Fic: MMOM #5: Fall in the Light (2/2) (Dean/Castiel)
Title: Fall in the Light (2/2)
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,350
Notes: Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 31-Day Fic-a-thon, for which this is fic #5, a.k.a. the porny part. (Thanks again to racestaffer, spec master, though the smut is all mine. Srsly, I don’t think she wants to know…)
It’s been fifteen hours since Michael was reunited with his brother, Lucifer. It’s been fifteen hours since Dean was reunited with his brother, Sam.
It’s been fifteen hours since Dean kissed Castiel.
Finally, after copious amounts of fast food, pie, and the best tasting (and first) beer he’s ever had, Castiel is pretty sure there is nothing in the entire universe of god’s creation that could possibly keep him away from Dean at this very moment. To guarantee it, there is just one thing they have to do.
And if there is any hope of justice, reward, and love in the world, god wouldn’t blame him in the slightest.
Perhaps he has read too much of Chuck’s words. Perhaps he has spent too much time online, reading about this love, their love, and how it is meant to survive against all odds.
Those are god’s words, too, he thinks. This is god’s child. God’s man. And he is his father’s creation. Surely if anyone deserves mercy, if his father was truly capable of it…
But this is more than a test. Castiel knows better now. This is his decision. This is his free will. There will be consequences, but he can face them. He cannot face home again. He cannot face all of eternity without Dean.
So Castiel shows his wings to Dean for the last time. They stand there at the edge of the forest as dusk falls, near Bobby’s house.
“It’s fine, Dean. What must be, must be.” He looks up into Dean’s eyes, newly filled with the golden mercy he remembers. His Dean, returned.
He watches, kneeling, as Dean’s gaze travels the air behind him, tracing the outlines of his wings. He knows they are not what they used to be.
The angels tore at his wings in heaven. He fell into the spirals of the chorus, reaching all the length of Heaven. He fell through armies and legions and choruses of angels, his brothers and sisters, and they tore at him. They called him “Cas” tauntingly, mocking his nickname, as if they had any feelings at all. They followed the laws of Heaven and they judged him. They meant no harm. They were doing what they knew how to do.
So when they tore out his feathers, handful by handful, and listened to his screams, and watched him fall faster than light, they did so with a terrible innocence.
Castiel, left with bloody damaged wings, understood this, and felt regret. But he could not regret his own choices; he would only fight harder to save Dean from Heaven if he could. No, he knew he could never return home and be innocent, himself. Heaven without innocence is no place worth keeping.
His home will be here.
“Are you sure?” Dean asks, always concerned, always giving.
“Yes.” Castiel removes his coat, his tie, his shirt, never breaking eye contact with Dean. He’s missed Dean, so much.
“And this is the only way to do it?”
Castiel smiles, patiently. “Yes, I’m sure.” He pulls Dean by the hand, until his hands are in reach of the feathers.
“Okay.”
Castiel watches Dean stare at his wings, tattered though they are. There are bare patches of shiny membranes underneath; there are frayed white feathers jutting out at angles; there’s a tilt where his wingbones used to be straight and strong. He tries hard not to look away from Dean.
“But they’re beautiful,” Dean says as he lets his fingers float in the air behind him.
“Touch them, Dean. Please.”
Dean shakes his head, “This can’t be worth it. This can’t…”
“No.” He is firm. Resolute. “With them, I can’t have you. With them, I am a lesser angel. I can never be a man. I no longer serve Heaven. I serve myself, and I serve my father’s children. That’s enough for me.” He watches Dean waver. “It’s more than enough, Dean. You know that. It’s everything. The only purpose there is.”
Dean takes a deep breath and finally runs his fingers through the feathers, straightening them, smoothing down. Castiel thinks he will remember the sensation for the rest of his existence. He kneels on the dirt and feels it.
“Okay…,” and Dean’s hand stills.
“Go.”
Then Dean pulls.
They kneel there and grab fistfuls of feathers, plucking them out.
Castiel remembers what it felt like when Heaven did this, threatening to take away his Grace against his will, against his very existence. How much it hurt. How wrong it had been then.
This is different. Dean pulls out his feathers with a purpose, like they’re erasing all of the past year and all of the past years of their lives spent in praise of beings forever ignorant of what it means to be human.
When Dean absently smoothes his palms over the wounds, over the spots of blood dotting the disappearing membranes, Castiel shivers, feeling a jolt of pleasure over his soothed pain. He doesn’t say anything; he just watches his prejudiced, bitter, destroyed Dean pat him with shy, awed hands. And he’s completely undone. “Dean,” he whispers.
Dean doesn’t hear him, he’s so intent on his patient.
“Dean...”
“Shh, I’m almost done,” he says. Then he looks up.
Castiel’s eyes are dark and tearful, his brow furrowed.
As always, Dean’s expression changes before he can even think of it, and his hands freeze in place. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, I don’t…” Castiel throws his arms around Dean’s neck and just leaves them there, unsure, overwhelmed. “It feels so different.” He pauses. “What are you doing?”
Dean runs his hands over what’s left of the shiny membrane, now becoming less opaque, fading into nothingness, and watches Castiel shake. “I’m testing a theory.”
“A… what?” Castiel is panting so hard he can barely speak.
“This is turning you on.” He lightens his touch, then rubs the pads of his fingers over the remaining feathers in a stroke.
Castiel almost moans.
“Whoa, this is like, spanking the monkey… for angels.”
“What?” Castiel only half hears him over the blood rushing through his ears. “Dean, I have a pulse. This heart is beating -- my heart is beating!”
“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” And all irreverence is forgotten. He lets Castiel cling to him and react to sensations Dean can’t even imagine. He lets every feather go, as his angel wishes.
When they are finished, it is dark. There are no traces of angel to Castiel now. He’s pale and naked in the moonlight, illuminated as if he was made for this. His sex, newly alive, had been growing harder since the first tug on his feathers. Castiel can feel the cold angelic feelings of his soul disappear in the face of the fire rolling over his body in waves with every pluck and stroke.
When they are finished, Dean lays them down in the feathers and the blood. Castiel clings to him, as if he’d be adrift in new human sensation, lost, if he didn’t have Dean’s shoulder to grab onto, Dean’s neck to cup.
Dean lays them down and pushes into Castiel over and over again. Castiel is aware of every squeak of their skin, every breath roaring in the night, every muscle in their bodies working. It is glorious.
Dean holds his shoulders down, licks the sweat on his face, doesn’t stop until Castiel says the Word, and comes.
Until Castiel screams it, his comet heart melting in the forest, a willow tree newly alive.
With his fall, the first book of the new testament of the angels begins -- Castiel’s book.
With the book, the angels rejoice.
The End
(though I am liking this…)
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,350
Notes: Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 31-Day Fic-a-thon, for which this is fic #5, a.k.a. the porny part. (Thanks again to racestaffer, spec master, though the smut is all mine. Srsly, I don’t think she wants to know…)
It’s been fifteen hours since Michael was reunited with his brother, Lucifer. It’s been fifteen hours since Dean was reunited with his brother, Sam.
It’s been fifteen hours since Dean kissed Castiel.
Finally, after copious amounts of fast food, pie, and the best tasting (and first) beer he’s ever had, Castiel is pretty sure there is nothing in the entire universe of god’s creation that could possibly keep him away from Dean at this very moment. To guarantee it, there is just one thing they have to do.
And if there is any hope of justice, reward, and love in the world, god wouldn’t blame him in the slightest.
Perhaps he has read too much of Chuck’s words. Perhaps he has spent too much time online, reading about this love, their love, and how it is meant to survive against all odds.
Those are god’s words, too, he thinks. This is god’s child. God’s man. And he is his father’s creation. Surely if anyone deserves mercy, if his father was truly capable of it…
But this is more than a test. Castiel knows better now. This is his decision. This is his free will. There will be consequences, but he can face them. He cannot face home again. He cannot face all of eternity without Dean.
So Castiel shows his wings to Dean for the last time. They stand there at the edge of the forest as dusk falls, near Bobby’s house.
“It’s fine, Dean. What must be, must be.” He looks up into Dean’s eyes, newly filled with the golden mercy he remembers. His Dean, returned.
He watches, kneeling, as Dean’s gaze travels the air behind him, tracing the outlines of his wings. He knows they are not what they used to be.
The angels tore at his wings in heaven. He fell into the spirals of the chorus, reaching all the length of Heaven. He fell through armies and legions and choruses of angels, his brothers and sisters, and they tore at him. They called him “Cas” tauntingly, mocking his nickname, as if they had any feelings at all. They followed the laws of Heaven and they judged him. They meant no harm. They were doing what they knew how to do.
So when they tore out his feathers, handful by handful, and listened to his screams, and watched him fall faster than light, they did so with a terrible innocence.
Castiel, left with bloody damaged wings, understood this, and felt regret. But he could not regret his own choices; he would only fight harder to save Dean from Heaven if he could. No, he knew he could never return home and be innocent, himself. Heaven without innocence is no place worth keeping.
His home will be here.
“Are you sure?” Dean asks, always concerned, always giving.
“Yes.” Castiel removes his coat, his tie, his shirt, never breaking eye contact with Dean. He’s missed Dean, so much.
“And this is the only way to do it?”
Castiel smiles, patiently. “Yes, I’m sure.” He pulls Dean by the hand, until his hands are in reach of the feathers.
“Okay.”
Castiel watches Dean stare at his wings, tattered though they are. There are bare patches of shiny membranes underneath; there are frayed white feathers jutting out at angles; there’s a tilt where his wingbones used to be straight and strong. He tries hard not to look away from Dean.
“But they’re beautiful,” Dean says as he lets his fingers float in the air behind him.
“Touch them, Dean. Please.”
Dean shakes his head, “This can’t be worth it. This can’t…”
“No.” He is firm. Resolute. “With them, I can’t have you. With them, I am a lesser angel. I can never be a man. I no longer serve Heaven. I serve myself, and I serve my father’s children. That’s enough for me.” He watches Dean waver. “It’s more than enough, Dean. You know that. It’s everything. The only purpose there is.”
Dean takes a deep breath and finally runs his fingers through the feathers, straightening them, smoothing down. Castiel thinks he will remember the sensation for the rest of his existence. He kneels on the dirt and feels it.
“Okay…,” and Dean’s hand stills.
“Go.”
Then Dean pulls.
They kneel there and grab fistfuls of feathers, plucking them out.
Castiel remembers what it felt like when Heaven did this, threatening to take away his Grace against his will, against his very existence. How much it hurt. How wrong it had been then.
This is different. Dean pulls out his feathers with a purpose, like they’re erasing all of the past year and all of the past years of their lives spent in praise of beings forever ignorant of what it means to be human.
When Dean absently smoothes his palms over the wounds, over the spots of blood dotting the disappearing membranes, Castiel shivers, feeling a jolt of pleasure over his soothed pain. He doesn’t say anything; he just watches his prejudiced, bitter, destroyed Dean pat him with shy, awed hands. And he’s completely undone. “Dean,” he whispers.
Dean doesn’t hear him, he’s so intent on his patient.
“Dean...”
“Shh, I’m almost done,” he says. Then he looks up.
Castiel’s eyes are dark and tearful, his brow furrowed.
As always, Dean’s expression changes before he can even think of it, and his hands freeze in place. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, I don’t…” Castiel throws his arms around Dean’s neck and just leaves them there, unsure, overwhelmed. “It feels so different.” He pauses. “What are you doing?”
Dean runs his hands over what’s left of the shiny membrane, now becoming less opaque, fading into nothingness, and watches Castiel shake. “I’m testing a theory.”
“A… what?” Castiel is panting so hard he can barely speak.
“This is turning you on.” He lightens his touch, then rubs the pads of his fingers over the remaining feathers in a stroke.
Castiel almost moans.
“Whoa, this is like, spanking the monkey… for angels.”
“What?” Castiel only half hears him over the blood rushing through his ears. “Dean, I have a pulse. This heart is beating -- my heart is beating!”
“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” And all irreverence is forgotten. He lets Castiel cling to him and react to sensations Dean can’t even imagine. He lets every feather go, as his angel wishes.
When they are finished, it is dark. There are no traces of angel to Castiel now. He’s pale and naked in the moonlight, illuminated as if he was made for this. His sex, newly alive, had been growing harder since the first tug on his feathers. Castiel can feel the cold angelic feelings of his soul disappear in the face of the fire rolling over his body in waves with every pluck and stroke.
When they are finished, Dean lays them down in the feathers and the blood. Castiel clings to him, as if he’d be adrift in new human sensation, lost, if he didn’t have Dean’s shoulder to grab onto, Dean’s neck to cup.
Dean lays them down and pushes into Castiel over and over again. Castiel is aware of every squeak of their skin, every breath roaring in the night, every muscle in their bodies working. It is glorious.
Dean holds his shoulders down, licks the sweat on his face, doesn’t stop until Castiel says the Word, and comes.
Until Castiel screams it, his comet heart melting in the forest, a willow tree newly alive.
With his fall, the first book of the new testament of the angels begins -- Castiel’s book.
With the book, the angels rejoice.
The End
(though I am liking this…)