Burn so brightly: The untold tales: 02
With every drag of silk against his fingertips, a wave of light would rise up and fill him, receding only as he pulled his hands back. It was not empty light, or in fact light at all, but particles of a single being, and every cell was a memory, a scent or a taste or a sensation, or an image or an emotion. Dean was deaf and blind, drowning in Castiel, and yet, somehow, aware, perhaps more sharply than ever, of himself, his own thoughts and memories and feelings.
Dry air, sand and the smell of sun. Green trees under a clear sky with the road before him. Lightning, blood raining from the sky, roaring thunder and the clash of weapons. The burn of alcohol in his throat, hard seat underneath him, the smell of mothballs and the white noise from a TV.
Almost harshly, he dug his fingers into the tense muscle beneath the black feathers, and he was rewarded with sharp pain and a cry that vibrated inside him as well as through the room. The light bristled.
From afar he could hear Sam’s voice. “Dean … Dean, take it easy.”
But nearer, much, much nearer, right behind his ear, was the constant murmur of a deeper voice, one that shook windowpanes and light bulbs and the walls of Dean’s heart.
“I can hear prayer,” Dean mumbled.
“Good,” Sam said, his face swimming into focus long enough for Dean to see how worried he was. “Keep talking. What else can you hear?”
“Need more oil,” Dean said, his voice sounding like gravel. He pulled back, breathing deeply, and popped the lid on the bottle with someone else’s fingers. If they had been his he would have been able to feel them.
Castiel was bruising Sam with his grip, his eyes bright and feverish and defensively angry.
Dean examined the right wing as well as his dazzled vision permitted.
“I think you’ve covered it,” Sam said helpfully.
Dean nodded, but put a few finishing touches on it anyway, tucking in a stray feather here and slicking up a couple that had escaped his notice there. The final stroke pulled loose a memory.
“We must expect Raphael to arrive soon. Dean, I … I want to thank you.”
“Hey, no problem. I’ve had fun tonight. And I owed you big time anyway.”
“I have had fun too. … Is this … Is this what friends do?”
“You mean get thrown out of brothels or hang around in dark abandoned houses?”
“No, I mean … this. Laughing together.”
“You haven’t laughed yet. … I’ve seen you smile though. That’s one virginity lost, I guess. And yeah, I think that’s what friends do. Haven’t had many myself, so I wouldn’t really know. Actually I haven’t had any.”
“That’s two virginities lost, then.”
Back then, Dean had not said that the third was supposed to be the charm. He had thought it, and the thought had made him hot, and the heat had terrified him. He had no choice but to admit that now, when that very terror was swimming, palpable and mocking, in the centre of his forehead, while the heat flowed through his stomach.
“Next wing,” he croaked.
“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, in a voice barely audible, wrecked by the screams he had buried in Sam’s embrace. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m trying.”
“I know, I know.”
Sam frowned unhappily at them both. Sam didn’t understand. Sam thought Castiel could handle the things waiting for him inside Dean. The need, the lust, the rage. Demons. Castiel had broken for Dean before. This time, Dean would protect him. Even if he had to break his little heart to do it.
So he had made Cas promise not to let himself go.
“You’re doing great, Cas. Hold back for me.”
He dragged his fingers roughly over the left wing, and Castiel screamed again. The other wing lay draped over Sam’s thigh, oil soaking into his jeans. This wing was lifted stiffly, anticipating the pain.
Castiel was coming undone, touched for the first time in thousands of years. Like a tightly wound, rusty coil being released.
Dry air, sand and the smell of sun. Green trees under a clear sky with the road before him. Lightning, blood raining from the sky, roaring thunder and the clash of weapons. The burn of alcohol in his throat, hard seat underneath him, the smell of mothballs and the white noise from a TV.
Almost harshly, he dug his fingers into the tense muscle beneath the black feathers, and he was rewarded with sharp pain and a cry that vibrated inside him as well as through the room. The light bristled.
From afar he could hear Sam’s voice. “Dean … Dean, take it easy.”
But nearer, much, much nearer, right behind his ear, was the constant murmur of a deeper voice, one that shook windowpanes and light bulbs and the walls of Dean’s heart.
“I can hear prayer,” Dean mumbled.
“Good,” Sam said, his face swimming into focus long enough for Dean to see how worried he was. “Keep talking. What else can you hear?”
“Need more oil,” Dean said, his voice sounding like gravel. He pulled back, breathing deeply, and popped the lid on the bottle with someone else’s fingers. If they had been his he would have been able to feel them.
Castiel was bruising Sam with his grip, his eyes bright and feverish and defensively angry.
Dean examined the right wing as well as his dazzled vision permitted.
“I think you’ve covered it,” Sam said helpfully.
Dean nodded, but put a few finishing touches on it anyway, tucking in a stray feather here and slicking up a couple that had escaped his notice there. The final stroke pulled loose a memory.
“We must expect Raphael to arrive soon. Dean, I … I want to thank you.”
“Hey, no problem. I’ve had fun tonight. And I owed you big time anyway.”
“I have had fun too. … Is this … Is this what friends do?”
“You mean get thrown out of brothels or hang around in dark abandoned houses?”
“No, I mean … this. Laughing together.”
“You haven’t laughed yet. … I’ve seen you smile though. That’s one virginity lost, I guess. And yeah, I think that’s what friends do. Haven’t had many myself, so I wouldn’t really know. Actually I haven’t had any.”
“That’s two virginities lost, then.”
Back then, Dean had not said that the third was supposed to be the charm. He had thought it, and the thought had made him hot, and the heat had terrified him. He had no choice but to admit that now, when that very terror was swimming, palpable and mocking, in the centre of his forehead, while the heat flowed through his stomach.
“Next wing,” he croaked.
“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, in a voice barely audible, wrecked by the screams he had buried in Sam’s embrace. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m trying.”
“I know, I know.”
Sam frowned unhappily at them both. Sam didn’t understand. Sam thought Castiel could handle the things waiting for him inside Dean. The need, the lust, the rage. Demons. Castiel had broken for Dean before. This time, Dean would protect him. Even if he had to break his little heart to do it.
So he had made Cas promise not to let himself go.
“You’re doing great, Cas. Hold back for me.”
He dragged his fingers roughly over the left wing, and Castiel screamed again. The other wing lay draped over Sam’s thigh, oil soaking into his jeans. This wing was lifted stiffly, anticipating the pain.
Castiel was coming undone, touched for the first time in thousands of years. Like a tightly wound, rusty coil being released.