fic: MMOM #9: Judas (Dean/Castiel)
Title: Judas
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Word Count: 575
Notes: ***SPOILERS FOR 4.21!*** Dear necro_omen13, (*HEARTS*), I knew you asked for a shower and wing!porn… I’m not sure this is what you meant, but I’m thinking you won’t mind ;) Forgive me, and in return, I will tell you anything you want to know about this episode.
Castiel stands at the docks, alone.
When Castiel closes his eyes, he sees his dead sister, her wings burned into the street. He sees his best, oldest friend, stabbed through the heart. He sees his former leader, the look on her face when she is taken by those without mercy.
Castiel stares out at the black water, oily in the night, and tries to think of anything else. He belongs here in this industrial decay of rotting wood and metal, this lonely world.
He hears Dean calling out his name, endlessly, as clearly as he heard Dean’s cries on the day he was born.
He will not answer. He knows what he deserves.
Castiel disappears to an empty street in Los Angeles, where the night is not yet dead. Downtown, there’s nothing but dirty newspaper stuck to wire fences surrounding empty lots. Souls dressed in flannel rags shuffle in and out of the shadows, unaware of the rain.
Castiel looks up at the sky for the hundredth time that night. He also knows he will get nothing of what he deserves.
He still wishes he would. And what he would do…
He would suffer the whip of self-flagellation, leather cutting his wings at his back. He would bend low before Dean in the rain and bleed himself, one stroke after another. He would do it until Dean told him to stop.
Dean would not tell him to stop for a very long time.
He would feel the rain fall like stinging nettles on his wounds, as he watched the tips of Dean’s heavy work boots.
When Dean asked him to, voice low and harsh, he would lie on his back, wings flailing against the wet black asphalt. He would thrash there, and wait. Dean would make him wait there, pinned down by his cold hard gaze.
That gaze would make his body feel afire with shame, waiting for him helplessly. Castiel’s hands would flutter towards his sex, wanting to cover his vulnerable human-ness, but he would not be allowed. He would have to wait.
And Dean would have no mercy. Dean would hold the heft of his cock in his hand and move closer, closer, until he was straddling Castiel’s chest, those heavy boots close enough to kick his ribs.
Dean would grip his cock and let loose a stream of piss all over the angel, watching it fall. Castiel would arch his back and throw his head back, his body pinned to the ground, thrashing, but unable to move. Not allowed to move.
Cas would only feel the hot stream fall in an arch and splash against his shivering skin. It would fall golden and slick against his wingfeathers in an endless stream, his wings dirty and yellow on the shining asphalt. It would fall over his chest, his sex, his face.
And Dean would eventually, finally, be spent. And Dean would leave without a word.
Castiel opens his eyes, stands on the empty corner and feels the rain. He spends his time waiting, forced to listen to Dean call for him for hours and hours on end. Forced to listen to him scream his throat raw until it finally gives out. He is not allowed to help. He must wait, alone, until he is given his orders. And then he must obey. He cannot be trusted with his brothers and sisters any longer. He sees the proof every time he closes his eyes. He cannot be trusted with the human children.
Castiel knows forgiveness, but he does not feel it. It is a gift for the human kind, not for the angels. This is not forgiveness. This is the imagined, impossible release of a bound soul. This is a way to pass the time, for a Judas.
The End
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Word Count: 575
Notes: ***SPOILERS FOR 4.21!*** Dear necro_omen13, (*HEARTS*), I knew you asked for a shower and wing!porn… I’m not sure this is what you meant, but I’m thinking you won’t mind ;) Forgive me, and in return, I will tell you anything you want to know about this episode.
Castiel stands at the docks, alone.
When Castiel closes his eyes, he sees his dead sister, her wings burned into the street. He sees his best, oldest friend, stabbed through the heart. He sees his former leader, the look on her face when she is taken by those without mercy.
Castiel stares out at the black water, oily in the night, and tries to think of anything else. He belongs here in this industrial decay of rotting wood and metal, this lonely world.
He hears Dean calling out his name, endlessly, as clearly as he heard Dean’s cries on the day he was born.
He will not answer. He knows what he deserves.
Castiel disappears to an empty street in Los Angeles, where the night is not yet dead. Downtown, there’s nothing but dirty newspaper stuck to wire fences surrounding empty lots. Souls dressed in flannel rags shuffle in and out of the shadows, unaware of the rain.
Castiel looks up at the sky for the hundredth time that night. He also knows he will get nothing of what he deserves.
He still wishes he would. And what he would do…
He would suffer the whip of self-flagellation, leather cutting his wings at his back. He would bend low before Dean in the rain and bleed himself, one stroke after another. He would do it until Dean told him to stop.
Dean would not tell him to stop for a very long time.
He would feel the rain fall like stinging nettles on his wounds, as he watched the tips of Dean’s heavy work boots.
When Dean asked him to, voice low and harsh, he would lie on his back, wings flailing against the wet black asphalt. He would thrash there, and wait. Dean would make him wait there, pinned down by his cold hard gaze.
That gaze would make his body feel afire with shame, waiting for him helplessly. Castiel’s hands would flutter towards his sex, wanting to cover his vulnerable human-ness, but he would not be allowed. He would have to wait.
And Dean would have no mercy. Dean would hold the heft of his cock in his hand and move closer, closer, until he was straddling Castiel’s chest, those heavy boots close enough to kick his ribs.
Dean would grip his cock and let loose a stream of piss all over the angel, watching it fall. Castiel would arch his back and throw his head back, his body pinned to the ground, thrashing, but unable to move. Not allowed to move.
Cas would only feel the hot stream fall in an arch and splash against his shivering skin. It would fall golden and slick against his wingfeathers in an endless stream, his wings dirty and yellow on the shining asphalt. It would fall over his chest, his sex, his face.
And Dean would eventually, finally, be spent. And Dean would leave without a word.
Castiel opens his eyes, stands on the empty corner and feels the rain. He spends his time waiting, forced to listen to Dean call for him for hours and hours on end. Forced to listen to him scream his throat raw until it finally gives out. He is not allowed to help. He must wait, alone, until he is given his orders. And then he must obey. He cannot be trusted with his brothers and sisters any longer. He sees the proof every time he closes his eyes. He cannot be trusted with the human children.
Castiel knows forgiveness, but he does not feel it. It is a gift for the human kind, not for the angels. This is not forgiveness. This is the imagined, impossible release of a bound soul. This is a way to pass the time, for a Judas.
The End