Fic: The Brilliant Light of Morning Chapter 3/11
Title: The Brilliant Light of Morning Chapter 3/11
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Cas, Sam, Ruby, romance and serious angst
Spoilers: Not unless you haven't seen Season 4
Warnings: Gets kinda dark, not gonna lie. Also slash (enticement?)
Summary: Season 4 through a Destiel lens. As the world ends around them, Dean and Castiel's relationship begins.
A/N: I had posted this before, but I was new to LJ, and it wasn't done very well, so I'm reposting now, because I'm planning a sequel that I'll begin working on as soon as my Season 5 DVD arrives. I know it's been a year since I wrote it, but nearly everyone requested a sequel, so I'm finally doing it
4 - 07: It's The Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester
Dean knew it was Castiel beyond that door, he could smell him in the air, could feel the angel's presence on his skin. Dean flushed bright red immediately as memories of their last encounter flooded his mind.
His mother, her father, Azazel, John... and then Castiel, Castiel in his arms, Castiel's lips on his.
Then Castiel had pulled a Doc Brown, and there they were in the hotel room again, and the angel acted as if it had never happened, as if he hadn't held Dean in his unnaturally strong arms just moments before. But Dean was distracted before he could be embarrassed, distracted by revelations about Sam.
His Sammy was dealing with a demon whore, his Sammy was indulging in his demon blood. His Sammy was breaking his heart.
His Sammy was pointing a gun at his angel.
"Sam, no!"
Sam was confused.
His initial awe at being in the presence of angels had degenerated to shock and mild disappointment. They were rude. They were cold. They didn't like him. And it hurt to admit to himself that he'd expected them to.
After all, Sam believed in God. Shouldn't the angels flock to him, greet him with warm smiles and "God Bless"'s? Instead, they'd immediately deferred to Dean, as if he were the righteous one, as if he were the believer. Because Sam believed in God. He really did. Always had. He knew it, knew in his gut, that there was a God, and that he was loved by Him.
Now, His angles, on the other hand...
Castiel wasn't that bad. Self-righteous, but what else would you expect from an angel? Uriel, however, was horrifying. He seemed to take pleasure in the idea of wiping out a town full of innocent people. Sam watched Dean argue, pride welling up in him. Maybe Dean was the righteous one, the good brother. After all, he wasn't the one fucking a demon, was he?
Then, Sam noticed something. Something between Dean and Castiel. Castiel came to Dean's defense, and Sam noticed something in Dean's eyes, something he didn't see very often. Dean was staring at Castiel as if he were completely and utterly out of his depth. As if Castiel was something he couldn't fight, something from which he could only run, run and run, and hide, and finally be caught like a frightened animal.
Sam knew Dean, knew Dean better than anyone, because he'd spent his entire life staring up (and eventually down) into Dean's pure green eyes, and trying to figure out what made him tick. Why is he so strong? Why is he so tough? What did I do to deserve his love?
And when Dean licked his lips, and Castiel noticed, noticed the way a human would, and titled his head, and when Dean glanced over at Sam as if just remembering he was there - Sam saw it.
Pure, unbridled lust.
Dean was lusting after Castiel.
Well, wasn't that just perfect.
*****
"You know," began Uriel, his host's voice smooth as silk, "we don't really need this... Dean Winchester." He wrinkled his nose, speaking the name as if it tasted bitter on his tongue. "He's volatile, reckless, disrespectful, blasphemous - "
"He is the chosen one," Castiel interrupted. He stood under a tree in the park, his hands in his pockets, long fingers picking at the trinkets there. He'd inspected them many times, remnants of the life of his host, remnants of Jimmy Novak. Half a pack of fruit-flavored gum, loose change, a little girl's hair clip in the shape of a purple flower, the wedding band he's removed from Jimmy's finger after he'd taken control of the body, a movie ticket, and a small, heavy lead cross in a leather pouch.
"The chosen one," Uriel spat. "Chosen how? By his own weakness. He fell; he broke. And now, we have to clean up after him."
"It is God's will," Castiel replied, his thoughts elsewhere. The words came so easily to his lips, he never really stopped to think of what they meant. His fingers toyed with the lead cross, mind full of green eyes.
"Is it? Is it really?" Uriel demanded.
Castiel turned his blue eyes to his brother. "Of course."
Uriel sighed. "Dean Winchester started this. He shouldn't have the right to finish it." He looked down at his hands clasped in his lap. "I should be allowed to kill him."
"It is long foretold," Castiel said, staring at his brother. "He who begins it is he who will finish it. Uriel, we need him."
"You need him," Uriel snapped.
Castiel looked away. "What do you mean?" he asked, straining to keep his voice neutral.
Uriel laughed, and it was a cold sound. Castiel wondered how many of these simple, beautiful humans had heard that same sound before their lives were ripped from them. "You remember the stories; being around humans infects angels. Their weak emotions are like a disease. I've seen the way you look at him."
That particular revelation shocked Castiel, so he remained silent, waited, trying not to give Uriel a reason to doubt him.
"You look at him as if you want to climb inside, wrap him around you, protect and be protected, be safe and warm and sinful. You look at him as if he's water, and you've been lost in the desert." Uriel stood, turning to Castiel. "You look at him the way you look at God."
And with that, Uriel was gone, leaving Castiel to his increasingly dark thoughts.
*****
Dean wasn't ashamed he'd chosen to save the town. And he told the smug angel just that, the moment his blue eyes had appeared next to him in the park.
Imagine his surprise when Castiel had told him he was glad he'd done it.
"I was praying you'd choose to save the town, Dean." Castiel sat back, his hands clasped in his lap. The movement caused his knee to rest lightly against Dean, and Dean stilled a flash of lust that the contact caused.
"I'll tell you something if you promise never to tell another human soul."
Dean was immediately humbled by this, by the angel's willingness to confide in him. Not trusting his voice, he nodded.
"I don't know the right and wrong here, Dean," Castiel began, voice halting. "I don't know if you passed or failed. We are always told that our Father is loving and merciful - but then there are moments when I am reminded exactly how cold and ruthless He can be. And in those moments..."
Castiel trailed off, staring at his hands. Dean waited, holding his breath, not wanting to shatter the fragile moment, the sweet trust building between them.
Castiel took a deep breath, and continued softly, "And in those moments... I doubt." He looked up again, blue eyes scanning the playground. "I see these people, these beautiful creations, and I fear for them. They run about their lives, enduring hardship after hardship. Most come out the other side stronger, more capable. Yet they have no idea how close they came to death today. How close they were to being victims of friendly fire; how close they came to being casualties in a war they neither want nor need. It isn't fair, what we do to them." He turned to Dean, and Dean was shocked at the emotion he saw in the angel's eyes, emotion he hadn't thought the man was capable of. "How is it fair to wipe out an entire town of innocents who can't fight back, who can't even understand why it happened? How is it fair to never give them a chance?"
Castiel looked back down at his hands, and Dean knew he should do something, say something, but how do you reassure an angel?
Dean did what he would have done with Sam. He slid his hand onto Castiel's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.
After a moment, Castiel locked eyes with him, and Dean was struck by how utterly blue and clear his gaze was. He didn't think he'd ever seen eyes that color, and he wondered if it was simply the vessel Castiel chose, or if his angelic presence made them that way. Dean noticed a small lock of hair that had dropped down onto Castiel's forehead, and instinctively made to brush it out of the way. His fingers connected with the black strands and froze, marveling in their texture. His hair felt like feathers, soft and light. Forgetting to fix Cas's hair, Dean instead let the backs of his fingers trail down the angel's temple, feeling the pale skin like cool silk. Power danced lightly over his fingers, then down his spine and to places lower, and all Dean could think in that moment was if Castiel tasted as good as he smelled, cool and sweet. Dean felt himself lean forward and rest his lips and nose against Castiel's cheek. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Castiel's hands grip the edge of the park bench, his knuckles white.
And Dean knew then that it wasn't because he was disgusted. After all, if the angel didn't want this, couldn't he just leave?
Dean's mouth moved, planting a soft almost-kiss to Castiel's skin. He'd never felt so unsure, not even during his first kiss, his first grope, his first blow-job in the back seat of the Impala. Everything about Castiel was fresh, new, and ancient, and Dean had no idea what he was doing. He knew he should stop, that he was probably buying himself a one-way ticket back into the Pit, but at the moment, with angel's skin against his, he couldn't bring himself to care.
Dean committed then, fully, to his own damnation.
He let his hand trail down to Castiel's neck, his fingers tracing the cool skin there. Dean leaned forward and placed a kiss to the corner of Castiel's mouth. He saw, in his peripheral vision, Castiel's hands tighten on the bench.
Then, without warning, those same hands were buried in his shirt front, pulling him forward, and those angel's lips were crashing against his. Dean gripped Castiel on either side of his face and kissed him back, leaning him back against the bench, and his tongue grazed Castiel's and he knew then that Castiel tasted exactly as Dean had expected him too, sweet and powerful, and oh so good, and he couldn't help but wish that Castiel's hand would untangle itself from his shirt and touch his arm again, settle into that place he was meant for, and speaking of being inside, Dean's leg slid between Castiel's, leaning him back further against the bench, and he moaned at what he felt there, angels could have sex, not that Dean had ever wondered.
And just as Dean was thinking of motel beds and magic fingers, and a khaki trench coat spread across bad seventies carpeting, Castiel was pulling back, gasping, saying, "No, I'm sorry - oh God - no, Dean, I can't, I'm so sorry, I - "
And then he was gone, leaving Dean to catch himself on the back of the bench, leaving him with a painful erection, the taste of peppermint on his tongue, and a painful hollow in his chest.
Dean had tasted Heaven. And Heaven hurt like Hell.
Link to chapter four:
janekrahe.livejournal.com/11258.html#cutid1