MMOM #2: There’s No Saving a Savior (Dean/Castiel)
Title: There’s No Saving a Savior
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1400
Notes: Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation 31-Day Fic-a-thon, for which this is fic #2. Also, this is not the promised wing!porn. Tomorrow! I vow to write a happy Dean/Cas fic before this month is over. Srsly. This is not that fic. Today, instead, is a post-work Cas angst fic response to 4.20. SPOILERS FOR 4.20.
*
The angel is late to arrive.
Dean sits at the red plastic chrome-rimmed table, surrounded by matching décor, his shoes resting on the stool rung like a little boy’s.
He wants fries and a shake. A bacon cheeseburger.
He thinks of the food and nothing else.
It makes him profoundly happy.
He’s waiting for someone.
*
The angel was late to arrive.
Dean was tortured in Hell for 30 years.
Then one day he forgot why he was waiting. He spent the next 10 years making up for lost time.
He knew all about lost time and the kind of hope that had no reward.
Castiel, the angel of the lord, saw this and wept. Angels knew regret for the first time the day Lucifer fell. Angels learned what it was.
But, being angels, they had no cure, only platitudes.
It would have to be enough, if it was deemed to be enough, Castiel assumed.
Still, he spent the next year repaying Dean with dreams.
*
The angel was late to arrive.
Dean started without him. It was easy to be aroused and hard in his dreams, to feel again. His body felt whole again, here in his dreams with the angel.
“They might be watching.”
Castiel spoke before he saw him, after he first felt his presence.
“Will you?” Dean’s challenge sounded loud in his ears.
Castiel responded with an ocean.
Dean laughed at the warmth of it, the futile modesty as the waves broke against his broad back.
An angel could never see the perverse beauty of the ocean, the tides shifting with fertility, the ejaculating sea cucumber, the slip of wet seaweed, the taste and the scent of that world. Its nature was beautiful but necessary. He didn’t know nature’s one and only desire. Not even an angel of the moon.
So Dean stood up and showed him.
Castiel stood 14 feet in front of him, his hands hanging at his sides in limp dismayed wonder. His expression, as always, matched his posture. His uncanny appearance struck Dean dumb sometimes.
As it was, he breathed out of time with the tide and listened to the roar of it. He gripped himself tight and looked at Castiel’s eyes widen and narrow as they traveled over his naked body.
Castiel stood at the edge of the surf. When the water turned the hem of his coat dark, he showed no notice.
Dean was thinking of his reflection in the angel’s eyes, the way the sunset shone behind him and the violet dusk came on, the way his eyes shone out from the soft shadows of his damp skin. Dean saw himself there, in the way Castiel’s body reflected the light as the dark closed in, the way everything seemed to be reaching towards Castiel, the way the waves pushed him forward as his body reached completion.
The angel stood mesmerized by the world he created in the dreams of this man.
Dean felt like an acolyte in a temple, spilling his seed to praise the creation of life out of chaos…
Maybe the moment he came, the ocean swallowed them up whole like a whale.
Maybe the moment he came, Castiel spoke a prayer, turned his palms toward the dying sun, closed his eyes and spoke of courage, the taste of Dean on his lips.
Maybe the moment he came, Dean thought of mother Mary and her sacred burning heart, crowned by thorns.
*
The hunter was late to arrive.
As it was, the symbol was already on the wall painted in red when Castiel turned around.
No, wait! Panic. His vessel heart kick-starting to life.
But Zachariah was pressing his hand to the bloody prints on the wall, completing the circle.
Dean, Castiel thought. You tried, he thought.
Castiel never did think of a way to describe the kind of torture only a Heaven could devise. Perhaps he never would.
There were so many things he could not say to Dean.
He knew that now, as always. It would not change.
*
The hunter was late to arrive.
Castiel looked out through familiar blue eyes, younger eyes.
He had a promise to keep.
Jimmy Novak had faith his angel existed, had faith he had the capacity to help, if not the will. But he no longer had any hope or purpose or desire left after he knew Castiel.
Sometimes, especially of late, Castiel feared Dean felt the same way.
Castiel felt the wrongness of this vessel, the girl who had no such cynicism, even when her father had looked back and denied her his existence on Christmas morning.
Castiel was using her as he had used these men - to serve a will he could never be blessed enough to understand. A will he could not change.
When the first vessel had surrendered to him finally -- the horror he had felt coming off him in waves, willing to do anything to save his daughter from the thing that had destroyed his world, the thing responsible for crushing his faith -- Castiel had felt ashamed.
When he looked at Dean from the newly old eyes again, they shone with regret. They shone with the fear of what he’d wanted to say -- what he’d almost done -- with the delirium of the forever lost.
There would have been no going back, Castiel knew.
He would have turned against his brothers and sisters! His Father! Surely Dean could understand. He would have been worse than Lucifer, because he had known the cost, only he’d just forgotten it.
Castiel always knew the cost, before this man made him forget.
This man was magic. This man was tricks and lies. This man was the snake. That was perfectly clear.
He had to be perfectly clear.
I certainly do not serve you!
Castiel’s mouth formed a smug, righteous line as he turned away.
When he walked through the doorway he’d opened with the wave of a hand, he felt the cold hardening gaze of Dean on his back. He felt the cold hard heart of this vessel give up on beating. He felt the cold hard purity of his regained purpose, and the pitiless gaze of his brothers and sisters.
He knew it was what he deserved.
*
The angel is late to arrive.
Dean sits at the red plastic chrome-rimmed table, his shoes resting on the stool rung like a little boy’s.
He wants fries and a shake. A bacon cheeseburger.
He thinks of the food and nothing else.
It makes him profoundly happy.
He’s waiting for someone. He knows that much. He’s had the same bright diner dream for seven nights in a row now.
Dean wants nothing more than a bacon cheeseburger, some greasy fries, and a cold vanilla milkshake.
But he knows this dream now.
He knows, his feet shaking on the stool, his eyes darting around the tables, that it will never arrive.
The lights reflecting off the chrome make his eyes ache. The smiles seem alien and far away.
No one is going to come for him. No one is going to walk through the door, head tilted, coat flapping, looking into him with eyes that had almost, almost make him believe the biggest lie in all the world.
What are the saved to do when their saviors turn against them? When there is no peace in death? When angels steal the hope from the very souls of the faithful?
When Dean awakes, he is wracked with dry heaves and his chest is tight with blind panic.
His dream is forgotten
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1400
Notes: Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation 31-Day Fic-a-thon, for which this is fic #2. Also, this is not the promised wing!porn. Tomorrow! I vow to write a happy Dean/Cas fic before this month is over. Srsly. This is not that fic. Today, instead, is a post-work Cas angst fic response to 4.20. SPOILERS FOR 4.20.
*
The angel is late to arrive.
Dean sits at the red plastic chrome-rimmed table, surrounded by matching décor, his shoes resting on the stool rung like a little boy’s.
He wants fries and a shake. A bacon cheeseburger.
He thinks of the food and nothing else.
It makes him profoundly happy.
He’s waiting for someone.
*
The angel was late to arrive.
Dean was tortured in Hell for 30 years.
Then one day he forgot why he was waiting. He spent the next 10 years making up for lost time.
He knew all about lost time and the kind of hope that had no reward.
Castiel, the angel of the lord, saw this and wept. Angels knew regret for the first time the day Lucifer fell. Angels learned what it was.
But, being angels, they had no cure, only platitudes.
It would have to be enough, if it was deemed to be enough, Castiel assumed.
Still, he spent the next year repaying Dean with dreams.
*
The angel was late to arrive.
Dean started without him. It was easy to be aroused and hard in his dreams, to feel again. His body felt whole again, here in his dreams with the angel.
“They might be watching.”
Castiel spoke before he saw him, after he first felt his presence.
“Will you?” Dean’s challenge sounded loud in his ears.
Castiel responded with an ocean.
Dean laughed at the warmth of it, the futile modesty as the waves broke against his broad back.
An angel could never see the perverse beauty of the ocean, the tides shifting with fertility, the ejaculating sea cucumber, the slip of wet seaweed, the taste and the scent of that world. Its nature was beautiful but necessary. He didn’t know nature’s one and only desire. Not even an angel of the moon.
So Dean stood up and showed him.
Castiel stood 14 feet in front of him, his hands hanging at his sides in limp dismayed wonder. His expression, as always, matched his posture. His uncanny appearance struck Dean dumb sometimes.
As it was, he breathed out of time with the tide and listened to the roar of it. He gripped himself tight and looked at Castiel’s eyes widen and narrow as they traveled over his naked body.
Castiel stood at the edge of the surf. When the water turned the hem of his coat dark, he showed no notice.
Dean was thinking of his reflection in the angel’s eyes, the way the sunset shone behind him and the violet dusk came on, the way his eyes shone out from the soft shadows of his damp skin. Dean saw himself there, in the way Castiel’s body reflected the light as the dark closed in, the way everything seemed to be reaching towards Castiel, the way the waves pushed him forward as his body reached completion.
The angel stood mesmerized by the world he created in the dreams of this man.
Dean felt like an acolyte in a temple, spilling his seed to praise the creation of life out of chaos…
Maybe the moment he came, the ocean swallowed them up whole like a whale.
Maybe the moment he came, Castiel spoke a prayer, turned his palms toward the dying sun, closed his eyes and spoke of courage, the taste of Dean on his lips.
Maybe the moment he came, Dean thought of mother Mary and her sacred burning heart, crowned by thorns.
*
The hunter was late to arrive.
As it was, the symbol was already on the wall painted in red when Castiel turned around.
No, wait! Panic. His vessel heart kick-starting to life.
But Zachariah was pressing his hand to the bloody prints on the wall, completing the circle.
Dean, Castiel thought. You tried, he thought.
Castiel never did think of a way to describe the kind of torture only a Heaven could devise. Perhaps he never would.
There were so many things he could not say to Dean.
He knew that now, as always. It would not change.
*
The hunter was late to arrive.
Castiel looked out through familiar blue eyes, younger eyes.
He had a promise to keep.
Jimmy Novak had faith his angel existed, had faith he had the capacity to help, if not the will. But he no longer had any hope or purpose or desire left after he knew Castiel.
Sometimes, especially of late, Castiel feared Dean felt the same way.
Castiel felt the wrongness of this vessel, the girl who had no such cynicism, even when her father had looked back and denied her his existence on Christmas morning.
Castiel was using her as he had used these men - to serve a will he could never be blessed enough to understand. A will he could not change.
When the first vessel had surrendered to him finally -- the horror he had felt coming off him in waves, willing to do anything to save his daughter from the thing that had destroyed his world, the thing responsible for crushing his faith -- Castiel had felt ashamed.
When he looked at Dean from the newly old eyes again, they shone with regret. They shone with the fear of what he’d wanted to say -- what he’d almost done -- with the delirium of the forever lost.
There would have been no going back, Castiel knew.
He would have turned against his brothers and sisters! His Father! Surely Dean could understand. He would have been worse than Lucifer, because he had known the cost, only he’d just forgotten it.
Castiel always knew the cost, before this man made him forget.
This man was magic. This man was tricks and lies. This man was the snake. That was perfectly clear.
He had to be perfectly clear.
I certainly do not serve you!
Castiel’s mouth formed a smug, righteous line as he turned away.
When he walked through the doorway he’d opened with the wave of a hand, he felt the cold hardening gaze of Dean on his back. He felt the cold hard heart of this vessel give up on beating. He felt the cold hard purity of his regained purpose, and the pitiless gaze of his brothers and sisters.
He knew it was what he deserved.
*
The angel is late to arrive.
Dean sits at the red plastic chrome-rimmed table, his shoes resting on the stool rung like a little boy’s.
He wants fries and a shake. A bacon cheeseburger.
He thinks of the food and nothing else.
It makes him profoundly happy.
He’s waiting for someone. He knows that much. He’s had the same bright diner dream for seven nights in a row now.
Dean wants nothing more than a bacon cheeseburger, some greasy fries, and a cold vanilla milkshake.
But he knows this dream now.
He knows, his feet shaking on the stool, his eyes darting around the tables, that it will never arrive.
The lights reflecting off the chrome make his eyes ache. The smiles seem alien and far away.
No one is going to come for him. No one is going to walk through the door, head tilted, coat flapping, looking into him with eyes that had almost, almost make him believe the biggest lie in all the world.
What are the saved to do when their saviors turn against them? When there is no peace in death? When angels steal the hope from the very souls of the faithful?
When Dean awakes, he is wracked with dry heaves and his chest is tight with blind panic.
His dream is forgotten