Ten Miles High And Falling Fast
Title: Ten Miles High And Falling Fast
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Word Count: 598
Spoilers: General S5 spoilers
Warnings: Being touched by an angel
Disclaimer Supernatural belongs to Kripke, CW, et al. I own nothing.
Author’s Notes: Written for tiptoe39's birthday.
Summary: Castiel knows he's falling.
When Anna had fallen, she’d gone screaming out of the heavens as a shooting star, ripping out her grace in an unmistakable display of her unwillingness to follow orders. Where she landed, she’d created two miracles, creating an ancient tree where there had been none, and delivering a childless couple their miracle baby. She claimed it had been painful, and sudden, and terribly, terribly worth it.
Castiel was not falling fast. He did not come diving from heaven shining like a star, burning out his angelic power in a single sudden flare, but instead was shedding it behind him, leaving a trail of grace everywhere he touched. Healing Dean from Alistair’s revenge, banishing demons from their hosts, using Enochian magic to find what information the Vessel desperately needed, lifting Dean from the depths of Perdition.
He left fragments and shards of grace everywhere he had gone with Dean Winchester, left them smeared all over the American countryside mixed with exhaust fumes and engine oil, salt, gasoline, and blood. More had poured from him, mixed with every word he’d shared with his mortal charge, speaking of free will and the fickleness of fathers. Castiel had washed it away with liquor, smothered it in diner food, and had felt it seep out of his pores when he’d sweated in the night air, encouraged heedless by a man without shame, without hope, knowing he was sentenced to a destiny he could not run from.
Castiel had pushed out his grace with every breath into Dean’s mouth, every slide of sweat-slick skin, every spending deep within his body. He was mindful of losing it then, not in pain like Anna’s, but in pleasure. It was a pleasure to fall, to push and fill that already-lost grace deep into Dean, who needed it so desperately. Achingly empty, alone, a void inside him that even Famine could not tempt him to fill, Dean needed the surety and favor that Castiel had never been without.
Dean only ever felt it once, when he’d been so empty, scooped out by Hell’s revelations and Heaven’s demands, that he’d acquiesced too easily, eyes empty as Castiel had tried to bring the salt-and-iron tang of arousal to the surface. Dean went through the motions, kissing Castiel with expert passion, holding on and moving with him, flesh heating up to fill the base urge, while his soul remained shriveled and cold. That was not the first night Castiel had felt doubt about what he was doing, about Heaven’s plan and the true justice of his Father, but it was the first night he’d felt the deep, frightening painful stab of knowing he was doing something he believed in.
“Dean.” It was the first time he’d spoken, and Dean lolled his head forward, bracing himself against Castiel’s thrusts, a silent scream behind his eyes that he would not give voice to, lest it shatter the shell that remained.
“Cas, don’t…” Don’t speak, don’t make me say it.
“It’s yours.” Shadow wings manifested out of the night air, flickering with the star-shards of lingering grace, illuminating a union of earth and sky. Dean stared at them, at Castiel, and a flicker of warmth, of iron and salt and blood, bloomed in the desperate kiss between them.
The wings wrapped them together, and fire blazed inside them as Castiel felt Dean grab onto him and hold on tight. Falling had been slow, and pleasurable, and terribly, terribly worth it, and Castiel hadn’t even landed hard. Because someone had been there to catch him, and every miracle he had left in him to give.
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Word Count: 598
Spoilers: General S5 spoilers
Warnings: Being touched by an angel
Disclaimer Supernatural belongs to Kripke, CW, et al. I own nothing.
Author’s Notes: Written for tiptoe39's birthday.
Summary: Castiel knows he's falling.
When Anna had fallen, she’d gone screaming out of the heavens as a shooting star, ripping out her grace in an unmistakable display of her unwillingness to follow orders. Where she landed, she’d created two miracles, creating an ancient tree where there had been none, and delivering a childless couple their miracle baby. She claimed it had been painful, and sudden, and terribly, terribly worth it.
Castiel was not falling fast. He did not come diving from heaven shining like a star, burning out his angelic power in a single sudden flare, but instead was shedding it behind him, leaving a trail of grace everywhere he touched. Healing Dean from Alistair’s revenge, banishing demons from their hosts, using Enochian magic to find what information the Vessel desperately needed, lifting Dean from the depths of Perdition.
He left fragments and shards of grace everywhere he had gone with Dean Winchester, left them smeared all over the American countryside mixed with exhaust fumes and engine oil, salt, gasoline, and blood. More had poured from him, mixed with every word he’d shared with his mortal charge, speaking of free will and the fickleness of fathers. Castiel had washed it away with liquor, smothered it in diner food, and had felt it seep out of his pores when he’d sweated in the night air, encouraged heedless by a man without shame, without hope, knowing he was sentenced to a destiny he could not run from.
Castiel had pushed out his grace with every breath into Dean’s mouth, every slide of sweat-slick skin, every spending deep within his body. He was mindful of losing it then, not in pain like Anna’s, but in pleasure. It was a pleasure to fall, to push and fill that already-lost grace deep into Dean, who needed it so desperately. Achingly empty, alone, a void inside him that even Famine could not tempt him to fill, Dean needed the surety and favor that Castiel had never been without.
Dean only ever felt it once, when he’d been so empty, scooped out by Hell’s revelations and Heaven’s demands, that he’d acquiesced too easily, eyes empty as Castiel had tried to bring the salt-and-iron tang of arousal to the surface. Dean went through the motions, kissing Castiel with expert passion, holding on and moving with him, flesh heating up to fill the base urge, while his soul remained shriveled and cold. That was not the first night Castiel had felt doubt about what he was doing, about Heaven’s plan and the true justice of his Father, but it was the first night he’d felt the deep, frightening painful stab of knowing he was doing something he believed in.
“Dean.” It was the first time he’d spoken, and Dean lolled his head forward, bracing himself against Castiel’s thrusts, a silent scream behind his eyes that he would not give voice to, lest it shatter the shell that remained.
“Cas, don’t…” Don’t speak, don’t make me say it.
“It’s yours.” Shadow wings manifested out of the night air, flickering with the star-shards of lingering grace, illuminating a union of earth and sky. Dean stared at them, at Castiel, and a flicker of warmth, of iron and salt and blood, bloomed in the desperate kiss between them.
The wings wrapped them together, and fire blazed inside them as Castiel felt Dean grab onto him and hold on tight. Falling had been slow, and pleasurable, and terribly, terribly worth it, and Castiel hadn’t even landed hard. Because someone had been there to catch him, and every miracle he had left in him to give.