[Supernatural] Awake my soul (Dean/Castiel)
Title: Awake my soul (Where you invest your love, you invest your life)
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1314 (fidipu)
Warnings: slash, mild porn, angst, 2014!Verse
A/Notes: Crap, yeah. I don't exactly know if it makes sense but I kind of like it. Title blatantly stolen from Mumford and Sons. ♥
Disclaimer: Pretty lies to believe in.
~ Awake my soul.
(Where you invest your love, you invest your life)
“It would be so, so much easier, if we were on some kind of flat surface,” Castiel says, his voice light and bemused even if he is a little breathless from the kisses and Dean’s hand is shoved all the way down in his pants. He huffs a little laugh, then, when Dean pushes him into the wall behind them and no, thanks, this isn’t exactly what Castiel wanted. The wall is wooden, rough, he can feel the head of a pin digging right into his skin, and maybe he doesn’t mind a little pain, maybe he doesn’t mind it being hard and fast and spectacularly unromantic, but, shit, Dean is pinning him with so much strenght that he’s going to leave bruises, sore, unpleasant bruises. Castiel’s next ride to town is going to be Hell, for him.
“You happy now?” Dean growls, pushing him even a little harder, and wow, that’s new. He barely talks to Castiel, nowadays - Hell, he barely talks to anyone at all, unless he’s barking orders or complaining about things and missions and whatnot. So it’s unusual, mildly surprising to hear him go for the verbal communication, actual verbal communication, despite the horrifying lack of correct syntax, but Castiel might even be willing to drop the subject, if it means he can get Dean to really, really talk to him.
“I’m afraid we might have a misunderstanding here, o fearless leader,” he says, then places a firm yet oddly chaste kiss to Dean’s lips just because he can. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m obviously touched by your efforts to make me and our fornication-in-progress more confortable, but I was suggesting an horizontal kind of flat suface, horizontal being the keyword here, and this wall, as you perfectly know, may fit the description of flat, though this particular issue is wildly arguable, as the skin on my back will be pleased to testify, however I’m afraid it couldn’t be described as horizontal, in no circumstances whatsoever.” And he’s grinning, by the end of his little, possibly-weed-induced speech, and it feels good, really, when Dean sort of grins back at him. Castiel wonders what could it be that put their fearless, everpouting leader in such a good mood, but then again, maybe the fact that he’s practically rubbing himself against his thigh could be a fairly good hint.
“Well, I’m sorry, I really am,” Dean replies, and that look of confident smuggity on his face is taking like four or five years off his shoulders, making him young again, making Castiel shiver in pleasure under his gaze. Firm, strong, the old, caring Dean he fell for, in any kind of sense. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to make do.”
He even threw some verbs here and there, perfectly conjugated and everything, and that’s enough for Castiel, it really is. He knows it must be pathetic and sad and why doesn’t he just kill himself instead of slowly drowning in the vaste, dirty ocean of drugs and random, meaningless sexual encounters and then this thing he does with Dean, which is actually the most poisoning of them all? He’s been thinking about it since the very moment he stopped being an angel and became a fragile, tiny little human, and his answer has always come to him, always a mere second before it was too late: Dean, just Dean, his cocky, miserable grin and his eyes, his mouth desperately pressed to Castiel’s, his hands everywhere on his body, like he’s falling and gravity is so heavy he can’t even keep his eyes open and holding onto Castiel is everything that keeps him alive, the only thing that actually keeps him alive.
And Castiel really, really doesn’t care if, in doing so, Dean will end up skinning him: he won’t leave until he’s sure that Dean can somehow keep on going even without him. That’s why he turned his back to his rank, to his own kin in the first place - that’s who he turned his back to them all for.
It’s Dean, just Dean, always Dean. Castiel was an angel, perfect, holy messenger and fighter of the Almighty, and he doubted, he doubted the orders he’d received, he doubted the righteousness of his actions, of his entire existence, because he looked into this man’s eyes and saw despair, anger, a pain so great it should’ve crushed him to bits, and maybe it did, but most probably it didn’t. He doubted the Truth for a man, and found himself being right in doing so; even now, disgraced, humiliated, left behind and weak and powerless as he is, even now Castiel doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t regret raising Dean from perdition, from Hell, and he doesn’t regret never shoving him back there again, not even when the Seraphs ordered him to do so. He doesn’t regret protecting him, staying by his side, even dying for him and killing for him and no, most certainly he doesn’t regret loving him, he never has. He never will, or so he hopes.
Dean is broken, but he’s always been. Maybe he’s broken more than ever, now that Sam went berserk with Lucifer inside him and the angels left and Dean can’t really shake that choking sense of guilt off his shoulders (Castiel isn’t really sure he should), but he’s not completely gone, not yet. Still Castiel can see him smile, once in a while, just like now, when they kiss and he gets to see a glimpse of a younger, less tired Dean, and he remember how it was and God, how could he stop loving how it was? How? He loved Dean, back then. Nothing was perfect, and everything hurt, but yet, that imperfect, painful world was a world, just like the one they’re living in right now is a world. It collapsed on itself, alright, but it still is. Crappy, doomed, but it is. And they are. Alive.
And he loves him. Still Castiel loves him. Still he wants to protect him, and save him, and keep him alive and pray for him and he will, he will, oh how he will, even if there’s nothing left to live for, to love for, even if the sky is empty and his prayers are just another mute noise in the black silence of the universe. Even if all that’s left for him to do is spread his legs a little more, moan a little louder into Dean’s mouth, kissing him a little harder, whisper softer nonsense into his ear while Dean just growls and growls and growls, against the soft skin of his neck, and maybe cries, and Castiel only has to pretend a little that he doesn’t notice.
He knows this is what Dean needs, the nameless glances, Castiel’s (only apparently) giddy worry and getting angry at him, biting him, marking him and holding onto him like it’s the end of the world. And the end of the world it is. They know, they both know. And Castiel will be there, like he’s always sort of been; drinking and smoking his brains out of his nose, talking batshit nonsense and complaining of scratchy walls and grumpy fearless leaders, but mostly loving him softly, silently, with those clear blue eyes that are always saying, “because God commanded it”.
Sometimes Dean wonders if it’s true, if really God commanded it, all of it. He doesn’t know what to think. If he asks around, they’ll look at him like he’s gone nuts, and maybe he is. All this religion stuff, trying to find a sense in it, it can blow your mind faster than a bullet through your mouth. But still, he can’t help wondering. And wondering. And wondering. And that’s when he turns to Castiel, generally, and presses him to a wall, and kisses him, because all his life, this is the closer he’s ever been to some kind of Heaven. Happiness. Love. Peace.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1314 (fidipu)
Warnings: slash, mild porn, angst, 2014!Verse
A/Notes: Crap, yeah. I don't exactly know if it makes sense but I kind of like it. Title blatantly stolen from Mumford and Sons. ♥
Disclaimer: Pretty lies to believe in.
~ Awake my soul.
(Where you invest your love, you invest your life)
“It would be so, so much easier, if we were on some kind of flat surface,” Castiel says, his voice light and bemused even if he is a little breathless from the kisses and Dean’s hand is shoved all the way down in his pants. He huffs a little laugh, then, when Dean pushes him into the wall behind them and no, thanks, this isn’t exactly what Castiel wanted. The wall is wooden, rough, he can feel the head of a pin digging right into his skin, and maybe he doesn’t mind a little pain, maybe he doesn’t mind it being hard and fast and spectacularly unromantic, but, shit, Dean is pinning him with so much strenght that he’s going to leave bruises, sore, unpleasant bruises. Castiel’s next ride to town is going to be Hell, for him.
“You happy now?” Dean growls, pushing him even a little harder, and wow, that’s new. He barely talks to Castiel, nowadays - Hell, he barely talks to anyone at all, unless he’s barking orders or complaining about things and missions and whatnot. So it’s unusual, mildly surprising to hear him go for the verbal communication, actual verbal communication, despite the horrifying lack of correct syntax, but Castiel might even be willing to drop the subject, if it means he can get Dean to really, really talk to him.
“I’m afraid we might have a misunderstanding here, o fearless leader,” he says, then places a firm yet oddly chaste kiss to Dean’s lips just because he can. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m obviously touched by your efforts to make me and our fornication-in-progress more confortable, but I was suggesting an horizontal kind of flat suface, horizontal being the keyword here, and this wall, as you perfectly know, may fit the description of flat, though this particular issue is wildly arguable, as the skin on my back will be pleased to testify, however I’m afraid it couldn’t be described as horizontal, in no circumstances whatsoever.” And he’s grinning, by the end of his little, possibly-weed-induced speech, and it feels good, really, when Dean sort of grins back at him. Castiel wonders what could it be that put their fearless, everpouting leader in such a good mood, but then again, maybe the fact that he’s practically rubbing himself against his thigh could be a fairly good hint.
“Well, I’m sorry, I really am,” Dean replies, and that look of confident smuggity on his face is taking like four or five years off his shoulders, making him young again, making Castiel shiver in pleasure under his gaze. Firm, strong, the old, caring Dean he fell for, in any kind of sense. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to make do.”
He even threw some verbs here and there, perfectly conjugated and everything, and that’s enough for Castiel, it really is. He knows it must be pathetic and sad and why doesn’t he just kill himself instead of slowly drowning in the vaste, dirty ocean of drugs and random, meaningless sexual encounters and then this thing he does with Dean, which is actually the most poisoning of them all? He’s been thinking about it since the very moment he stopped being an angel and became a fragile, tiny little human, and his answer has always come to him, always a mere second before it was too late: Dean, just Dean, his cocky, miserable grin and his eyes, his mouth desperately pressed to Castiel’s, his hands everywhere on his body, like he’s falling and gravity is so heavy he can’t even keep his eyes open and holding onto Castiel is everything that keeps him alive, the only thing that actually keeps him alive.
And Castiel really, really doesn’t care if, in doing so, Dean will end up skinning him: he won’t leave until he’s sure that Dean can somehow keep on going even without him. That’s why he turned his back to his rank, to his own kin in the first place - that’s who he turned his back to them all for.
It’s Dean, just Dean, always Dean. Castiel was an angel, perfect, holy messenger and fighter of the Almighty, and he doubted, he doubted the orders he’d received, he doubted the righteousness of his actions, of his entire existence, because he looked into this man’s eyes and saw despair, anger, a pain so great it should’ve crushed him to bits, and maybe it did, but most probably it didn’t. He doubted the Truth for a man, and found himself being right in doing so; even now, disgraced, humiliated, left behind and weak and powerless as he is, even now Castiel doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t regret raising Dean from perdition, from Hell, and he doesn’t regret never shoving him back there again, not even when the Seraphs ordered him to do so. He doesn’t regret protecting him, staying by his side, even dying for him and killing for him and no, most certainly he doesn’t regret loving him, he never has. He never will, or so he hopes.
Dean is broken, but he’s always been. Maybe he’s broken more than ever, now that Sam went berserk with Lucifer inside him and the angels left and Dean can’t really shake that choking sense of guilt off his shoulders (Castiel isn’t really sure he should), but he’s not completely gone, not yet. Still Castiel can see him smile, once in a while, just like now, when they kiss and he gets to see a glimpse of a younger, less tired Dean, and he remember how it was and God, how could he stop loving how it was? How? He loved Dean, back then. Nothing was perfect, and everything hurt, but yet, that imperfect, painful world was a world, just like the one they’re living in right now is a world. It collapsed on itself, alright, but it still is. Crappy, doomed, but it is. And they are. Alive.
And he loves him. Still Castiel loves him. Still he wants to protect him, and save him, and keep him alive and pray for him and he will, he will, oh how he will, even if there’s nothing left to live for, to love for, even if the sky is empty and his prayers are just another mute noise in the black silence of the universe. Even if all that’s left for him to do is spread his legs a little more, moan a little louder into Dean’s mouth, kissing him a little harder, whisper softer nonsense into his ear while Dean just growls and growls and growls, against the soft skin of his neck, and maybe cries, and Castiel only has to pretend a little that he doesn’t notice.
He knows this is what Dean needs, the nameless glances, Castiel’s (only apparently) giddy worry and getting angry at him, biting him, marking him and holding onto him like it’s the end of the world. And the end of the world it is. They know, they both know. And Castiel will be there, like he’s always sort of been; drinking and smoking his brains out of his nose, talking batshit nonsense and complaining of scratchy walls and grumpy fearless leaders, but mostly loving him softly, silently, with those clear blue eyes that are always saying, “because God commanded it”.
Sometimes Dean wonders if it’s true, if really God commanded it, all of it. He doesn’t know what to think. If he asks around, they’ll look at him like he’s gone nuts, and maybe he is. All this religion stuff, trying to find a sense in it, it can blow your mind faster than a bullet through your mouth. But still, he can’t help wondering. And wondering. And wondering. And that’s when he turns to Castiel, generally, and presses him to a wall, and kisses him, because all his life, this is the closer he’s ever been to some kind of Heaven. Happiness. Love. Peace.