As Mist
As Mist
The world is gray, the light mist of dew and heavy fog that covers the world in the hours where day and night fight for dominance. He watches it roll across the field, watches the way the dew clings to things as they lie motionless. There is no wind to make the leaves rustle or the flowers dance. He wishes there were because he might be able to read it as some sign of divine acceptance. He knows better, but he wishes anyway.
Dean looks up at him and he wishes again, knowing better, wishes there were love in those eyes but there is only lust and desire and need and underneath a wariness that comes from being hurt too often by too many people. Castiel is only the last in a long line of people who have hurt and used the eldest Winchester brother. He would change that if he could, but he is no miracle worker. He is not God to be able to turn back the tides of time and change his past, nor is he a prophet to give him hope for the future.
He watches the dew settle on Dean’s eyelashes, sees the way the gray of the world seems to draw out his freckles and the pink tones in his lips. His green eyes are more vibrant in this light, the dark center barely a pin prick against them. He drops his hand to his cheek, his own need burning bright but unable to give anything more than this simple touch.
He is an angel. But they are not so different in this. In the war between heaven and hell he is just the mist, wiped away by the victor to be replaced by another when the battle continues on.
The world is gray, the light mist of dew and heavy fog that covers the world in the hours where day and night fight for dominance. He watches it roll across the field, watches the way the dew clings to things as they lie motionless. There is no wind to make the leaves rustle or the flowers dance. He wishes there were because he might be able to read it as some sign of divine acceptance. He knows better, but he wishes anyway.
Dean looks up at him and he wishes again, knowing better, wishes there were love in those eyes but there is only lust and desire and need and underneath a wariness that comes from being hurt too often by too many people. Castiel is only the last in a long line of people who have hurt and used the eldest Winchester brother. He would change that if he could, but he is no miracle worker. He is not God to be able to turn back the tides of time and change his past, nor is he a prophet to give him hope for the future.
He watches the dew settle on Dean’s eyelashes, sees the way the gray of the world seems to draw out his freckles and the pink tones in his lips. His green eyes are more vibrant in this light, the dark center barely a pin prick against them. He drops his hand to his cheek, his own need burning bright but unable to give anything more than this simple touch.
He is an angel. But they are not so different in this. In the war between heaven and hell he is just the mist, wiped away by the victor to be replaced by another when the battle continues on.