MNIC - Ch. 12: A Fast Machine, with a Motor Clean
Title: My Name Is Castiel
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 4200 (Running Total: 40700)
Summary: After escaping from Death's clutches yet again, Cas jumps right into the fight against the Leviathans. Post-7x10. "I am an angel of the Lord. Let me tell you my story. Let me tell you everything."
Chapter 12 - A Fast Machine, with a Motor Clean
It’s been three days. I’ve checked in with Balthazar once a day, and Dean seems to be stable. I feel more optimistic about the bond. With limited contact, we may be able to get through this. But the prospect of having to keep my distance for so long is disheartening. I also don’t know how my reentry into his life will affect our connection.
Sam’s had numerous hallucinations of Lucifer, but Balthazar has been able to direct him to safety each time without revealing himself.
Dean has called for me four times. Each time it gets more difficult to resist, but I’ve forced myself to stay away. I shouldn’t show up when he seems so stable-I’ve seen him through Balthazar’s eyes, and he is not suffering. Or he’s just so skilled at hiding it that through another’s eyes, I cannot tell that he is in pain.
It is this logic that continues to nag at me, saying that I should go to him.
“You’re hard to find, Cas.”
I glance over at Balthazar. “Apologies. I was not hiding intentionally.”
I am sitting on a ledge, cloaked, watching as thousands of men slave away at the site of what will become one stretch of the Great Wall of China. Balthazar has taken a seat beside me but does not speak.
“How’s Sam?” I ask.
“He’s on a hunt with Dean and Bobby. Don’t have to worry about his hallucinations when he’s focused like that. I’ve also taught him an incantation to dispel Lucifer’s image if it becomes too distracting.”
“Should be helpful.”
He nods. “I didn’t have to interfere at all for a stretch of five hours yesterday. He’s recovering miraculously.”
This makes me uneasy. Is something helping him along? If so, what can its motivations be?
“You don’t look very pleased,” Balthazar observes.
“I am happy for Sam.”
“But you worry that it’s too good to be true,” he deduces. “It’s not impossible-I’ve wondered about it myself. But I can’t think of any creature that can mend souls the way Sam’s soul is putting itself back together again.”
I nod. “The Winchesters are unique.”
A worker drops to one knee, exhausted, and a supervisor arrives to punish him for stopping. I consider stopping him, but it is not our place to interfere. Then the fallen man receives a burst of strength and gets back to his feet, shouldering his load.
“Balthazar-”
“This can’t have an effect as huge as the Titanic, right?” Balthazar says, winking.
“No, but we should not…”
My voice fades away as urgency grips me, and I look around, searching for the source of my unease.
“Cas?” Balthazar asks, a worried expression crossing his face.
I get to my feet, but the scene remains the same. There is no reason-
Dean.
Without another word, I glide through time and space, heading for the last place the Winchesters had been when I checked on them through Balthazar. They’d been looking at a haunted museum.
I arrive outside the huge building just in time for a car to be hurled in my direction. I lift a hand, stopping its motion before it can collide with me, and realize that Sam and Dean are both inside the vehicle. They get out as soon as the car hits the ground, and I see a man standing on the opposite side of the vehicle, eyes narrowed at me.
This is one of them, one of the creatures that killed me.
“You… are an angel,” he says, frowning.
I flare my cloaked wings, and from the way his eyes dart back and forth, he can see them. Sam and Dean are digging through the trunk of their vehicle.
“The humans are not alone,” I say, to buy them more time. “We may have been absent for some time, but we will not stand by and let you slaughter our Father’s final creations.”
The Leviathan laughs. “Father. How adorable that you think of him as a father.”
He lifts another car parked on the street and hurls it at me. Rather than expend extra energy in stopping the momentum of the projectile, I deflect it to the side. I concentrate on my opponent, and a large cloud forms above us.
“Performing magic tricks, little angel?” the Leviathan taunts, but I’m almost certain that he’s nervous, eyes flitting up to the clouds-I have what might be called the… “home court” advantage.
Dean’s inched close enough to fling a sort of chemical on the Leviathan, and though he cries out, he lunges forward, latching onto Dean and getting a hand around his neck. As Dean struggles to get out of his grasp, I move over to Sam, taking his bottle of solution before he can use it up.
I inhale the fumes to determine the specifics of its chemical composition, and then rain is pouring down over this small block, infused with compounds meant to burn Leviathans. The creature in a man’s guise howls in pain and releases Dean, and Sam rushes over to support his brother as he staggers forward.
The Leviathan seems to be burning away, but he’s healing simultaneously, and the healing process gets faster and faster, as though he’s developing immunity to it. He takes a few steps in my direction, and I lift my left hand, drawing a bolt of lightning from the dark clouds and using it to strike the Leviathan.
He crumples to the ground, and Sam leaps forward with a sword-where did he get a sword?-to behead it. Dean sways slightly without Sam’s support but remains upright. Sam returns holding the head gingerly by its hair.
“Could you… make sure they can’t find this?” he asks.
I nod and press my fingers to the forehead of the creature, disassembling its head into the molecules that had composed it.
“Whoa. What did you do?” Sam asks.
“I took it apart. I will scatter the fragments around the world,” I explain.
“Handy.”
“Dude,” Dean says, his voice a little rough from nearly being strangled. “You just got one of those sons of bitches.”
“Saved our asses, too. Thanks,” Sam says.
“I am here to provide assistance. You don’t need to thank me,” I say.
“Let’s get outta here,” Dean says, moving toward the car.
“Will it still run?” Sam asks.
“Yeah, I think so. Camael dropped her right-side-up.”
Sam gets into the passenger side, but Dean pauses with the driver’s door open. “You coming?” he asks.
I hesitate for a moment before shaking my head. “I should go.”
Dean frowns. “Are you avoiding-”
Before he can finish asking the question, I take off-that should be answer enough for him. As promised, I scatter the molecules that made up the Leviathan’s head around the world to make sure they will be difficult to find and gather.
I continue to fly aimlessly for a few minutes after completing the task, too restless after the confrontation to settle down anywhere. And then Dean’s voice calls for me.
Why won’t you come? What if I promise I won’t touch you? I need to… to see you.
I touch down in a back alley in Munich to listen to him as he continues.
Aren’t you angels supposed to listen to us if we have faith? I’m trying here. Come on!
I zone in on his voice and approximate his location. He is not far from the museum-he and Sam must have returned to their motel. Maybe I could go cloaked, test the theory on our bond, and his supposed sensitivity to my presence.
I take flight before I can change my mind and land in, as I’d expected, a motel room. Bobby and Sam are nowhere to be seen. Dean is standing by the desk, looking up. Upon my arrival, he stiffens slightly and looks around warily. It seems as though he does sense me.
He takes a step forward, toward me, then backs up again, still looking back and forth in the room as though something is going to jump out at him.
I am very tempted to look into his mind.
Then he moves closer to me and says, “Hey, uh…” Here he pauses, sighs, and mutters under his breath, “I’m a fucking idiot.” He continues at normal volume, “Camael, are you uh… are you here right now?”
He takes one more step, stopping inches away from me. I take a step back, and he frowns. Yes, he must be able to sense my presence on some level.
I reveal myself. “You and Sam need to be more careful.”
“You’re really here,” he says. “How did I know that?”
I just look at him. He hesitates for a moment before stepping forward and placing a hand on my arm, sliding it up to my shoulder, collar, finally stopping at the side of my neck.
“I don’t understand,” he mutters as his thumb glides along my jaw. “Why is this happening?” He winces at his own words. “This is making me sound like a girl.”
I give him a small smile, and he lets out a shaky breath. I can see his soul thrumming with excitement at our nearness. This is him, happy and relatively well-adjusted. Not the person I’ve seen walking around through Balthazar’s eyes. That was an act to keep Sam satisfied.
“So, are all angel feathers golden, or are yours just special ‘cause you’re an archangel?”
“I suppose I am… special,” I say. “Only archangels are colored gold.”
His eyes sweep up to meet mine, and I see conflict. Is he… fighting the bond? The possibility sends an unpleasant sensation through me. Hurt. He doesn’t want this, but his soul needs it, and his human mind is confused, unable to reconcile the differences.
“I shouldn’t have come,” I realize.
“Hey-don’t go,” he says, sliding his arms around me. His motions are tentative, as though he’s worried that he’ll scare me away.
I close my eyes. “Dean, I am sorry. I should not have-”
“I asked you to come.”
“Yes, but I should not have listened.”
“Why the hell not?” he demands. “If you’re so sure that this shouldn’t be happening, at least tell me why I’m suffering.”
I wince. “You are in pain. I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Right now, I’m not. It’s only when you’re gone.”
“But-”
“That’s why I’m asking,” he muscles on. “If you’re gonna stay away, at least tell me why you’re choosing to hurt me like this.”
I study his expression for a moment. “You are choosing those words intentionally to make me feel guilty,” I tell him.
“You figured me out,” he says with feigned indifference. “Is it working?”
I lower my eyes. “Yes.”
“Good. Now tell me.”
I sigh and stretch my cloaked wings, preparing to take off.
But then Dean growls, “Oh, no you don’t!”
Momentarily distracted, I’m taken by surprise when his fingers dig into my back between my shoulder blades, and my wings seize up. I cry out involuntarily-there’s too much sensation, too much pressure. Pain and pleasure explode simultaneously behind my eyes, and I can’t handle it.
“Dean-Dean-stop. Please-”
“Promise you won’t leave,” he demands.
“Dean, I can’t-”
His fingers only press harder, and I clutch at his shoulders, wings fully extended and completely rigid.
“Promise,” he growls into my ear.
“I pro-promise. Dean, please-”
His fingers release the pressure, and my body sags against him. My wings twitch feebly.
“Sorry,” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t sound like he means it. “If you didn’t keep bailing on me, I wouldn’t have had to do that.”
“How… how did you know I was leaving?” I ask-I know for a fact that he hasn’t seen my wings.
I’m terrified by how violent my reaction to his touch is. We can take blows to our wings, attachment points, vessels, but I seem hypersensitive to his touch. His fingers brush lightly over those spots now, and I shudder.
“I don’t know,” Dean replies, and I can tell that he’s frowning by the tone of his voice. “I just knew.”
“Sam and Bobby are returning,” I inform him as I pick up the sound of the not-Impala edging into a parking space in the lot outside the motel. “You may want to let go of me.”
“Take us somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“But I-”
His fingers start pressing down threateningly, so I take flight, holding onto him carefully. We land where I was last-Munich.
“Where are we?” Dean asks, looking around.
“Germany.”
“Germ-what?”
“It was the first place I thought of.”
“Well, at least we won’t be interrupted.”
“Interrupted?”
Dean’s lips press against mine, and his left hand instantly applies pressure to my recently revealed weak spots. I moan helplessly at the sensation and try to focus on the kiss, but it’s difficult when his hand won’t ease up.
My back hits a wall, and Dean grunts as his hand is flattened.
“Fuck,” he says into my mouth, yanking his hand out from behind me. His hips grind into mine, and a different kind of want surges through me.
I run my fingers through his hair, looking for purchase, but it’s too short to hold onto. His presses a leg between mine, and his hands cruise down my sides to my thighs. He lifts them up, and I gasp, gripping the back of his neck and shoulders tightly. He strains slightly, supporting the weight of my relatively small vessel, and for an awkward moment, I try to put my feet back down on the ground.
He doesn’t let me, and I realize that he wants my legs around his waist. I comply, and he responds with a particularly hard thrust of his hips. We let out simultaneous moans, and I feel like my vessel is liquefying.
It’s then that I realize my hands are scrabbling at his clothing, and I freeze. I can’t touch his bare shoulder again. Why is this happening again? Haven’t I already decided not to let this go on?
He takes a step back from the wall, and before I can tell him not to, the heel of his hand finds one of the two points and presses down. I let out a tortured moan and go rigid in his arms.
“Don’t you dare chicken out now. You’re mine,” he snarls. “You’re my angel, and you’re not going anywhere.”
Were I in a better state of mind, I would worry about the fierce possessiveness in his voice. But he lowers his mouth to mine again, and I’m too distracted to put up any sort of a fight, allowing him to dominate. His touch on my pressure point is just gentle enough to prevent it from being painful, but just firm enough to reduce me into a helpless weakling, completely at his mercy.
My mind jumbles up, and I feel like I’m babbling about something, but it certainly doesn’t sound like I’m speaking in English. His lips, teeth, and tongue are at my neck now. I work to compartmentalize my mind, block out the sensations, but I’ve never felt so much before, and it’s overwhelming.
Then another rush of fire burns through my Grace, and I realize that my hand is fitted over the mark. Thankfully, his shirt is on. But though the touch is not direct, I still feel our connection strengthen.
The thoughts in my head clear a little.
“Dean,” I manage, forcing my tongue to remember how to speak English. I tighten my hand over the mark, drawing a gasp from him. “Dean, stop.”
He doesn’t give in, but control over the situation has shifted. I undulate my hips, creating more friction between us, and press harder on my brand, even extending my Grace a little to brush against it through my fingers. He jolts as though I’ve shocked him, and I can feel the brightness of his soul as it surges up to meet my touch.
“Fuck! Cas!” he cries, letting his hand drop away from my back and pressing me into the wall again.
He doesn’t even seem to be aware that he-as far as he knows-is using the wrong name. I don’t bother to point it out, using my left arm as leverage to pull my head forward so that my lips are brushing his ear.
“Don’t forget who owns whom. I am not the one who’s been branded,” I whisper lowly, catching his earlobe between my teeth and tugging.
He’s rutting against me almost mindlessly now, but my meaning definitely registers because he lets out something close to a whimper and pumps harder. His lack of control fuels my resolve, and I am finally able to block out sensation-at least, enough of it to clear my mind.
I tighten my grip on his shoulder and let a hint of my old voice slip out as I say, “I own you, Dean.”
“Fuck!” he cries, his head falling back as he reaches a climax. “Fuck-Cas-oh, fuck.”
I let my feet drop back to the ground and release his shoulder, putting a hand beneath his elbow to help support him. My mind seems to have put itself back in order again so that I can help him. He looks as though he might collapse at any minute.
His forehead falls into the crook between my neck and shoulder, and his hands snake up behind me, between my back and the wall. I assume that he’ll keep moving them upward to hold onto my shoulders, but they stop at my pressure points, and my wings tingle again.
I allow him some time to recover and listen to his heart rate as it gradually slows.
“Dean.”
He lifts his head at the sound of my voice and connects our lips again. It’s a long, languid kiss that sends warmth and satisfaction through every micrometer of my being.
When we part, he presses his forehead against mine. “I uh… sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
He opens an eye to look at me, then closes it again with a sigh. “How can you not know?” I don’t respond, and he says, “I… well, for one thing, I didn’t get you off.”
I frown. “Off?”
“Christ. You don’t-how do you-”
“Oh,” I say, recognizing that he’s using a colloquialism. “I do not require release.”
He opens his eyes to look at me incredulously, but it seems he wants to leave this portion of the conversation behind as quickly as possible. “Uh… I’m also pretty sure I called you Cas somewhere in there, and believe me, I know how fucked up that sounds, because he’s dead, and you’re his… his sister, and… fuck.”
“Siblinghood does not hold the same meaning for angels as it does for humans.”
“Yeah, but I… I am beyond fucked up. If Cas were here, he’d probably want to kill-”
“Stop, Dean.”
My voice is not as authoritative in this vessel as it was in Jimmy’s, but Dean obeys nevertheless.
“You have done nothing wrong,” I tell him. “This is my fault.”
“Your-your fault? Where have you been for the last, I don’t know, twenty minutes? This was all just me, me, me, and goddamnit, I still don’t want you to go.”
“Dean, Castiel would only care about your well-being. All else is secondary.” Though I have had to do so for a length of time now, I still find it strange to refer to myself in the third person.
“But I-”
“He would not be angry with you over this.”
“You… you sure about that?”
The look on his face is rare-he hardly ever accepts facts as people tell them to him. I suspect that this trust, again, is motivated by my grip on his soul.
“Absolutely,” I respond.
He kisses me, and his hands start to work on my back again. I pull them away before he can ground me.
“We should go,” I say.
“I’m guessing I shouldn’t take it personally that you don’t want…”
“Reciprocation?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Sure. That.”
“We should go,” I repeat.
“Fine. I need to shower, anyway,” he says gruffly.
I spread my wings and reach for him, but he grasps my wrist, stopping me.
“Just… one last thing,” he says.
He leans in, and this time, although-or perhaps because-the kiss is chaste, my heart pounds harder and faster in my chest. He draws back, looking slightly shaken, and smiles. In all my years of existence, I have never seen beauty to match this, and I’m struck dumb.
“Ready,” he says, and I can only nod before taking him back to his country.
****************************************
The phone rings as I am flying over Yugoslavia, and I flare my wings to land.
“Cas, it’s Dean.”
“Tell me where you are.”
“Yeah, Room 31-C, basement level, St. James Medical Cen-”
I reach the room before Dean finishes speaking, and he stares at me. “I’m there now,” I say into the phone.
“Yeah, I get that,” he responds.
“I’m gonna hang up… now,” I say, trying to look away. I find that I can’t stop staring at Dean. Have his eyes always been this green?
“Right.”
I put my phone back in my pocket and finally tear my eyes away. Sam is sitting at a table, surrounded by several boxes that contain human body parts. Sam and Dean launch into an explanation of the case they’ve been working on, and I focus on retaining information and keeping my eyes off Dean.
“You’re right, Sam. These are angelic marks,” I say, looking at the heart in my hand. “I imagine you’ll find similar markings on the other couple’s hearts as well.”
“So, what are they?” Sam asks. “I mean, what do they mean?”
“It’s a mark of union. This man and woman were intended to mate,” I say, putting the heart back down.
“Okay, but who put them there?” Dean asks.
“Well, your people call them ‘Cupid.’” As I speak, I accidentally look at Dean, and a surge of want grips me. I turn my face away, frowning.
“A what?” Sam asks.
Facts. Facts. Focus on facts. “What human myth has mistaken for ‘Cupid’ is actually a lower order of angel. Technically it’s a cherub, third class,” I explain.
“Cherub?” Dean says.
“Yeah, they’re all over the world. There are dozens of them.”
“You mean the little flying fat kid in diapers?”
I turn back around to face Dean, and I am relieved to feel no strange reaction. “They’re not incontinent.”
“Okay, anyway. So, what you’re saying-” Sam begins.
“What I’m saying,” I say, cutting Sam off, “is that a cupid has gone rogue, and we have to stop him before he kills again.” Perhaps I sound more vehement than I should, but it is difficult to restrain the sudden urge to reach for Dean. What is wrong with me?
“Naturally,” Sam says.
“Of course we do,” Dean adds.
****************************************
I sense the release of a human soul from Sam and Dean’s motel room and, alarmed, fly into the room. I am relieved to see both of them alive and well.
“What the hell was that?” Dean is saying.
“It’s a human soul. It’s starting to make sense,” I say, taking a bite out of the hamburger I just acquired.
“Now what about that makes sense?” Sam asks.
“And when did you start eating?” Dean adds.
“Exactly. My hunger. It’s a clue, actually.”
“For what?” Sam and Dean ask simultaneously.
“This town is not suffering from some love-gone-wrong effect. It’s suffering from hunger. Starvation, to be exact. Specifically, Famine.”
“Famine?” Sam repeats. “A-as in, the Horseman?”
“Great. That’s freaking great,” Dean says.
“I thought ‘famine’ meant starvation, like as in, you know, food,” Sam says.
“Yes. Absolutely,” I reply. “But not just food. I mean, everyone seems to be starving for something. Sex, attention, drugs, love…”
“Well, that explains the puppy-lovers that Cupid shot up,” Dean says.
“Right. The cherub made them crave love, and then Famine came, and made them rabid for it.” I take another bite.
“Okay, but what about you? I mean, since when do angels secretly hunger for White Castle?” Dean asks.
“It’s my vessel-Jimmy. His, uh, appetite for red meat has been touched by Famine’s effect.”
I turn away and avoid mentioning the lust for Dean. Now that I know the reason behind it, I am even more troubled, because I can distinguish between Jimmy’s hunger and my own. My personal hunger I can control, because I am an angel-while Death and War can touch angels, Pestilence and Famine cannot. Jimmy’s hunger is something I cannot suppress. The fact that I’ve been able to keep myself from reaching for Dean means that I, Castiel, want him. Not Jimmy. And I don’t know what to do about this.
“So, Famine just rolls into town and everybody goes crazy?” Dean asks.
In response, I recite the description of Famine. I need to control myself if I am to help Sam and Dean defeat Famine. The revelations brought on by his presence can be dealt with-or buried-later.
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 4200 (Running Total: 40700)
Summary: After escaping from Death's clutches yet again, Cas jumps right into the fight against the Leviathans. Post-7x10. "I am an angel of the Lord. Let me tell you my story. Let me tell you everything."
Chapter 12 - A Fast Machine, with a Motor Clean
It’s been three days. I’ve checked in with Balthazar once a day, and Dean seems to be stable. I feel more optimistic about the bond. With limited contact, we may be able to get through this. But the prospect of having to keep my distance for so long is disheartening. I also don’t know how my reentry into his life will affect our connection.
Sam’s had numerous hallucinations of Lucifer, but Balthazar has been able to direct him to safety each time without revealing himself.
Dean has called for me four times. Each time it gets more difficult to resist, but I’ve forced myself to stay away. I shouldn’t show up when he seems so stable-I’ve seen him through Balthazar’s eyes, and he is not suffering. Or he’s just so skilled at hiding it that through another’s eyes, I cannot tell that he is in pain.
It is this logic that continues to nag at me, saying that I should go to him.
“You’re hard to find, Cas.”
I glance over at Balthazar. “Apologies. I was not hiding intentionally.”
I am sitting on a ledge, cloaked, watching as thousands of men slave away at the site of what will become one stretch of the Great Wall of China. Balthazar has taken a seat beside me but does not speak.
“How’s Sam?” I ask.
“He’s on a hunt with Dean and Bobby. Don’t have to worry about his hallucinations when he’s focused like that. I’ve also taught him an incantation to dispel Lucifer’s image if it becomes too distracting.”
“Should be helpful.”
He nods. “I didn’t have to interfere at all for a stretch of five hours yesterday. He’s recovering miraculously.”
This makes me uneasy. Is something helping him along? If so, what can its motivations be?
“You don’t look very pleased,” Balthazar observes.
“I am happy for Sam.”
“But you worry that it’s too good to be true,” he deduces. “It’s not impossible-I’ve wondered about it myself. But I can’t think of any creature that can mend souls the way Sam’s soul is putting itself back together again.”
I nod. “The Winchesters are unique.”
A worker drops to one knee, exhausted, and a supervisor arrives to punish him for stopping. I consider stopping him, but it is not our place to interfere. Then the fallen man receives a burst of strength and gets back to his feet, shouldering his load.
“Balthazar-”
“This can’t have an effect as huge as the Titanic, right?” Balthazar says, winking.
“No, but we should not…”
My voice fades away as urgency grips me, and I look around, searching for the source of my unease.
“Cas?” Balthazar asks, a worried expression crossing his face.
I get to my feet, but the scene remains the same. There is no reason-
Dean.
Without another word, I glide through time and space, heading for the last place the Winchesters had been when I checked on them through Balthazar. They’d been looking at a haunted museum.
I arrive outside the huge building just in time for a car to be hurled in my direction. I lift a hand, stopping its motion before it can collide with me, and realize that Sam and Dean are both inside the vehicle. They get out as soon as the car hits the ground, and I see a man standing on the opposite side of the vehicle, eyes narrowed at me.
This is one of them, one of the creatures that killed me.
“You… are an angel,” he says, frowning.
I flare my cloaked wings, and from the way his eyes dart back and forth, he can see them. Sam and Dean are digging through the trunk of their vehicle.
“The humans are not alone,” I say, to buy them more time. “We may have been absent for some time, but we will not stand by and let you slaughter our Father’s final creations.”
The Leviathan laughs. “Father. How adorable that you think of him as a father.”
He lifts another car parked on the street and hurls it at me. Rather than expend extra energy in stopping the momentum of the projectile, I deflect it to the side. I concentrate on my opponent, and a large cloud forms above us.
“Performing magic tricks, little angel?” the Leviathan taunts, but I’m almost certain that he’s nervous, eyes flitting up to the clouds-I have what might be called the… “home court” advantage.
Dean’s inched close enough to fling a sort of chemical on the Leviathan, and though he cries out, he lunges forward, latching onto Dean and getting a hand around his neck. As Dean struggles to get out of his grasp, I move over to Sam, taking his bottle of solution before he can use it up.
I inhale the fumes to determine the specifics of its chemical composition, and then rain is pouring down over this small block, infused with compounds meant to burn Leviathans. The creature in a man’s guise howls in pain and releases Dean, and Sam rushes over to support his brother as he staggers forward.
The Leviathan seems to be burning away, but he’s healing simultaneously, and the healing process gets faster and faster, as though he’s developing immunity to it. He takes a few steps in my direction, and I lift my left hand, drawing a bolt of lightning from the dark clouds and using it to strike the Leviathan.
He crumples to the ground, and Sam leaps forward with a sword-where did he get a sword?-to behead it. Dean sways slightly without Sam’s support but remains upright. Sam returns holding the head gingerly by its hair.
“Could you… make sure they can’t find this?” he asks.
I nod and press my fingers to the forehead of the creature, disassembling its head into the molecules that had composed it.
“Whoa. What did you do?” Sam asks.
“I took it apart. I will scatter the fragments around the world,” I explain.
“Handy.”
“Dude,” Dean says, his voice a little rough from nearly being strangled. “You just got one of those sons of bitches.”
“Saved our asses, too. Thanks,” Sam says.
“I am here to provide assistance. You don’t need to thank me,” I say.
“Let’s get outta here,” Dean says, moving toward the car.
“Will it still run?” Sam asks.
“Yeah, I think so. Camael dropped her right-side-up.”
Sam gets into the passenger side, but Dean pauses with the driver’s door open. “You coming?” he asks.
I hesitate for a moment before shaking my head. “I should go.”
Dean frowns. “Are you avoiding-”
Before he can finish asking the question, I take off-that should be answer enough for him. As promised, I scatter the molecules that made up the Leviathan’s head around the world to make sure they will be difficult to find and gather.
I continue to fly aimlessly for a few minutes after completing the task, too restless after the confrontation to settle down anywhere. And then Dean’s voice calls for me.
Why won’t you come? What if I promise I won’t touch you? I need to… to see you.
I touch down in a back alley in Munich to listen to him as he continues.
Aren’t you angels supposed to listen to us if we have faith? I’m trying here. Come on!
I zone in on his voice and approximate his location. He is not far from the museum-he and Sam must have returned to their motel. Maybe I could go cloaked, test the theory on our bond, and his supposed sensitivity to my presence.
I take flight before I can change my mind and land in, as I’d expected, a motel room. Bobby and Sam are nowhere to be seen. Dean is standing by the desk, looking up. Upon my arrival, he stiffens slightly and looks around warily. It seems as though he does sense me.
He takes a step forward, toward me, then backs up again, still looking back and forth in the room as though something is going to jump out at him.
I am very tempted to look into his mind.
Then he moves closer to me and says, “Hey, uh…” Here he pauses, sighs, and mutters under his breath, “I’m a fucking idiot.” He continues at normal volume, “Camael, are you uh… are you here right now?”
He takes one more step, stopping inches away from me. I take a step back, and he frowns. Yes, he must be able to sense my presence on some level.
I reveal myself. “You and Sam need to be more careful.”
“You’re really here,” he says. “How did I know that?”
I just look at him. He hesitates for a moment before stepping forward and placing a hand on my arm, sliding it up to my shoulder, collar, finally stopping at the side of my neck.
“I don’t understand,” he mutters as his thumb glides along my jaw. “Why is this happening?” He winces at his own words. “This is making me sound like a girl.”
I give him a small smile, and he lets out a shaky breath. I can see his soul thrumming with excitement at our nearness. This is him, happy and relatively well-adjusted. Not the person I’ve seen walking around through Balthazar’s eyes. That was an act to keep Sam satisfied.
“So, are all angel feathers golden, or are yours just special ‘cause you’re an archangel?”
“I suppose I am… special,” I say. “Only archangels are colored gold.”
His eyes sweep up to meet mine, and I see conflict. Is he… fighting the bond? The possibility sends an unpleasant sensation through me. Hurt. He doesn’t want this, but his soul needs it, and his human mind is confused, unable to reconcile the differences.
“I shouldn’t have come,” I realize.
“Hey-don’t go,” he says, sliding his arms around me. His motions are tentative, as though he’s worried that he’ll scare me away.
I close my eyes. “Dean, I am sorry. I should not have-”
“I asked you to come.”
“Yes, but I should not have listened.”
“Why the hell not?” he demands. “If you’re so sure that this shouldn’t be happening, at least tell me why I’m suffering.”
I wince. “You are in pain. I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Right now, I’m not. It’s only when you’re gone.”
“But-”
“That’s why I’m asking,” he muscles on. “If you’re gonna stay away, at least tell me why you’re choosing to hurt me like this.”
I study his expression for a moment. “You are choosing those words intentionally to make me feel guilty,” I tell him.
“You figured me out,” he says with feigned indifference. “Is it working?”
I lower my eyes. “Yes.”
“Good. Now tell me.”
I sigh and stretch my cloaked wings, preparing to take off.
But then Dean growls, “Oh, no you don’t!”
Momentarily distracted, I’m taken by surprise when his fingers dig into my back between my shoulder blades, and my wings seize up. I cry out involuntarily-there’s too much sensation, too much pressure. Pain and pleasure explode simultaneously behind my eyes, and I can’t handle it.
“Dean-Dean-stop. Please-”
“Promise you won’t leave,” he demands.
“Dean, I can’t-”
His fingers only press harder, and I clutch at his shoulders, wings fully extended and completely rigid.
“Promise,” he growls into my ear.
“I pro-promise. Dean, please-”
His fingers release the pressure, and my body sags against him. My wings twitch feebly.
“Sorry,” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t sound like he means it. “If you didn’t keep bailing on me, I wouldn’t have had to do that.”
“How… how did you know I was leaving?” I ask-I know for a fact that he hasn’t seen my wings.
I’m terrified by how violent my reaction to his touch is. We can take blows to our wings, attachment points, vessels, but I seem hypersensitive to his touch. His fingers brush lightly over those spots now, and I shudder.
“I don’t know,” Dean replies, and I can tell that he’s frowning by the tone of his voice. “I just knew.”
“Sam and Bobby are returning,” I inform him as I pick up the sound of the not-Impala edging into a parking space in the lot outside the motel. “You may want to let go of me.”
“Take us somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“But I-”
His fingers start pressing down threateningly, so I take flight, holding onto him carefully. We land where I was last-Munich.
“Where are we?” Dean asks, looking around.
“Germany.”
“Germ-what?”
“It was the first place I thought of.”
“Well, at least we won’t be interrupted.”
“Interrupted?”
Dean’s lips press against mine, and his left hand instantly applies pressure to my recently revealed weak spots. I moan helplessly at the sensation and try to focus on the kiss, but it’s difficult when his hand won’t ease up.
My back hits a wall, and Dean grunts as his hand is flattened.
“Fuck,” he says into my mouth, yanking his hand out from behind me. His hips grind into mine, and a different kind of want surges through me.
I run my fingers through his hair, looking for purchase, but it’s too short to hold onto. His presses a leg between mine, and his hands cruise down my sides to my thighs. He lifts them up, and I gasp, gripping the back of his neck and shoulders tightly. He strains slightly, supporting the weight of my relatively small vessel, and for an awkward moment, I try to put my feet back down on the ground.
He doesn’t let me, and I realize that he wants my legs around his waist. I comply, and he responds with a particularly hard thrust of his hips. We let out simultaneous moans, and I feel like my vessel is liquefying.
It’s then that I realize my hands are scrabbling at his clothing, and I freeze. I can’t touch his bare shoulder again. Why is this happening again? Haven’t I already decided not to let this go on?
He takes a step back from the wall, and before I can tell him not to, the heel of his hand finds one of the two points and presses down. I let out a tortured moan and go rigid in his arms.
“Don’t you dare chicken out now. You’re mine,” he snarls. “You’re my angel, and you’re not going anywhere.”
Were I in a better state of mind, I would worry about the fierce possessiveness in his voice. But he lowers his mouth to mine again, and I’m too distracted to put up any sort of a fight, allowing him to dominate. His touch on my pressure point is just gentle enough to prevent it from being painful, but just firm enough to reduce me into a helpless weakling, completely at his mercy.
My mind jumbles up, and I feel like I’m babbling about something, but it certainly doesn’t sound like I’m speaking in English. His lips, teeth, and tongue are at my neck now. I work to compartmentalize my mind, block out the sensations, but I’ve never felt so much before, and it’s overwhelming.
Then another rush of fire burns through my Grace, and I realize that my hand is fitted over the mark. Thankfully, his shirt is on. But though the touch is not direct, I still feel our connection strengthen.
The thoughts in my head clear a little.
“Dean,” I manage, forcing my tongue to remember how to speak English. I tighten my hand over the mark, drawing a gasp from him. “Dean, stop.”
He doesn’t give in, but control over the situation has shifted. I undulate my hips, creating more friction between us, and press harder on my brand, even extending my Grace a little to brush against it through my fingers. He jolts as though I’ve shocked him, and I can feel the brightness of his soul as it surges up to meet my touch.
“Fuck! Cas!” he cries, letting his hand drop away from my back and pressing me into the wall again.
He doesn’t even seem to be aware that he-as far as he knows-is using the wrong name. I don’t bother to point it out, using my left arm as leverage to pull my head forward so that my lips are brushing his ear.
“Don’t forget who owns whom. I am not the one who’s been branded,” I whisper lowly, catching his earlobe between my teeth and tugging.
He’s rutting against me almost mindlessly now, but my meaning definitely registers because he lets out something close to a whimper and pumps harder. His lack of control fuels my resolve, and I am finally able to block out sensation-at least, enough of it to clear my mind.
I tighten my grip on his shoulder and let a hint of my old voice slip out as I say, “I own you, Dean.”
“Fuck!” he cries, his head falling back as he reaches a climax. “Fuck-Cas-oh, fuck.”
I let my feet drop back to the ground and release his shoulder, putting a hand beneath his elbow to help support him. My mind seems to have put itself back in order again so that I can help him. He looks as though he might collapse at any minute.
His forehead falls into the crook between my neck and shoulder, and his hands snake up behind me, between my back and the wall. I assume that he’ll keep moving them upward to hold onto my shoulders, but they stop at my pressure points, and my wings tingle again.
I allow him some time to recover and listen to his heart rate as it gradually slows.
“Dean.”
He lifts his head at the sound of my voice and connects our lips again. It’s a long, languid kiss that sends warmth and satisfaction through every micrometer of my being.
When we part, he presses his forehead against mine. “I uh… sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
He opens an eye to look at me, then closes it again with a sigh. “How can you not know?” I don’t respond, and he says, “I… well, for one thing, I didn’t get you off.”
I frown. “Off?”
“Christ. You don’t-how do you-”
“Oh,” I say, recognizing that he’s using a colloquialism. “I do not require release.”
He opens his eyes to look at me incredulously, but it seems he wants to leave this portion of the conversation behind as quickly as possible. “Uh… I’m also pretty sure I called you Cas somewhere in there, and believe me, I know how fucked up that sounds, because he’s dead, and you’re his… his sister, and… fuck.”
“Siblinghood does not hold the same meaning for angels as it does for humans.”
“Yeah, but I… I am beyond fucked up. If Cas were here, he’d probably want to kill-”
“Stop, Dean.”
My voice is not as authoritative in this vessel as it was in Jimmy’s, but Dean obeys nevertheless.
“You have done nothing wrong,” I tell him. “This is my fault.”
“Your-your fault? Where have you been for the last, I don’t know, twenty minutes? This was all just me, me, me, and goddamnit, I still don’t want you to go.”
“Dean, Castiel would only care about your well-being. All else is secondary.” Though I have had to do so for a length of time now, I still find it strange to refer to myself in the third person.
“But I-”
“He would not be angry with you over this.”
“You… you sure about that?”
The look on his face is rare-he hardly ever accepts facts as people tell them to him. I suspect that this trust, again, is motivated by my grip on his soul.
“Absolutely,” I respond.
He kisses me, and his hands start to work on my back again. I pull them away before he can ground me.
“We should go,” I say.
“I’m guessing I shouldn’t take it personally that you don’t want…”
“Reciprocation?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Sure. That.”
“We should go,” I repeat.
“Fine. I need to shower, anyway,” he says gruffly.
I spread my wings and reach for him, but he grasps my wrist, stopping me.
“Just… one last thing,” he says.
He leans in, and this time, although-or perhaps because-the kiss is chaste, my heart pounds harder and faster in my chest. He draws back, looking slightly shaken, and smiles. In all my years of existence, I have never seen beauty to match this, and I’m struck dumb.
“Ready,” he says, and I can only nod before taking him back to his country.
****************************************
The phone rings as I am flying over Yugoslavia, and I flare my wings to land.
“Cas, it’s Dean.”
“Tell me where you are.”
“Yeah, Room 31-C, basement level, St. James Medical Cen-”
I reach the room before Dean finishes speaking, and he stares at me. “I’m there now,” I say into the phone.
“Yeah, I get that,” he responds.
“I’m gonna hang up… now,” I say, trying to look away. I find that I can’t stop staring at Dean. Have his eyes always been this green?
“Right.”
I put my phone back in my pocket and finally tear my eyes away. Sam is sitting at a table, surrounded by several boxes that contain human body parts. Sam and Dean launch into an explanation of the case they’ve been working on, and I focus on retaining information and keeping my eyes off Dean.
“You’re right, Sam. These are angelic marks,” I say, looking at the heart in my hand. “I imagine you’ll find similar markings on the other couple’s hearts as well.”
“So, what are they?” Sam asks. “I mean, what do they mean?”
“It’s a mark of union. This man and woman were intended to mate,” I say, putting the heart back down.
“Okay, but who put them there?” Dean asks.
“Well, your people call them ‘Cupid.’” As I speak, I accidentally look at Dean, and a surge of want grips me. I turn my face away, frowning.
“A what?” Sam asks.
Facts. Facts. Focus on facts. “What human myth has mistaken for ‘Cupid’ is actually a lower order of angel. Technically it’s a cherub, third class,” I explain.
“Cherub?” Dean says.
“Yeah, they’re all over the world. There are dozens of them.”
“You mean the little flying fat kid in diapers?”
I turn back around to face Dean, and I am relieved to feel no strange reaction. “They’re not incontinent.”
“Okay, anyway. So, what you’re saying-” Sam begins.
“What I’m saying,” I say, cutting Sam off, “is that a cupid has gone rogue, and we have to stop him before he kills again.” Perhaps I sound more vehement than I should, but it is difficult to restrain the sudden urge to reach for Dean. What is wrong with me?
“Naturally,” Sam says.
“Of course we do,” Dean adds.
****************************************
I sense the release of a human soul from Sam and Dean’s motel room and, alarmed, fly into the room. I am relieved to see both of them alive and well.
“What the hell was that?” Dean is saying.
“It’s a human soul. It’s starting to make sense,” I say, taking a bite out of the hamburger I just acquired.
“Now what about that makes sense?” Sam asks.
“And when did you start eating?” Dean adds.
“Exactly. My hunger. It’s a clue, actually.”
“For what?” Sam and Dean ask simultaneously.
“This town is not suffering from some love-gone-wrong effect. It’s suffering from hunger. Starvation, to be exact. Specifically, Famine.”
“Famine?” Sam repeats. “A-as in, the Horseman?”
“Great. That’s freaking great,” Dean says.
“I thought ‘famine’ meant starvation, like as in, you know, food,” Sam says.
“Yes. Absolutely,” I reply. “But not just food. I mean, everyone seems to be starving for something. Sex, attention, drugs, love…”
“Well, that explains the puppy-lovers that Cupid shot up,” Dean says.
“Right. The cherub made them crave love, and then Famine came, and made them rabid for it.” I take another bite.
“Okay, but what about you? I mean, since when do angels secretly hunger for White Castle?” Dean asks.
“It’s my vessel-Jimmy. His, uh, appetite for red meat has been touched by Famine’s effect.”
I turn away and avoid mentioning the lust for Dean. Now that I know the reason behind it, I am even more troubled, because I can distinguish between Jimmy’s hunger and my own. My personal hunger I can control, because I am an angel-while Death and War can touch angels, Pestilence and Famine cannot. Jimmy’s hunger is something I cannot suppress. The fact that I’ve been able to keep myself from reaching for Dean means that I, Castiel, want him. Not Jimmy. And I don’t know what to do about this.
“So, Famine just rolls into town and everybody goes crazy?” Dean asks.
In response, I recite the description of Famine. I need to control myself if I am to help Sam and Dean defeat Famine. The revelations brought on by his presence can be dealt with-or buried-later.