Fuck It - I'll post my first fic.
Title: Branded By Faith
Author: waywardson_lvr
Rating: Not sure how to rate angel hard-ons...NC-17? No, probably pg-13.
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Zilch - haven't seen any of S5
Warnings: Besides the dubious writing, a bit of religious poetic licence, an angel with a woody and some pretty boy kissing.
Word Count: 1620-ish
Summary: Castiel is tired of feeling 'junkless' and does something about it.
Author notes: Yes its my first fic posted, no its not very good and yes I know this has been done before by much better authors than me. But you gotta forgive a girl for trying. Please?
This is a total 'Legion' rip off but was also inspired by this awesome story by bombsreverse
******
Standing outside the latest in an unending line of faceless motels, Castiel considered what he had become. After thousands of years of existence what was he now?
A warrior of God faced with hell on earth and reduced to trailing after two humans that he was constantly failing to protect, failing to assist…failing to understand.
He reached out towards Sam’s mind and smiled. The youngest Winchester was asleep, peaceful.
He sighed and turned away from their room. He wasn’t going to venture into Dean’s thoughts - the angel was tired of feeling the bitter sting of the hunters disappointment.
In fact, he was tired of many things.
Tired of feeling defeated. Tired of feeling impotent. Tired of feeling unworthy.
Damn it, he was tired of feeling ‘junkless’.
Castiel winced at the sharp edge that expression wielded. Dean had become all too adept at wounding him with very little effort.
Disappointed at his pathetic reliance on sentiment, he reminded himself that it wasn’t Dean who had emasculated him. It hadn't even been the God who had abandoned him.
Too late, it seemed, he remembered the truth that no one could make you feel less-than without your consent and he angrily wondered why that hadn’t occurred to him sooner.
Frustration chased him from the parking lot and led him to the place he had last appeared on earth and he arrived just as the sun was beginning to rise over the desert.
Could it really have been over two thousand years? It felt like yesterday and yet it also felt like he hadn’t been here since the beginning of time.
A breeze lifted his hair and sent dust spiralling around his body, fluttering the ridiculous trench coat he had lately imprisoned himself in. Impatiently, he discarded his clothes with a thought and relished the cool air and freedom as it caressed his body.
He needed to remind himself who he was, rediscover the warrior from those distant years ago, before - in case - he became lost, beyond salvation.
His thoughts wandered to the time he was here before, accompanying Gabriel. Those had been precipitous times, dangerous for all Gods creatures, not least the young woman Gabriel was to visit.
Castiel had remained unseen by the girl whilst his brother delivered their Father’s message.
The knowledge that she was to birth the son of God was a heavy burden indeed.
As Castiel had watched, the realisation that her life was now ruined fell like a curtain over young Mary’s face and he had felt no sympathy.
This was the way things were meant to be. This was the plan and they all had their roles to play. She was to be the holy vessel, Gabriel the harbinger of fate and Castiel was God’s enforcer.
He had purpose. Conviction.
Clenching his fists he fought to embody that strength once again and called to his mind the image of his body and how it was adorned during those portentous moments.
Closing his eyes to the sunrise, he began to feel black tendrils bloom from the small of his back and steal upwards - coiling and writhing over his torso, embellishing his skin with their familiarity.
Gathering speed, the lines surged and wound over his shoulders, wrapping across his chest, snaking down the inside of his arms, occasionally licking out over his biceps and forearms and ending in a flourish over the backs of his hands.
He could feel the pattern rolling down his body, tracing the outline of his ribs, curling over his hips, plunging down and around his navel and disappearing into the darkness of his pubic hair.
He felt the last of his tattoo wrap around each buttock, then the relentless advance of the design came to a halt, the pattern complete, his body once again anointed with a visual representation of his God-given power.
The desert breeze gently cooled his sweat covered skin as the satisfying burn of his remarking lingered, fading slowly in the silence of the empty landscape that surrounded him.
Breathing deeply, the angel recalled his armour and immediately felt its reassuring pressure against his torso, smooth and cool. And the smell! Oh god, he had forgotten the smell. Leather layered with sweat and heat. The ancient smell of strength.
He stepped forward, intent on reaching the sunrise, and felt the leather panels of his skirt brush against his thighs.
Righteousness seethed beneath his skin, rekindled by this reconnection with his past self. He grasped, held it. Rejoiced in it.
Rejuvenated and with purpose he closed his eyes and returned to the Winchesters motel room.
*****
Dean had become accustomed to Castiels arrival being heralded with a soft movement of air and the feeling of a subtle presence in the room.
Tonight however, Dean woke with a start as a sweltering wind assaulted him, heavy with the smell of sunlight, dust and sweat.
A force that he knew to be Castiel had descended on the room causing the air to feel heavy, drawing all energy towards it like a omniscient black hole.
‘Cas?’ he murmured, pushing up on one elbow and rubbing his eyes.
‘Dean’, Castiel growled, ‘Sit up. We need to talk’
Dean’s vision cleared abruptly and he saw the angel, menacing, at the foot of his bed.
Moonlight swamped the insignificant motel room, illuminating Castiel - bathing him, cold and colourless.
His skin was pale and ethereal, his eyes piercing and his body hard, smooth - barely containing the simmering, raw energy that was now rendering Dean inconsequential in its presence.
‘Cas…what the hell…?’
The question died on Deans lips as Castiel strode towards him.
He knew this was Cas, but he had never seen the angel like this. And it wasn’t just the expression he wore, nor was it the battered leather armour encasing the angels chest and encircling his waist.
Castiel came to a halt on the right side of Dean’s bed, a metre out of the hunters reach, a pillar of darkness and foreboding - the way he imagined an ancient Roman god would look.
He was power caged. Wrath waiting for an opportunity.
Dean was awestruck and afraid. His heart pounded unevenly in his chest as he sat up in the bed, waiting…fearing the clouds that were gathering behind the angels hardened expression.
‘Dean’ he ordered, ‘You need to see me as the warrior I was created.’ The angels voice was rough, shadowed with anger, his eyes malevolent and heavy with intent.
As Dean watched, Castiel raised his left arm to untie the leather thong that held the breastplate to his body.
Dean drew in an uneven breath as the movement revealed florid, black lines curling down the inside of the angels arm, briefly flicking out over the edges of his bicep and winding over his hand.
The hunters eyes were compelled back to Castiels as he lifted the armour over his head and let it fall to the floor beside him.
Afraid to move, afraid to breathe Dean remained almost motionless while his eyes followed the descent of Castiels hands to the leather skirt slung low on his narrow waist.
With nimble fingers he unlaced the thong holding the garment in place and, one-handed, unwound it from his body and dropped it.
Sweat was beading on the angels skin despite the night-time cool of the room. Moonlight exaggerated every sharp angle, every muscled curve.
Dean eyes chased the tattoo that embraced Castiels body like a lover. He followed its caresses over the angels chest and down as it wound over his hips. The lines coiled intricately, reaching down seemingly eager to envelop Castiel’s cock which was growing hard before his eyes.
The hunter pushed himself up and swung his legs off the bed, feet on the floor - eyes never leaving the angels body.
He didn’t trust himself to stand, Castiel before him like this frightened him and enthralled him, made his skin burn and his groin ache.
This confusion of emotions must have been all too evident on his face because it was then that Castiel surged forward, closing the empty space between them to grasp the hunters jaw.
Tilting his face up towards his own Castiel filled his vision and Dean had no choice but to fall into his deep, blue, terrible eyes. The angels breath, hot and ragged ghosted across Deans mouth and a moan slipped past the hunters lips as Castiel held him there - plundering his soul as if it was his property.
‘Do you see me Dean.’ the angel demanded, his voice low, deadly.
Dean hauled a breath into his heaving chest and searched wildly for his voice while Castiel waited, unmoving.
‘Yes’ he whispered.
With that Castiel leant further, eyes firmly on Deans and paused, lips so close they brushed the hunters as he spoke.
‘Good’.
He moved his hand from Deans face to clasp the back of his neck. Fingers twining in the hunters hair, Castiel pulled his head back sharply before pressing his lips to Deans.
He immediately took advantage of his position and deepened the kiss, forcing his tongue into Deans mouth, eliciting a throaty moan as he gave in to the hunger he had been attempting to ignore for weeks.
Dean responded eagerly, his hands sliding over Castiels stomach, clutching at his hips as his tongue surged into the angels mouth, feeling heat mounting in his body so violently he thought he would burst into flames.
Panting, Castiel pushed Dean away and regarded him for a few seconds, eyelids heavy, desire darkening his expression.
Deans face was open with want and need, his own startled eyes truly seeing Castiel for what seemed like the first time in months.
Castiel gently stroked Deans cheek, rubbing his thumb slowly over the hunters soft, wet lips and marvelled at how beautiful the man was like this.
‘It seems I’ve made my point.’ he murmured softly.
And with a wry smile, he disappeared.
Author: waywardson_lvr
Rating: Not sure how to rate angel hard-ons...NC-17? No, probably pg-13.
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Zilch - haven't seen any of S5
Warnings: Besides the dubious writing, a bit of religious poetic licence, an angel with a woody and some pretty boy kissing.
Word Count: 1620-ish
Summary: Castiel is tired of feeling 'junkless' and does something about it.
Author notes: Yes its my first fic posted, no its not very good and yes I know this has been done before by much better authors than me. But you gotta forgive a girl for trying. Please?
This is a total 'Legion' rip off but was also inspired by this awesome story by bombsreverse
******
Standing outside the latest in an unending line of faceless motels, Castiel considered what he had become. After thousands of years of existence what was he now?
A warrior of God faced with hell on earth and reduced to trailing after two humans that he was constantly failing to protect, failing to assist…failing to understand.
He reached out towards Sam’s mind and smiled. The youngest Winchester was asleep, peaceful.
He sighed and turned away from their room. He wasn’t going to venture into Dean’s thoughts - the angel was tired of feeling the bitter sting of the hunters disappointment.
In fact, he was tired of many things.
Tired of feeling defeated. Tired of feeling impotent. Tired of feeling unworthy.
Damn it, he was tired of feeling ‘junkless’.
Castiel winced at the sharp edge that expression wielded. Dean had become all too adept at wounding him with very little effort.
Disappointed at his pathetic reliance on sentiment, he reminded himself that it wasn’t Dean who had emasculated him. It hadn't even been the God who had abandoned him.
Too late, it seemed, he remembered the truth that no one could make you feel less-than without your consent and he angrily wondered why that hadn’t occurred to him sooner.
Frustration chased him from the parking lot and led him to the place he had last appeared on earth and he arrived just as the sun was beginning to rise over the desert.
Could it really have been over two thousand years? It felt like yesterday and yet it also felt like he hadn’t been here since the beginning of time.
A breeze lifted his hair and sent dust spiralling around his body, fluttering the ridiculous trench coat he had lately imprisoned himself in. Impatiently, he discarded his clothes with a thought and relished the cool air and freedom as it caressed his body.
He needed to remind himself who he was, rediscover the warrior from those distant years ago, before - in case - he became lost, beyond salvation.
His thoughts wandered to the time he was here before, accompanying Gabriel. Those had been precipitous times, dangerous for all Gods creatures, not least the young woman Gabriel was to visit.
Castiel had remained unseen by the girl whilst his brother delivered their Father’s message.
The knowledge that she was to birth the son of God was a heavy burden indeed.
As Castiel had watched, the realisation that her life was now ruined fell like a curtain over young Mary’s face and he had felt no sympathy.
This was the way things were meant to be. This was the plan and they all had their roles to play. She was to be the holy vessel, Gabriel the harbinger of fate and Castiel was God’s enforcer.
He had purpose. Conviction.
Clenching his fists he fought to embody that strength once again and called to his mind the image of his body and how it was adorned during those portentous moments.
Closing his eyes to the sunrise, he began to feel black tendrils bloom from the small of his back and steal upwards - coiling and writhing over his torso, embellishing his skin with their familiarity.
Gathering speed, the lines surged and wound over his shoulders, wrapping across his chest, snaking down the inside of his arms, occasionally licking out over his biceps and forearms and ending in a flourish over the backs of his hands.
He could feel the pattern rolling down his body, tracing the outline of his ribs, curling over his hips, plunging down and around his navel and disappearing into the darkness of his pubic hair.
He felt the last of his tattoo wrap around each buttock, then the relentless advance of the design came to a halt, the pattern complete, his body once again anointed with a visual representation of his God-given power.
The desert breeze gently cooled his sweat covered skin as the satisfying burn of his remarking lingered, fading slowly in the silence of the empty landscape that surrounded him.
Breathing deeply, the angel recalled his armour and immediately felt its reassuring pressure against his torso, smooth and cool. And the smell! Oh god, he had forgotten the smell. Leather layered with sweat and heat. The ancient smell of strength.
He stepped forward, intent on reaching the sunrise, and felt the leather panels of his skirt brush against his thighs.
Righteousness seethed beneath his skin, rekindled by this reconnection with his past self. He grasped, held it. Rejoiced in it.
Rejuvenated and with purpose he closed his eyes and returned to the Winchesters motel room.
*****
Dean had become accustomed to Castiels arrival being heralded with a soft movement of air and the feeling of a subtle presence in the room.
Tonight however, Dean woke with a start as a sweltering wind assaulted him, heavy with the smell of sunlight, dust and sweat.
A force that he knew to be Castiel had descended on the room causing the air to feel heavy, drawing all energy towards it like a omniscient black hole.
‘Cas?’ he murmured, pushing up on one elbow and rubbing his eyes.
‘Dean’, Castiel growled, ‘Sit up. We need to talk’
Dean’s vision cleared abruptly and he saw the angel, menacing, at the foot of his bed.
Moonlight swamped the insignificant motel room, illuminating Castiel - bathing him, cold and colourless.
His skin was pale and ethereal, his eyes piercing and his body hard, smooth - barely containing the simmering, raw energy that was now rendering Dean inconsequential in its presence.
‘Cas…what the hell…?’
The question died on Deans lips as Castiel strode towards him.
He knew this was Cas, but he had never seen the angel like this. And it wasn’t just the expression he wore, nor was it the battered leather armour encasing the angels chest and encircling his waist.
Castiel came to a halt on the right side of Dean’s bed, a metre out of the hunters reach, a pillar of darkness and foreboding - the way he imagined an ancient Roman god would look.
He was power caged. Wrath waiting for an opportunity.
Dean was awestruck and afraid. His heart pounded unevenly in his chest as he sat up in the bed, waiting…fearing the clouds that were gathering behind the angels hardened expression.
‘Dean’ he ordered, ‘You need to see me as the warrior I was created.’ The angels voice was rough, shadowed with anger, his eyes malevolent and heavy with intent.
As Dean watched, Castiel raised his left arm to untie the leather thong that held the breastplate to his body.
Dean drew in an uneven breath as the movement revealed florid, black lines curling down the inside of the angels arm, briefly flicking out over the edges of his bicep and winding over his hand.
The hunters eyes were compelled back to Castiels as he lifted the armour over his head and let it fall to the floor beside him.
Afraid to move, afraid to breathe Dean remained almost motionless while his eyes followed the descent of Castiels hands to the leather skirt slung low on his narrow waist.
With nimble fingers he unlaced the thong holding the garment in place and, one-handed, unwound it from his body and dropped it.
Sweat was beading on the angels skin despite the night-time cool of the room. Moonlight exaggerated every sharp angle, every muscled curve.
Dean eyes chased the tattoo that embraced Castiels body like a lover. He followed its caresses over the angels chest and down as it wound over his hips. The lines coiled intricately, reaching down seemingly eager to envelop Castiel’s cock which was growing hard before his eyes.
The hunter pushed himself up and swung his legs off the bed, feet on the floor - eyes never leaving the angels body.
He didn’t trust himself to stand, Castiel before him like this frightened him and enthralled him, made his skin burn and his groin ache.
This confusion of emotions must have been all too evident on his face because it was then that Castiel surged forward, closing the empty space between them to grasp the hunters jaw.
Tilting his face up towards his own Castiel filled his vision and Dean had no choice but to fall into his deep, blue, terrible eyes. The angels breath, hot and ragged ghosted across Deans mouth and a moan slipped past the hunters lips as Castiel held him there - plundering his soul as if it was his property.
‘Do you see me Dean.’ the angel demanded, his voice low, deadly.
Dean hauled a breath into his heaving chest and searched wildly for his voice while Castiel waited, unmoving.
‘Yes’ he whispered.
With that Castiel leant further, eyes firmly on Deans and paused, lips so close they brushed the hunters as he spoke.
‘Good’.
He moved his hand from Deans face to clasp the back of his neck. Fingers twining in the hunters hair, Castiel pulled his head back sharply before pressing his lips to Deans.
He immediately took advantage of his position and deepened the kiss, forcing his tongue into Deans mouth, eliciting a throaty moan as he gave in to the hunger he had been attempting to ignore for weeks.
Dean responded eagerly, his hands sliding over Castiels stomach, clutching at his hips as his tongue surged into the angels mouth, feeling heat mounting in his body so violently he thought he would burst into flames.
Panting, Castiel pushed Dean away and regarded him for a few seconds, eyelids heavy, desire darkening his expression.
Deans face was open with want and need, his own startled eyes truly seeing Castiel for what seemed like the first time in months.
Castiel gently stroked Deans cheek, rubbing his thumb slowly over the hunters soft, wet lips and marvelled at how beautiful the man was like this.
‘It seems I’ve made my point.’ he murmured softly.
And with a wry smile, he disappeared.