Helping Hand - Supernatural - Castiel/Michael
Title: Helping Hand
Pairing: Castiel/Michael
Word Count: 1057
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 5x13
A/N: Written for the Angelcest Kink Meme.
Summary: To return to the present, Castiel needs a power boost. Michael helps out.
Castiel is lying on the bed when Michael enters the room, barely stirring an inch.
Michael closes the door behind himself quietly, and watches Castiel with confusion. He doesn't understand him. He doesn't think he ever will. So loyal in the beginning; Castiel had been one of their brightest foot-soldiers, rising quickly through the ranks. With Gabriel gone they had needed a new archangel. Castiel could have been in the running.
Now he is lying on a human bed in the honeymoon suite of a hotel, vulnerable and strung-out. His Grace is weak, now; his eyes will barely open.
"Dean?" he says. He sounds half-asleep. Angels shouldn't rest; they shouldn't sound like that at all. "Is that you?"
In slow, steady steps, Michael walks towards the bed. His head tilts to the side and a curious smile appears on his face as he watches Castiel struggle to sit up and take stock of the situation. "It's not Dean," Michael tells him. The sound of his voice doesn't appear to soothe Castiel at all: he tenses and his struggles to get up renew. Hushing him, Michael sits down on the side of the bed. "I remember when my presence would have calmed you."
"A lot has changed," Castiel responds.
He isn't wrong.
"I should destroy you," Michael says. Instead, he kicks off his shoes. He lies down on the bed behind Castiel, molding easily to his form. Even in these human shells, they fit neatly together. He allows his Grace to spill forth, tired of holding it in.
One arm curls around Castiel's stomach, and it is only once Michael is settled in such a way that Castiel relaxes too. He leans into Michael's chest, eyes closed. They could sleep like this, if they were mortal. Michael could hold him and they could pretend that the world isn't due to end. In time with each other, they breathe.
Michael reaches out for his brother in a way that is so much more than physical: human bodies are limiting, useless. He has been inside of John Winchester for less than an hour and already he feels constricted. It's altogether unpleasant and he has no idea how anyone could chose to stay inside a vessel for any longer than they absolutely had to.
He swallows Castiel in overwhelming Grace. The light shines brightly: the townspeople think of it as a solar flare, the light at the end of the tunnel, the end of the world.
In his embrace, Castiel gasps. His frail human body jerks and Michael holds him still, keeps him in place.
Breathing by his ear, he hushes him, soothes him as best he can. He places his lips against the soft patch of skin behind his ear lobe and promises that everything will be alright. "I'm helping," he says.
He'll always help his brothers, until the time comes that he can't stand by any longer.
Castiel pants helplessly in his arms: it's more of a turn on than it should be. He tongues at that spot behind Castiel's ear as his Grace waves over them both, white and hot. His teeth nip at the shell of Castiel's ear - and then he has to move down to Castiel's neck, has to mark him properly. It won't last for long. They are angels; all damage is temporary. He hopes that this, at least, will linger for a while.
As he bites down and sucks at Castiel's neck, feeling his brother's back arch, his Grace swells inside. He fills him and feels the weak kernel of Castiel's Grace, a dull shadow of what once shone. It is enough to make them both moan together, to make Castiel push firmly back against him as if they could merge more completely than this. Michael's erection pushes hard against the ass of Castiel's vessel, but he has no desire for physical pleasure. It doesn't compare to anything on a spiritual level. It doesn't compare to feeling of Castiel's tarnished Grace meshing with his own.
His grip on Castiel's hip will form bruises on angel-strong skin, but it's necessary to hold him in place as he tries to move, tries to writhe, tries to take over. With a smirk on his face, Michael won't allow it. He's the one in charge here. Butterfly kisses breathe against the mark he has left on Castiel's neck and their Grace entwine. He can feel every inch of Castiel's body as if it is his own; every limb, every breath, every single atom. It is a connection on a cosmic level, as fleeting as it is.
Intense, the heat burns and he closes his eyes; they tense and shake and scream together, hit with the kind of intensity that humans could only dream of. He clings onto Castiel so tightly that they ought to worry about crushed bones and bodies damaged beyond repair - but the world has gone white, and his mind has gone blank, and there is nothing negative left. No fear, no worry, no betrayal, no hatred. Peace.
When he is once more in a position to think clearly, he withdraws his Grace and reluctantly releases his grip upon his brother. Moving with the stiffness of an underused puppet, Castiel sits up.
"You should have enough power to get home now," Michael says, as if the only reason behind that had been a simple power exchange.
Angels shouldn't lie, but Michael has no problem with muddying the truth.
Beside him, Castiel still seems dazed. The mark on his neck is fading already, slower than most wounds but not slowly enough. Michael tells himself it doesn't matter: it's only a vessel. It isn't real.
"Thank you," Castiel says. He places a hand on his forehead and attempts to steady himself.
He's really all too adorable for his own good. Michael leans in to press their lips together, short and chaste. Barely a second. When he pulls back, Castiel tries to follow him until Michael places a hand on his chest to hold him back. He smiles: he can't stop himself. "I've got to go and put this body back where it belongs. See you soon, I promise."
He ruffles Castiel's hair before he goes because, as an older brother, it is his right to do so. The tiny noise of complaint from Castiel gives him one last smile before he leaves the room, taking John Winchester's body back to the life he had stolen it from.
Pairing: Castiel/Michael
Word Count: 1057
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 5x13
A/N: Written for the Angelcest Kink Meme.
Summary: To return to the present, Castiel needs a power boost. Michael helps out.
Castiel is lying on the bed when Michael enters the room, barely stirring an inch.
Michael closes the door behind himself quietly, and watches Castiel with confusion. He doesn't understand him. He doesn't think he ever will. So loyal in the beginning; Castiel had been one of their brightest foot-soldiers, rising quickly through the ranks. With Gabriel gone they had needed a new archangel. Castiel could have been in the running.
Now he is lying on a human bed in the honeymoon suite of a hotel, vulnerable and strung-out. His Grace is weak, now; his eyes will barely open.
"Dean?" he says. He sounds half-asleep. Angels shouldn't rest; they shouldn't sound like that at all. "Is that you?"
In slow, steady steps, Michael walks towards the bed. His head tilts to the side and a curious smile appears on his face as he watches Castiel struggle to sit up and take stock of the situation. "It's not Dean," Michael tells him. The sound of his voice doesn't appear to soothe Castiel at all: he tenses and his struggles to get up renew. Hushing him, Michael sits down on the side of the bed. "I remember when my presence would have calmed you."
"A lot has changed," Castiel responds.
He isn't wrong.
"I should destroy you," Michael says. Instead, he kicks off his shoes. He lies down on the bed behind Castiel, molding easily to his form. Even in these human shells, they fit neatly together. He allows his Grace to spill forth, tired of holding it in.
One arm curls around Castiel's stomach, and it is only once Michael is settled in such a way that Castiel relaxes too. He leans into Michael's chest, eyes closed. They could sleep like this, if they were mortal. Michael could hold him and they could pretend that the world isn't due to end. In time with each other, they breathe.
Michael reaches out for his brother in a way that is so much more than physical: human bodies are limiting, useless. He has been inside of John Winchester for less than an hour and already he feels constricted. It's altogether unpleasant and he has no idea how anyone could chose to stay inside a vessel for any longer than they absolutely had to.
He swallows Castiel in overwhelming Grace. The light shines brightly: the townspeople think of it as a solar flare, the light at the end of the tunnel, the end of the world.
In his embrace, Castiel gasps. His frail human body jerks and Michael holds him still, keeps him in place.
Breathing by his ear, he hushes him, soothes him as best he can. He places his lips against the soft patch of skin behind his ear lobe and promises that everything will be alright. "I'm helping," he says.
He'll always help his brothers, until the time comes that he can't stand by any longer.
Castiel pants helplessly in his arms: it's more of a turn on than it should be. He tongues at that spot behind Castiel's ear as his Grace waves over them both, white and hot. His teeth nip at the shell of Castiel's ear - and then he has to move down to Castiel's neck, has to mark him properly. It won't last for long. They are angels; all damage is temporary. He hopes that this, at least, will linger for a while.
As he bites down and sucks at Castiel's neck, feeling his brother's back arch, his Grace swells inside. He fills him and feels the weak kernel of Castiel's Grace, a dull shadow of what once shone. It is enough to make them both moan together, to make Castiel push firmly back against him as if they could merge more completely than this. Michael's erection pushes hard against the ass of Castiel's vessel, but he has no desire for physical pleasure. It doesn't compare to anything on a spiritual level. It doesn't compare to feeling of Castiel's tarnished Grace meshing with his own.
His grip on Castiel's hip will form bruises on angel-strong skin, but it's necessary to hold him in place as he tries to move, tries to writhe, tries to take over. With a smirk on his face, Michael won't allow it. He's the one in charge here. Butterfly kisses breathe against the mark he has left on Castiel's neck and their Grace entwine. He can feel every inch of Castiel's body as if it is his own; every limb, every breath, every single atom. It is a connection on a cosmic level, as fleeting as it is.
Intense, the heat burns and he closes his eyes; they tense and shake and scream together, hit with the kind of intensity that humans could only dream of. He clings onto Castiel so tightly that they ought to worry about crushed bones and bodies damaged beyond repair - but the world has gone white, and his mind has gone blank, and there is nothing negative left. No fear, no worry, no betrayal, no hatred. Peace.
When he is once more in a position to think clearly, he withdraws his Grace and reluctantly releases his grip upon his brother. Moving with the stiffness of an underused puppet, Castiel sits up.
"You should have enough power to get home now," Michael says, as if the only reason behind that had been a simple power exchange.
Angels shouldn't lie, but Michael has no problem with muddying the truth.
Beside him, Castiel still seems dazed. The mark on his neck is fading already, slower than most wounds but not slowly enough. Michael tells himself it doesn't matter: it's only a vessel. It isn't real.
"Thank you," Castiel says. He places a hand on his forehead and attempts to steady himself.
He's really all too adorable for his own good. Michael leans in to press their lips together, short and chaste. Barely a second. When he pulls back, Castiel tries to follow him until Michael places a hand on his chest to hold him back. He smiles: he can't stop himself. "I've got to go and put this body back where it belongs. See you soon, I promise."
He ruffles Castiel's hair before he goes because, as an older brother, it is his right to do so. The tiny noise of complaint from Castiel gives him one last smile before he leaves the room, taking John Winchester's body back to the life he had stolen it from.