[FiC]: Legend (Dean/Castiel, Adult)
[Legend]
SPN. Dean/Castiel. R. ~1,000 words. Vague S5. And we become legend.
for tee; i promised you poetry but for now i give you this instead.
:::
There are stories older than this one. There are tales spoken down through time, ones Castiel has come to memorize with each retelling. Too often humans forget their own history, turn it into myth and fable and fairy tale, words carved in stone and etched in papyrus faded by time.
Castiel doesn't know how this particular story will go, but he wonders what will become of its heroes. What they all will become by the end.
:::
There's a part of the story that takes place here: in the way the light hits the long stretch of Dean's back, skids along the golden expanse of his marred skin. When Castiel slides his hand across the arch of Dean's spine, along the sharp juts of bone, he feels like he's crafting a beginning.
Every time Castiel puts his hands on Dean's flesh, he traces the history of his fall in the smooth curve of Dean's collarbone, in the shadowed dip of his chin, and in the soft warmth of his stomach. Castiel finds his rebellion in the long span between Dean's breastbone and kneecap. He fits there, his vessel grafting perfectly against the shape of Dean's body, as though they were designed to fit this way, as though they were meant for this.
:::
The story continues in the fullness of Dean's flesh beneath Castiel's hands, in the way their skin slicks together in the heat of the mid-day sun, full of soft intent and remembered loss.
Castiel knows if he could he would find a way to stay here, anchored to the earth by the shape of impossibility. He thinks of all the ways he could slip inside Dean, down beneath the layers the man uses to hide himself, down beneath skin and muscle and bone. Down and down.
In Castiel's hands Dean is pliant and quiet in ways he only lets himself be in the rarest of moments. His muscles are relieved of tension, and his presence is like a calm and waiting sea. Castiel drapes himself over Dean's body, tasting the sweet salt of his neck and his back. His mouth maps the freckles and scars scattered across Dean's shoulderblades. His lips ride the rough patch of Dean's stubbled chin and shape the bone and muscle rising across his upper arm.
Dean's skin is bruised and tender between Castiel's teeth as he bites down and sucks. Dean makes these sounds, sharp gasps and rough curses, and Castiel wants to tell Dean that this is not all there is, that there is more to this act than the physicality of finding each other. Castiel wants Dean to understand that together they are more than the cages of their bodies, more than the breath traveling the distance between their mouths. They are more than the noises they make in the darkness, the sounds that have no meaning but for the silences they leave behind.
Castiel knows that he and Dean are more than this, but sometimes they are less. Sometimes they are caught up in the middle of the story, lost in the part where the hero faces the darkness alone and thinks maybe all is lost.
:::
There are parts of the story Castiel whispers to Dean only at night, his words breaking against the dip of Dean's hipbone, winding along the curve of his thighs, and curling down the length of Dean's sex, so flushed full and red, pulsing hard and hot in Castiel's hand.
Sometimes Castiel wonders what right he has to this story, when everything that is angel in him riots against it; when everything that is human in him aches for more of it. He wonders at the raw energy that pulses through him even now, how it responds only to the sound of Dean's voice in his ear, to words so filthy sweet and hedonistic, Castiel is overwhelmed by them. Castiel doesn't know what he becomes when he gets like this, so far gone with need he shakes with it.
It's enough to have Dean like this, Castiel tells himself. When Dean is like this, he connects to a part of Castiel that nothing has ever touched before. Here every rebellion and every broken rule can be matched to the sound of Dean's voice, to the rhythm of his body. Here in the dark light of night, there is a song in the sky for the heavens, and there is a story of an angel who so loved a man that he rewrote the entire ending.
:::
This is the part of the story where Dean's spread face down on the bed, and Castiel is opening him up with tongue and with fingers, tasting him, spreading him wide and sinking in deep. Sometimes Dean takes Castiel inside of himeself, pleading for something neither of them knows quite how to name. Sometimes Castiel opens himself up, takes Dean into himself. He closes his eyes, savoring the weight of Dean's passion, the sharp bite of his anger and his need and his fear and his lust.
Castiel thinks this should frighten him, this unknowable thing that draws him back to Dean over and over again. This thing that compels Castiel to touch, to take, and to leave his mark on Dean. But the only time Castiel doesn't feel fear is in these moments - when he's pushing into Dean, slow and sure, and Dean's letting himself go, pulling in long and shaky breaths, his voice choked and raw and helpless. When Dean's praying please, please, please and Castiel answers him with every thrust, with every slow slide into his tight, dark heat. For a time it's the familiarity of this act that Castiel needs the most: getting lost inside something so holy, reaching for something that feels so much like heaven.
When they're falling together, breathing mouth to mouth as their bodies move slow and deep, Castiel thinks: maybe this is their ending. Maybe this is the last story he will ever hear. So Castiel takes a breath, closes his eyes, and listens.
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