to his Holy Father's youngest creations. The smells were dreadful.
But it was the walls that affected his mood the most. The walls were green, but not like pine or moss or grass, not like emeralds or jade or verdelite, not like any of the beautiful greens he had yet to see with his host's own two eyes. This was a sickly green, like decayed and rotted green apples, and it made sense to him now that the walls would be the shade of temptation, his short fingernails tearing off bits of cheap paint as he clawed at the wall for support. Human construction baffled him. They could make towers and spirals to reach up to the Heavens, and yet the inside of such an important place, a place of healing, was decorated with paint that scabs and dries and peels off, like mortal skin aged too long and cared for too poorly.
The skin before him would provide the support he needed. Samuel Winchester's skin wasn't aged too long or cared for too poorly, it wasn't dry or scabbed or peeling; it was scarred, yes, but every warrior, mortal or divine, has scars to show. The angel's fingers dug into the strongly muscled back, felt Sam's body respond to his touch just as he heard the hunter's low moan of approval, as if any touch from the angel was a sign that it was alright to continue. Castiel gasped and struggled for air at each thrust, his host's clothing discarded in a chair next to the hospital bed, leaving him naked and revealed and slightly shamed by his own nudity while Sam was still mostly clothed; his jeans shoved down his thighs, along with his boxers, just low enough for him to be able to bury his hardness over and over and over into the once-virgin hole of a once-pure angel.
The grunts and dirty words and curses spilling into the room weren't Castiel's. They were breathed and growled against his throat, tickling his ear, making him tighten and close up around Sam, although both angel and mortal thought it impossible, with the hunter's thickness and Castiel's insides still virtually untouched, save for one perfect time he had lain with Dean as he knew he was never supposed to with a man, let alone with a human. Dean was older, and yet Sam knew more of what he was doing, and now the angel understood what it was to be lost in the throes of passion, to become a slave to the carnal desires of mankind.
Dean made love. Sam did not.
His arms wrapped around Sam, holding him close, aching for an intimacy he'd felt with the elder Winchester, but Sam did not comply, his hips never slowing even as he looked into Castiel's face, making an attempt to record and remember every single flicker of pleasure and ecstasy on the angel's usually serene face.
The Boy King whispered sin into Castiel's ear, against his lips, pondering aloud just how much more the angel could take. Each word was emphasized with a cruel thrust, a jerk, a push forward into a tight sheath that now wasn't quite so tight, wasn't quite so chaste, not with Sam having been fucking him for the better part of an hour. Even an angel can stretch, he discovered, when played with for long enough. Sam asked, again, his words becoming shaken and unsure of even his own ability to last much longer under the exquisite torture of an angel's spit-slick hole clenched around him like a fitted gloved.
The angel begged.
The angel begged and pleaded, sickened by the way his own voice sounded, his words slurred by desire as he begged and begged and begged to be taken mercy on, his bare legs clamping around Sam's waist, attempting to draw him deeper still, to make Sam's length dig into his sensitive spot just once more, just enough to send him over the edge, and when he finally screamed for Sam's mercy, Sam obliged.
Thrust after thrust after thrust and Sam was still spilling into the angel, following him into an Eden they had created in the paradoxical scents and unappealing sights of a hospital room. Sam lied to the angel, words of love and affection that he didn't mean, couldn't mean, but Castiel moaned at each and every delicious piece of fiction the younger Winchester whispered to him in the almost-silence of the room, quiet save for the beep-beep-beep of the man-made machines keeping Dean Winchester alive.
The last thing the angel saw before Sam began rocking into him again was a twitch of emotion in Dean's face. He was still asleep, still hours away from waking, but to the angel, the damage was already done. The tear that slid down Dean's cheek would have been from a nightmare, anyone would tell you it must have been so, but the angel knew better. Somewhere, somehow, Dean was aware of this betrayal, and Castiel should have told the boy still inside of him to stop it, stop it so the angel could go comfort the love of his life, reassure him that it was he and he alone that the angel would fall from grace for.
He didn't tell Sam to stop.
The angel begged and begged and begged, begged for Sam to make his guilt go away, begged for Sam to keep him warm and satisfied and cared for until his lover woke from his tormented slumber.
The angel begged, and he was rewarded just.
Across the room, Dean felt cold and helpless as he drifted back to sleep. He wondered when these waking-nightmares and hallucinations would stop.
After all, an angel was waiting for him to wake up.
"An angel loves me," Dean Winchester thought to himself with a smile, his dreams turning bright again; "I must be the luckiest guy in the world."
END