Fic: didn’t ask, never wanted (1/1)
Title: didn’t ask, never wanted
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 518
Summary: He’d been expecting a slow descent; what he gets is an onslaught. For invisiblelove, who requested “Dean/Castiel + Hurt/Comfort +Schmoop” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Spoilers through Season Five.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I... don’t know about this. I had this flash of an idea in my head about Castiel’s distance from Heaven and the powers associated therein, but the idea didn’t quite translate the way I’d wanted it to. I hope it’s at least somewhat enjoyable anyway.
didn’t ask, never wanted
He expects a slow descent, the gradual ebb of Grace; what he gets instead is an onslaught.
He collapses, bodily, his frame shrunken and weak: the nerves of his Vessel, the sensations of Its organs and muscles, its bones and breaths suddenly connected to him, meaningful in ways they never were -- vital to his very existence, and he gasps, and his chest blazes, catches fire, wreathed in flame; he feels despair as he struggles to steady himself, to fills his lungs and tame his heart, to no avail.
Dean is at his side, immediately: too slow, eyes wide and filled with fear, but it is nothing, nothing compared to the way Castiel feels his blood race and his mind pound, the world too much and too bright, and he cannot Reach, cannot Grasp for his Brethren; he cannot appeal to a Will greater than his own for sanctuary, for absolution, for mercy.
Dean’s hand is on his chest, mouth at his ear, and he’s hauling Castiel close to him, breathing deep and murmuring, asking him to match the cadence, asking him to fall inside a new rhythm of being, and he is adrift, he is untamed and cast out: Dean rubs his hand up and down at the sternum, whispers calm, still, breathe, breathe, and Castiel chokes on the attempt, at first; chokes until Dean refuses to waver, stays steady, and eases him lightly through the fray.
He feels the rattle of his heart against the cup of Dean’s palm, and he focuses on that -- on being held within confines, too small and too gaping, massive and faint; of being sheltered from a storm, and he imagines Home, the protection of Heaven at his side, and wonders what a man can hope to do against such odds, except that the man at his back is a Soul Undimmed, and perhaps he can rescue the Fallen, just as well as he was saved, himself.
Castiel breathes, breathes -- unfamiliar and clumsy with it, unaccustomed to this lot, and Dean pulls away and looks him in the eye; he reaches out and wipes at Castiel’s face, and only then does he notice the tears, his first -- only then does he see what he’s become.
He aches with it, threatens to come undone.
It’s alright, Dean tells him, soothes, and the care, the depth in his tone and his eyes is more than he can bear -- more than he can see and touch, more than he can comprehend as this, as anything, as a soul on the sea, bound for death; more than he’d been willing to pray for, in fear that he would be heard and deemed unfit: It’s alright, and he doesn’t believe, but he has faith that this, too, will come to him in time.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 518
Summary: He’d been expecting a slow descent; what he gets is an onslaught. For invisiblelove, who requested “Dean/Castiel + Hurt/Comfort +Schmoop” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Spoilers through Season Five.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I... don’t know about this. I had this flash of an idea in my head about Castiel’s distance from Heaven and the powers associated therein, but the idea didn’t quite translate the way I’d wanted it to. I hope it’s at least somewhat enjoyable anyway.
didn’t ask, never wanted
He expects a slow descent, the gradual ebb of Grace; what he gets instead is an onslaught.
He collapses, bodily, his frame shrunken and weak: the nerves of his Vessel, the sensations of Its organs and muscles, its bones and breaths suddenly connected to him, meaningful in ways they never were -- vital to his very existence, and he gasps, and his chest blazes, catches fire, wreathed in flame; he feels despair as he struggles to steady himself, to fills his lungs and tame his heart, to no avail.
Dean is at his side, immediately: too slow, eyes wide and filled with fear, but it is nothing, nothing compared to the way Castiel feels his blood race and his mind pound, the world too much and too bright, and he cannot Reach, cannot Grasp for his Brethren; he cannot appeal to a Will greater than his own for sanctuary, for absolution, for mercy.
Dean’s hand is on his chest, mouth at his ear, and he’s hauling Castiel close to him, breathing deep and murmuring, asking him to match the cadence, asking him to fall inside a new rhythm of being, and he is adrift, he is untamed and cast out: Dean rubs his hand up and down at the sternum, whispers calm, still, breathe, breathe, and Castiel chokes on the attempt, at first; chokes until Dean refuses to waver, stays steady, and eases him lightly through the fray.
He feels the rattle of his heart against the cup of Dean’s palm, and he focuses on that -- on being held within confines, too small and too gaping, massive and faint; of being sheltered from a storm, and he imagines Home, the protection of Heaven at his side, and wonders what a man can hope to do against such odds, except that the man at his back is a Soul Undimmed, and perhaps he can rescue the Fallen, just as well as he was saved, himself.
Castiel breathes, breathes -- unfamiliar and clumsy with it, unaccustomed to this lot, and Dean pulls away and looks him in the eye; he reaches out and wipes at Castiel’s face, and only then does he notice the tears, his first -- only then does he see what he’s become.
He aches with it, threatens to come undone.
It’s alright, Dean tells him, soothes, and the care, the depth in his tone and his eyes is more than he can bear -- more than he can see and touch, more than he can comprehend as this, as anything, as a soul on the sea, bound for death; more than he’d been willing to pray for, in fear that he would be heard and deemed unfit: It’s alright, and he doesn’t believe, but he has faith that this, too, will come to him in time.