"Bedroom Hymns" (Supernatural/Torchwood; Castiel, Thingstiel, Jack; Jack/Castiel, Jack/Thingstiel)
Title: “Bedroom Hymns”
Fandom: Supernatural/Torchwood(/Doctor Who)
Characters/Pairings: Castiel, Thingstiel, Captain Jack Harkness; Jack/Castiel, Jack/Thingstiel; hints of Dean/Castiel
Genres: Crossover; PWP; crack
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,188
Summary: Captain Jack Harkness is quite possibly the only human in existence who can have sex with Castiel's true form. And quite possibly the only human in existence who finds being burned away by an angel's true form an utter turn-on.
Warnings: Uh, I can't even call it character death because Jack, being immortal, comes back every time, so... just... warnings for general wtfery, I guess.
Notes: I blame jetaimerai for this. I don't even know how we came across this idea. But, well, both of us are fans of Supernatural and Doctor Who/Torchwood crossovers, and, I mean, if you were immortal and a 51st-century horndog, would you pass up the chance to do an angel? But just, oh god. brb burying my face in my hands and hoping that there are other weirdos out there like me and jetaimerai so I don't feel as crazy for spending a day writing this, hahaha.
Lyrics are from "Bedroom Hymns" by Florence + The Machine; quote in Castiel's note is the KJV of 2 Corinthians 4:12.
Mirrors: AO3
❧
This is as good a place to fall as any
We’ll build our altar here
This is his body, this is his love
Such selfish prayers and I can’t enough, oh
❧
In a crowded bar tucked deep in the heart of Cardiff, Captain Jack Harkness finds God.
Or, well, not God per se-rather, a servant of God. But that’s close enough. And, hell, if he’d known that angels were this attractive, he may have been persuaded to convert earlier-way earlier.
“Castiel, angel of the Lord,” Jack says over a shot of tequila. By now, his whole body is buzzing and he’s feeling light-headed, and he doesn’t even bother picking up the lime to take the edge off the bitter taste of the tequila. He takes in Castiel’s appearance, his eyes traveling over the rumpled trenchcoat, the navy-blue tie (loosened and slightly askew), the ruffled hair, the unshaven face, and grins. “Shit.”
Castiel sips at his beer as he stares at the counter. “I am Castiel, yes.”
Some song by some indie Welsh band is playing under the chatter of dozens of patrons, and the crack of a cue ball hitting another ball rings through the air. Jack’s eyes linger on Castiel for a moment longer before he turns back to the counter, his fingers barely gripping his empty shotglass. It’s ridiculous, even for him, to be sitting in some no-name bar with a beautiful stranger feeding him some cock-and-bull story about being an angel, and yet he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something true about it, something in the man’s presence that screams that he’s not of this world.
So he reacts with a chuckle and a wisecrack.
“So you’re telling me that angels are hot American nerds.”
Castiel shrugs and looks at Jack, one eyebrow cocked.
“Not all angels, no. My appearance before you is simply what is presented by the vessel that I have chosen.”
He takes a deeper look at Jack, and then something flickers behind his eyes and he furrows his brow, puzzled, his breaths shallow.
“And you-an American in Wales, yes, but there’s something else.”
He tilts his head and leans in closer, the bottom of his coat brushing against the barstool; even over the tang of alcohol, Jack can still make out Castiel’s smell-human, yes, but mixed in with some other pheromone, some scent that’s otherworldly and divine and makes his head spin in a way that nothing else has.
“Where-no, when are you from?”
Jack blinks and pulls himself together, smirking.
“No fooling you, huh?”
He glances over at Castiel, whose face is still serious, his lips set in a straight line. A row of shotglasses sit empty on the counter before him, and he’s had at least four beers, but his eyes are still clear and focused, bright even in the dimly-lit bar. He has Jack pinned in a corner, and Jack racks through all the lies he’s come up with over the years and every way he’s ever thought of to avoid the question, but it’s useless; there’s no worming his way out of this one. He gulps and lets the truth-buried for hundreds of years-slip past his lips.
“Fifty-first century.”
“You’ve traveled far,” Castiel says before sitting back up and turning away from Jack, his shoulders tense. “I’m surprised you’re as intact as you are. Dean complains if I so much as pull him forty years backward, but you-there’s centuries, millennia written all over your face, and yet you’re whole.” Castiel lifts his glass and takes another sip. “You shouldn’t even exist.”
“Well, I do.” There’s something in the way Castiel’s voice lingered over Dean’s name-a glimmer of warmth; a millisecond of extra time-that makes Jack smile. “Got a boyfriend, then?”
Castiel stiffens. Jack watches the movements that flit across his face: his eyes widen, then narrow; he furrows his brow and his lips part, then slam back shut and thin as he frowns, and then his eyes flick away to glance at a point on the ground before coming back up to meet Jack’s.
“No,” he says slowly. Jack snorts.
“A lover, then?”
“No,” Castiel says, so fast he almost cuts Jack off. He clears his throat and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “He’s-a charge. A responsibility.”
Jack raises an eyebrow and rests his elbow against the counter. “Oh? Is that what they call it in the twenty-first century?”
Castiel gives him this look, and that intense, smoldering look in Castiel’s eyes sears itself into Jack’s mind. There’s denial in there, and behind that front, Jack can still see a touch of fear, a touch of reluctance. Longing softens the edges of his eyes. Jack leans in and puts a finger underneath Castiel’s chin-a tender touch, one that doesn’t seem to fit in with the roughness in the bar, with the coarse laughter and the staggering movements and the catches of harsh language-and tilts his face toward him. Their eyes meet, and Jack finds something exhilarating about the way Castiel’s lips (so full, and yet so pale) part.
“Forget him,” Jack murmurs, suddenly aware of how fundamentally beautiful this angel is and how much he wants to lay claim to his flawless skin. “For one night, at least.”
“I-” Castiel says, then stops as Jack leans in. Castiel’s eyes follow Jack’s lips, watch as they curve into a grin, watch as two perfect dimples dot his cheeks. With Jack this close, Castiel can breathe him in, and there’s something about Jack that overwhelms Castiel and brings a flush to his cheeks-something about his movements, the aftershave overlaying some other scent, so distant and alien, drowns Castiel and makes his vessel react in an utterly visceral way. And those feelings spread to him as well, wash over him in a wave of something that he can identify, reluctantly, as lust.
“Just a few hours,” Jack says, thumbing over Castiel’s chin; Castiel closes his eyes and lets out a little breath, tight and controlled, as he finds himself shivering. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“This is inappropriate,” Castiel says, eyes snapping back open as he balls his trembling hands into fists. His body feels hot, and he doesn’t understand why; parts of his body are tightening while other parts tingle and feel like they’re floating. The only thing tying him together is a tendril of heat. “Not here, at least.”
Jack leans in and whispers into Castiel’s ear, his cheek grazing Castiel’s and sending a spark down Castiel’s spine.
“Easy fix.”
Jack draws back and notes with satisfaction at how flustered Castiel looks, his eyes wide.
“Shall we go?”
Castiel hesitates, but then Jack cups Castiel’s whole cheek in his hand, strokes Castiel’s lips, and there’s a feeling that’s so utterly electric that it makes him gasp (and Jack feels, with satisfaction, the air rushing past his fingers)-Jack rubs a spot behind Castiel’s ear and Castiel lets out a tiny groan. He wasn’t even aware that humans could feel like this, could experience something other than the hurt of injury. These sensations are light, fleeting, and not as deep and intense as pain, but they seep through him in a way that pain does not. He can ignore being stabbed, can ignore bullets piercing through him, can ignore being broken, but this is something entirely new, and it shoots through him with its gentleness, so human and so pleasurable.
“Yes,” Castiel says, heart thumping, and Jack laughs.
“Where to?” he says, but before he’s even done asking, Castiel touches two fingers to Jack’s forehead and they’re in some motel room, small and dark, simply furnished. Threadbare carpet lines the ground and a damp smell lingers in the air. A couple of spots of flaking paint mar the walls, but Jack has Castiel’s face cupped in his hands, has his lips on Castiel’s, and they don’t notice.
“You’re gorgeous,” Jack murmurs between kisses, and Castiel hums in response. His eyes flutter open and Jack sees a moment of hesitation that tightens the lines around Castel’s eyes; he pauses and breaks away, his breaths heavy but soft.
“Do you want to?” Jack says, his fingers still, his eyes fixed on Castiel’s face. Castiel bites his lip (something that should not make goosebumps crawl over Jack’s arms, but does) and looks away.
He’s an angel; he can can flutter in and out of places in the blink of an eye. He’s flown in on Dean before-Dean, with some woman with her head thrown back, eyes closed, back arched, tendons in her neck straining as she moans; Dean, with the muscles on his back strained, freckles dotting the plane between his shoulderblades, the line of his jaw buried in the curve of her shoulder, his whole body taut and filled with heat. And there was that feeling that he’s only now acknowledging as lust that rolled through him, and suddenly his coat felt too heavy, too hot, and his tie felt tight, and he had licked his lips without even noticing his movements, and then he fluttered away again before Dean and the woman could notice.
He had sat on a park bench afterward, elbows on his thighs, gaze at nothing in particular, as he replayed that scene over and over, and every time he lingered over their bodies-over Dean’s body, really, with the broad shoulders and strong arms-he’d felt an utterly human need overwhelm him and confuse him.
And then he’d busied himself with something else until that urge faded away, pent up and unresolved.
“Yes,” Castiel says, because it’s not like Dean’s faithful either; it’s not like they’ve made any sort of agreement, and Castiel can do what he wants and can make decisions for himself. Besides, Jack’s not an unattractive man, either. His shoulders are broad too, his hands comfortable. That’s enough for Castiel.
Jack smiles. “Well, let’s get to it then.”
And somehow or the other, their clothes start coming off-Castiel’s coat lies thrown over the back of a chair; Jack’s coat is in a heap at the foot of the bed; Castiel’s tie hangs over the lampshade, accompanied soon after by his shirt and slacks, and Jack’s shirt and slacks sit on the ground with his suspenders draped over them. They’ve kicked off their shoes and socks, and Jack has his finger hooked under the waistband of Castiel’s briefs (and he tugs, gently at first, and then with more force).
Castiel is slight without his clothing, smaller, but Jack seems to bask in his own nakedness, his body spreading out to fill in the gaps. Jack pulls away Castiel’s briefs and his cock springs free, hard, and Jack wriggles out of his own underwear.
They tangle themselves in each other, their hands on each other; Jack’s hands are experienced, coaxing moans and gasps from Castiel, drawing out responses that Castiel didn’t even realize his vessel could have, and what Castiel’s hands lack in experience they make up in eagerness. (Sometimes he’s a bit too eager and he squeezes too tight, and Jack winces but then laughs it off and tells him to go easy; and that flushed look on Castiel’s face is just endearing and the pain of a touch landing too hard fades quick, replaced by desire.)
Jack has his hand around Castiel’s cock, his grip firm, his thumb against the underside of Castiel’s cock; he strokes Castiel, at first slow as he watches Castiel’s reactions (a whimpering moan that cuts straight to his heart as Castiel’s suddenly so vulnerable, his body tense, his head thrown back as that serious face breaks, his lips parted in a gasp), then faster, his thumb passing over the ridge and the head, and there’s a spot close to the base that makes Castiel shudder, especially when Jack lets the faintest touch of nail graze against it.
After Castiel comes, Jack doesn’t even pause-just licks the droplets of come off of Castiel’s cock (and Castiel moans, his eyes squeezed shut; the feeling of Jack’s tongue against him is almost too much now, and his cock throbs as Jack flicks his tongue against it) and licks the stickiness from his hand. They pause for only a half second to let Castiel catch his breath before Castiel kisses Jack’s jaw and then his chest, lips lingering on Jack’s nipple.
“Horndog,” Jack breathes, and Castiel’s response is to pinch Jack’s nipples between his lips. He looks up, locking his eyes with Jack’s.
“Allow me to repay the favor,” he murmurs, and Jack shivers as that gravely voice runs through him. Just a few words make his mind feel like its melting, and they shouldn’t even turn him on so much-everything Castiel says has just a touch of awkward, but that somehow doesn’t stop it from being sexy in some strange way.
And then one side of Jack’s cock rests against Castiel’s palm as his tongue travels up the other side and Jack shudders, sparks of pleasure shooting through him; his hands grope blindly as he squeezes his eyes shut and his fingers thread themselves through Castiel’s hair, tugging as he urges Castiel to continue, and Castiel’s doing something with his mouth that feels amazing. Jack’s not even sure what he’s doing-he lets go and props himself up with his elbows, and he looks down at Castiel, whose expression is as serious as ever and it’d be funny if it weren’t so hot.
“Fuck,” he groans, and Castiel looks up.
“I learned this from a movie-”
Jack has to laugh, because he’s giddy with pleasure and the thought of an angel sitting and watching porn is just too much. Castiel cocks his head to one side as Jack’s body shakes. Jack pulls Castiel up and buries him in a kiss, tugging on Castiel’s lower lip with his teeth; Castiel’s hands grope for somewhere to rest, and fall on Jack’s hips; Jack thrusts up, just slightly, and rubs himself against Castiel’s thigh as his tongue slips past Castiel’s lips and plays softly with Castiel’s tongue.
He breaks away and grins.
“Don’t stop.”
Castiel obeys, and waves of pleasure crest over his body again. His vision blurs and he doesn’t even care that Castiel’s grazing him with his teeth, doesn’t even care that Castiel’s squeezing just a little too tight, and he turns his head and buries his mouth in the pillow and moans, quaking. He’s about to come when a thought sizes him and he bolts up and pulls Castiel up again-
“I want to see it,” Jack breathes, his eyes half-lidded, his hands cupping Castiel’s face. “Your true form, in all its glory.”
“Jack,” Castiel says-groans, really; Jack’s lips are on Castiel’s neck now, kissing, nipping, and heat unfolds through Castiel’s body, a tingling that makes his heart thud against his ribs. “I-my true form-it’s the size of the, the-oh,” he says as Jack does something with his tongue, his teeth scraping over Castiel’s jaw and rubbing against his stubble. “-the Chrysler building. More or le-”
Jack’s lips cut him off. Jack frots against Castiel, an almost unconscious movement, and his knee nudges at him. He grins, breathless, and winks at Castiel.
“Well, my last boyfriend did say I was a size king,” he says, chuckling. “I can handle it.”
“You’ll probably die,” Castiel says, protesting as Jack nuzzles Castiel’s neck and suckles, sending shivers down Castiel’s spine. “I’ll burn your eyes out, and it won’t be pleasant.”
“Here’s a little secret,” Jack whispers, turning his head to look up at Castiel, his eyes glittering, “I can’t die.”
And then suddenly everything clicks and Castiel knows why Jack is so wrong, why it was hard to even look at him at first, why he wants to close his eyes even as his hands run over Jack’s body. Not just the fact that Jack’s from another time-Castiel can handle that-but it’s the boundless life that’s in him that terrifies him: the pulsing waves that wash over Castiel and fill him with this wonder, as if Jack embodies the energy of every creation since the beginning of time and until the end of time. It’s overwhelming and it’s a heavy force that attracts him, fills him with awe, even as part of him quakes in fear.
Forget Sam; Jack is an abomination.
But Jack’s still raining kisses on him and Castiel doesn’t deny that this feels good-feels amazing-and in a whirl of irrationality, Castiel entertains the idea. He hesitates and looks around, taking in the size of the room, the proximity of the next room; he looks at the window, covered only by a sheer curtain, and sees how many lights are lit around them. He looks back and Jack and frowns.
“Not here,” he says. “Too many people-too dangerous.”
“Easy fix,” Jack says, grinning, and braces himself as Castiel touches his fingers to Jack again, and suddenly they’re in a clearing in a forest, so deadly quiet except for the rustling of leaves in the wind and the occasional cry of a bird.
Jack, sprawled on the ground, would complain-they’re both still naked, after all, and the cold bites at his skin-but the sight of Castiel looming above him, face deadly serious, only fills him with more excitement.
“You’re sure about this,” Castiel says, but he doesn’t even have to confirm it-he understands now, sees how the prospect of dying isn’t something that bothers Jack, not in the least.
“Never been more sure,” Jack says, eyes twinkling in anticipation.
“So be it,” Castiel murmurs, and suddenly his eyes shine, and light bursts out of his mouth and his nose and then every sound disappears, replaced only by the sound of wind rustling-no, not wind, Jack realizes, but the sound of wings, of something cosmic.
He isn’t sure in the end whether Castiel’s body fell to the ground, empty and cast to the side, or whether it faded away into nothingness, held somewhere else while Castiel’s out of it; all he can remember is the blinding light filling the clearing and the entire sky, and there’s something before him, and yes, he’d be as tall as the Chrysler building if the mass of light and ethereality had bounds and could even be described in terms of size.
And Castiel, this-is awesome, in the truest sense of the word; his whole body is quaking with the terror of looking at this thing. Castiel wraps his wings around Jack and lifts him-and Jack, half-delirious with awe and pleasure, feels like he’s riding some turbo-elevator through the Chrysler building, and he laughs because it’s still ridiculous, even when he’s staring Heaven in the face and knows that it’s real. Every level is filled with the wonder of Heaven and God and angelic everything, and he feels his body disintegrating as Castiel’s presence overwhelms him and burns him to nothing.
But his body pulls itself back together again, effortlessly almost, and the pain that would have normally accompanied his regeneration disappears, replaced by this divine pleasure. He’s lost in it-waves of it-and Castiel is pulsing around him, stroking him; he’s drowning in pleasure and he withers away again, pulls back together, explodes, comes back...
“You know,” Jack says when his body pulls itself back together and he revives for the fifth time, “the French used to say-they used to call orgasms le petit mort. A little death. And I-” he gasps as his eyes start to burn out again, as his body starts to burn away into a pile of ashes and embers, and throughout there’s just that celestial wonder and pleasure and awe that’s running through him-better than an orgasm; better than a million orgasms, “-would have to agree.”
“Hush,” Castiel says, because by now Jack’s ears have had time to get used to the sound of Castiel’s voice, and there are words buried beneath that screeching-well, not words, but just meaning, pure meaning unadulterated by language, meaning that shoots through him and fucks with his mind. And Castiel brushes a wavelength of himself-that angelic form, that celestial intent, against Jack’s cock, and Jack explodes with an orgasm that drowns his mind and wipes him blank; his body twists with pleasure and it’s almost too intense for him, but he’s Captain Jack motherfucking Harkness, and he’s not going to let something like physical boundaries and human limits to sensation stop him from fucking an angel.
Jack gasps as he regenerates for the sixth time, and even his eyes are starting to get used to Castiel. He’s still human, and he still has human perception, but the light’s suddenly not as harsh, and he can distinguish colors among the blinding white. He can tell that Castiel is still and letting Jack have a moment to recover; there’s something else, though, and Jack senses hesitation.
“I’m hurting you,” Castiel says, his voice piercing straight into Jack’s mind. Jack winces a little-the screeching’s still there, and it’s still painful-but then he laughs.
“Well, I’ve been told I have some masochistic tendencies,” he says, winking. “But, well-there’s some pain, sure, but there’s mostly just-” There’s little eddies of colors he didn’t even know existed, and Castiel has him wrapped in his wings?-arms?-light, and he’s floating hundreds of feet above the ground in this mass of angel, and every nerve in his body screams with wonder and bliss, and how can he even put this into words? “-it’s mostly just the most mind-blowing thing I’ve ever experienced,” he finishes weakly.
Castiel is-caressing?-him, with wavelengths of what he can only imagine are heavenly love, and Jack trembles because suddenly all that darkness and nothingness and blackness after he dies is replaced by this warmth, this light, this Heaven, and there’s something so utterly beautiful about it, something that replaces his desperation over being alone for an eternity, his utter desolation-
-it’s not that he doesn’t fear death, because he does, every time. He hates it: that nothingness, as if he’s gone to sleep but worse, as if he’s in this crushing void, except he isn’t because he’s not. He’s not anything; he doesn’t exist.
He’s nothing.
It’s a sensation that destroys him and breaks him every time, even when he knows it’s going to happen, and it’s a sensation that lingers with him when he comes back to life, a memory that hardens his face and lends an inhuman depth to his eyes. And now, suddenly, there’s something in that void, something that he didn’t think existed, something that he’d given up hope on and now it’s here, full, real, touching him and pleasuring him and loving him-
“Please,” he says when Castiel’s light draws him back, “let me-I want to do something for you.”
Jack feels himself surrounded by warmth, and it takes him a moment to realize that Castiel is smiling, laughing (or, at least, that’s what his human mind classifies it as).
“Angels love and ask nothing in return,” Castiel murmurs.
And then there’s a rush of something against Jack, and it reminds him of feathers, but he can’t see feathers-he can only see all these colors that he doesn’t even have names for and his eyes are burning out of his head again (slower this time, but still burning). There's the gentlest brush of that not-a-feather against Jack’s cheek, and his eyes roll back as he comes again and feels his body exploding again, sending him into the light.
❧
He wakes up the next morning in that motel room, his whole body aching and yet so soft and relaxed. His clothes sit folded in a neat pile on the bedside table; a blanket covers him and he realizes that he’s been tucked in.
He sits up. There’s not a trace of Castiel’s clothing in the room; Jack rubs his eyes and casts his gaze around. A small sheet of motel stationery lies on top of his pile of clothes; he picks it up and flops back down on the bed, his fingers with barely enough energy to hold the paper up.
The writing on the paper is compact, tight, but fluorished at the same time, reminiscent of the writing he saw when he was in Victorian England with the first iteration of Torchwood.
“So then death worketh in us, but life in you.”
I apologize for not giving you a proper good-bye, but there are things that must be done and places that I must be. The apocalypse is soon to be upon us-you will survive, but, all the same, keep yourself safe.
The Lord loves you, as do I.
- Castiel
Jack sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He lets his hand fall; the note drifts out of his fingers and floats to the ground.
He lies there for probably another hour, mind still reeling, before he gets up and decides to get dressed. There’s places that he has to be as well, things that must be done. Monsters to fight. People to save. People to lead.
He smirks as he straps on his suspenders and pulls on his coat.
Well, if he dies on the job, at least now he’s got something to look forward to.
Fandom: Supernatural/Torchwood(/Doctor Who)
Characters/Pairings: Castiel, Thingstiel, Captain Jack Harkness; Jack/Castiel, Jack/Thingstiel; hints of Dean/Castiel
Genres: Crossover; PWP; crack
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,188
Summary: Captain Jack Harkness is quite possibly the only human in existence who can have sex with Castiel's true form. And quite possibly the only human in existence who finds being burned away by an angel's true form an utter turn-on.
Warnings: Uh, I can't even call it character death because Jack, being immortal, comes back every time, so... just... warnings for general wtfery, I guess.
Notes: I blame jetaimerai for this. I don't even know how we came across this idea. But, well, both of us are fans of Supernatural and Doctor Who/Torchwood crossovers, and, I mean, if you were immortal and a 51st-century horndog, would you pass up the chance to do an angel? But just, oh god. brb burying my face in my hands and hoping that there are other weirdos out there like me and jetaimerai so I don't feel as crazy for spending a day writing this, hahaha.
Lyrics are from "Bedroom Hymns" by Florence + The Machine; quote in Castiel's note is the KJV of 2 Corinthians 4:12.
Mirrors: AO3
❧
This is as good a place to fall as any
We’ll build our altar here
This is his body, this is his love
Such selfish prayers and I can’t enough, oh
❧
In a crowded bar tucked deep in the heart of Cardiff, Captain Jack Harkness finds God.
Or, well, not God per se-rather, a servant of God. But that’s close enough. And, hell, if he’d known that angels were this attractive, he may have been persuaded to convert earlier-way earlier.
“Castiel, angel of the Lord,” Jack says over a shot of tequila. By now, his whole body is buzzing and he’s feeling light-headed, and he doesn’t even bother picking up the lime to take the edge off the bitter taste of the tequila. He takes in Castiel’s appearance, his eyes traveling over the rumpled trenchcoat, the navy-blue tie (loosened and slightly askew), the ruffled hair, the unshaven face, and grins. “Shit.”
Castiel sips at his beer as he stares at the counter. “I am Castiel, yes.”
Some song by some indie Welsh band is playing under the chatter of dozens of patrons, and the crack of a cue ball hitting another ball rings through the air. Jack’s eyes linger on Castiel for a moment longer before he turns back to the counter, his fingers barely gripping his empty shotglass. It’s ridiculous, even for him, to be sitting in some no-name bar with a beautiful stranger feeding him some cock-and-bull story about being an angel, and yet he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something true about it, something in the man’s presence that screams that he’s not of this world.
So he reacts with a chuckle and a wisecrack.
“So you’re telling me that angels are hot American nerds.”
Castiel shrugs and looks at Jack, one eyebrow cocked.
“Not all angels, no. My appearance before you is simply what is presented by the vessel that I have chosen.”
He takes a deeper look at Jack, and then something flickers behind his eyes and he furrows his brow, puzzled, his breaths shallow.
“And you-an American in Wales, yes, but there’s something else.”
He tilts his head and leans in closer, the bottom of his coat brushing against the barstool; even over the tang of alcohol, Jack can still make out Castiel’s smell-human, yes, but mixed in with some other pheromone, some scent that’s otherworldly and divine and makes his head spin in a way that nothing else has.
“Where-no, when are you from?”
Jack blinks and pulls himself together, smirking.
“No fooling you, huh?”
He glances over at Castiel, whose face is still serious, his lips set in a straight line. A row of shotglasses sit empty on the counter before him, and he’s had at least four beers, but his eyes are still clear and focused, bright even in the dimly-lit bar. He has Jack pinned in a corner, and Jack racks through all the lies he’s come up with over the years and every way he’s ever thought of to avoid the question, but it’s useless; there’s no worming his way out of this one. He gulps and lets the truth-buried for hundreds of years-slip past his lips.
“Fifty-first century.”
“You’ve traveled far,” Castiel says before sitting back up and turning away from Jack, his shoulders tense. “I’m surprised you’re as intact as you are. Dean complains if I so much as pull him forty years backward, but you-there’s centuries, millennia written all over your face, and yet you’re whole.” Castiel lifts his glass and takes another sip. “You shouldn’t even exist.”
“Well, I do.” There’s something in the way Castiel’s voice lingered over Dean’s name-a glimmer of warmth; a millisecond of extra time-that makes Jack smile. “Got a boyfriend, then?”
Castiel stiffens. Jack watches the movements that flit across his face: his eyes widen, then narrow; he furrows his brow and his lips part, then slam back shut and thin as he frowns, and then his eyes flick away to glance at a point on the ground before coming back up to meet Jack’s.
“No,” he says slowly. Jack snorts.
“A lover, then?”
“No,” Castiel says, so fast he almost cuts Jack off. He clears his throat and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “He’s-a charge. A responsibility.”
Jack raises an eyebrow and rests his elbow against the counter. “Oh? Is that what they call it in the twenty-first century?”
Castiel gives him this look, and that intense, smoldering look in Castiel’s eyes sears itself into Jack’s mind. There’s denial in there, and behind that front, Jack can still see a touch of fear, a touch of reluctance. Longing softens the edges of his eyes. Jack leans in and puts a finger underneath Castiel’s chin-a tender touch, one that doesn’t seem to fit in with the roughness in the bar, with the coarse laughter and the staggering movements and the catches of harsh language-and tilts his face toward him. Their eyes meet, and Jack finds something exhilarating about the way Castiel’s lips (so full, and yet so pale) part.
“Forget him,” Jack murmurs, suddenly aware of how fundamentally beautiful this angel is and how much he wants to lay claim to his flawless skin. “For one night, at least.”
“I-” Castiel says, then stops as Jack leans in. Castiel’s eyes follow Jack’s lips, watch as they curve into a grin, watch as two perfect dimples dot his cheeks. With Jack this close, Castiel can breathe him in, and there’s something about Jack that overwhelms Castiel and brings a flush to his cheeks-something about his movements, the aftershave overlaying some other scent, so distant and alien, drowns Castiel and makes his vessel react in an utterly visceral way. And those feelings spread to him as well, wash over him in a wave of something that he can identify, reluctantly, as lust.
“Just a few hours,” Jack says, thumbing over Castiel’s chin; Castiel closes his eyes and lets out a little breath, tight and controlled, as he finds himself shivering. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“This is inappropriate,” Castiel says, eyes snapping back open as he balls his trembling hands into fists. His body feels hot, and he doesn’t understand why; parts of his body are tightening while other parts tingle and feel like they’re floating. The only thing tying him together is a tendril of heat. “Not here, at least.”
Jack leans in and whispers into Castiel’s ear, his cheek grazing Castiel’s and sending a spark down Castiel’s spine.
“Easy fix.”
Jack draws back and notes with satisfaction at how flustered Castiel looks, his eyes wide.
“Shall we go?”
Castiel hesitates, but then Jack cups Castiel’s whole cheek in his hand, strokes Castiel’s lips, and there’s a feeling that’s so utterly electric that it makes him gasp (and Jack feels, with satisfaction, the air rushing past his fingers)-Jack rubs a spot behind Castiel’s ear and Castiel lets out a tiny groan. He wasn’t even aware that humans could feel like this, could experience something other than the hurt of injury. These sensations are light, fleeting, and not as deep and intense as pain, but they seep through him in a way that pain does not. He can ignore being stabbed, can ignore bullets piercing through him, can ignore being broken, but this is something entirely new, and it shoots through him with its gentleness, so human and so pleasurable.
“Yes,” Castiel says, heart thumping, and Jack laughs.
“Where to?” he says, but before he’s even done asking, Castiel touches two fingers to Jack’s forehead and they’re in some motel room, small and dark, simply furnished. Threadbare carpet lines the ground and a damp smell lingers in the air. A couple of spots of flaking paint mar the walls, but Jack has Castiel’s face cupped in his hands, has his lips on Castiel’s, and they don’t notice.
“You’re gorgeous,” Jack murmurs between kisses, and Castiel hums in response. His eyes flutter open and Jack sees a moment of hesitation that tightens the lines around Castel’s eyes; he pauses and breaks away, his breaths heavy but soft.
“Do you want to?” Jack says, his fingers still, his eyes fixed on Castiel’s face. Castiel bites his lip (something that should not make goosebumps crawl over Jack’s arms, but does) and looks away.
He’s an angel; he can can flutter in and out of places in the blink of an eye. He’s flown in on Dean before-Dean, with some woman with her head thrown back, eyes closed, back arched, tendons in her neck straining as she moans; Dean, with the muscles on his back strained, freckles dotting the plane between his shoulderblades, the line of his jaw buried in the curve of her shoulder, his whole body taut and filled with heat. And there was that feeling that he’s only now acknowledging as lust that rolled through him, and suddenly his coat felt too heavy, too hot, and his tie felt tight, and he had licked his lips without even noticing his movements, and then he fluttered away again before Dean and the woman could notice.
He had sat on a park bench afterward, elbows on his thighs, gaze at nothing in particular, as he replayed that scene over and over, and every time he lingered over their bodies-over Dean’s body, really, with the broad shoulders and strong arms-he’d felt an utterly human need overwhelm him and confuse him.
And then he’d busied himself with something else until that urge faded away, pent up and unresolved.
“Yes,” Castiel says, because it’s not like Dean’s faithful either; it’s not like they’ve made any sort of agreement, and Castiel can do what he wants and can make decisions for himself. Besides, Jack’s not an unattractive man, either. His shoulders are broad too, his hands comfortable. That’s enough for Castiel.
Jack smiles. “Well, let’s get to it then.”
And somehow or the other, their clothes start coming off-Castiel’s coat lies thrown over the back of a chair; Jack’s coat is in a heap at the foot of the bed; Castiel’s tie hangs over the lampshade, accompanied soon after by his shirt and slacks, and Jack’s shirt and slacks sit on the ground with his suspenders draped over them. They’ve kicked off their shoes and socks, and Jack has his finger hooked under the waistband of Castiel’s briefs (and he tugs, gently at first, and then with more force).
Castiel is slight without his clothing, smaller, but Jack seems to bask in his own nakedness, his body spreading out to fill in the gaps. Jack pulls away Castiel’s briefs and his cock springs free, hard, and Jack wriggles out of his own underwear.
They tangle themselves in each other, their hands on each other; Jack’s hands are experienced, coaxing moans and gasps from Castiel, drawing out responses that Castiel didn’t even realize his vessel could have, and what Castiel’s hands lack in experience they make up in eagerness. (Sometimes he’s a bit too eager and he squeezes too tight, and Jack winces but then laughs it off and tells him to go easy; and that flushed look on Castiel’s face is just endearing and the pain of a touch landing too hard fades quick, replaced by desire.)
Jack has his hand around Castiel’s cock, his grip firm, his thumb against the underside of Castiel’s cock; he strokes Castiel, at first slow as he watches Castiel’s reactions (a whimpering moan that cuts straight to his heart as Castiel’s suddenly so vulnerable, his body tense, his head thrown back as that serious face breaks, his lips parted in a gasp), then faster, his thumb passing over the ridge and the head, and there’s a spot close to the base that makes Castiel shudder, especially when Jack lets the faintest touch of nail graze against it.
After Castiel comes, Jack doesn’t even pause-just licks the droplets of come off of Castiel’s cock (and Castiel moans, his eyes squeezed shut; the feeling of Jack’s tongue against him is almost too much now, and his cock throbs as Jack flicks his tongue against it) and licks the stickiness from his hand. They pause for only a half second to let Castiel catch his breath before Castiel kisses Jack’s jaw and then his chest, lips lingering on Jack’s nipple.
“Horndog,” Jack breathes, and Castiel’s response is to pinch Jack’s nipples between his lips. He looks up, locking his eyes with Jack’s.
“Allow me to repay the favor,” he murmurs, and Jack shivers as that gravely voice runs through him. Just a few words make his mind feel like its melting, and they shouldn’t even turn him on so much-everything Castiel says has just a touch of awkward, but that somehow doesn’t stop it from being sexy in some strange way.
And then one side of Jack’s cock rests against Castiel’s palm as his tongue travels up the other side and Jack shudders, sparks of pleasure shooting through him; his hands grope blindly as he squeezes his eyes shut and his fingers thread themselves through Castiel’s hair, tugging as he urges Castiel to continue, and Castiel’s doing something with his mouth that feels amazing. Jack’s not even sure what he’s doing-he lets go and props himself up with his elbows, and he looks down at Castiel, whose expression is as serious as ever and it’d be funny if it weren’t so hot.
“Fuck,” he groans, and Castiel looks up.
“I learned this from a movie-”
Jack has to laugh, because he’s giddy with pleasure and the thought of an angel sitting and watching porn is just too much. Castiel cocks his head to one side as Jack’s body shakes. Jack pulls Castiel up and buries him in a kiss, tugging on Castiel’s lower lip with his teeth; Castiel’s hands grope for somewhere to rest, and fall on Jack’s hips; Jack thrusts up, just slightly, and rubs himself against Castiel’s thigh as his tongue slips past Castiel’s lips and plays softly with Castiel’s tongue.
He breaks away and grins.
“Don’t stop.”
Castiel obeys, and waves of pleasure crest over his body again. His vision blurs and he doesn’t even care that Castiel’s grazing him with his teeth, doesn’t even care that Castiel’s squeezing just a little too tight, and he turns his head and buries his mouth in the pillow and moans, quaking. He’s about to come when a thought sizes him and he bolts up and pulls Castiel up again-
“I want to see it,” Jack breathes, his eyes half-lidded, his hands cupping Castiel’s face. “Your true form, in all its glory.”
“Jack,” Castiel says-groans, really; Jack’s lips are on Castiel’s neck now, kissing, nipping, and heat unfolds through Castiel’s body, a tingling that makes his heart thud against his ribs. “I-my true form-it’s the size of the, the-oh,” he says as Jack does something with his tongue, his teeth scraping over Castiel’s jaw and rubbing against his stubble. “-the Chrysler building. More or le-”
Jack’s lips cut him off. Jack frots against Castiel, an almost unconscious movement, and his knee nudges at him. He grins, breathless, and winks at Castiel.
“Well, my last boyfriend did say I was a size king,” he says, chuckling. “I can handle it.”
“You’ll probably die,” Castiel says, protesting as Jack nuzzles Castiel’s neck and suckles, sending shivers down Castiel’s spine. “I’ll burn your eyes out, and it won’t be pleasant.”
“Here’s a little secret,” Jack whispers, turning his head to look up at Castiel, his eyes glittering, “I can’t die.”
And then suddenly everything clicks and Castiel knows why Jack is so wrong, why it was hard to even look at him at first, why he wants to close his eyes even as his hands run over Jack’s body. Not just the fact that Jack’s from another time-Castiel can handle that-but it’s the boundless life that’s in him that terrifies him: the pulsing waves that wash over Castiel and fill him with this wonder, as if Jack embodies the energy of every creation since the beginning of time and until the end of time. It’s overwhelming and it’s a heavy force that attracts him, fills him with awe, even as part of him quakes in fear.
Forget Sam; Jack is an abomination.
But Jack’s still raining kisses on him and Castiel doesn’t deny that this feels good-feels amazing-and in a whirl of irrationality, Castiel entertains the idea. He hesitates and looks around, taking in the size of the room, the proximity of the next room; he looks at the window, covered only by a sheer curtain, and sees how many lights are lit around them. He looks back and Jack and frowns.
“Not here,” he says. “Too many people-too dangerous.”
“Easy fix,” Jack says, grinning, and braces himself as Castiel touches his fingers to Jack again, and suddenly they’re in a clearing in a forest, so deadly quiet except for the rustling of leaves in the wind and the occasional cry of a bird.
Jack, sprawled on the ground, would complain-they’re both still naked, after all, and the cold bites at his skin-but the sight of Castiel looming above him, face deadly serious, only fills him with more excitement.
“You’re sure about this,” Castiel says, but he doesn’t even have to confirm it-he understands now, sees how the prospect of dying isn’t something that bothers Jack, not in the least.
“Never been more sure,” Jack says, eyes twinkling in anticipation.
“So be it,” Castiel murmurs, and suddenly his eyes shine, and light bursts out of his mouth and his nose and then every sound disappears, replaced only by the sound of wind rustling-no, not wind, Jack realizes, but the sound of wings, of something cosmic.
He isn’t sure in the end whether Castiel’s body fell to the ground, empty and cast to the side, or whether it faded away into nothingness, held somewhere else while Castiel’s out of it; all he can remember is the blinding light filling the clearing and the entire sky, and there’s something before him, and yes, he’d be as tall as the Chrysler building if the mass of light and ethereality had bounds and could even be described in terms of size.
And Castiel, this-is awesome, in the truest sense of the word; his whole body is quaking with the terror of looking at this thing. Castiel wraps his wings around Jack and lifts him-and Jack, half-delirious with awe and pleasure, feels like he’s riding some turbo-elevator through the Chrysler building, and he laughs because it’s still ridiculous, even when he’s staring Heaven in the face and knows that it’s real. Every level is filled with the wonder of Heaven and God and angelic everything, and he feels his body disintegrating as Castiel’s presence overwhelms him and burns him to nothing.
But his body pulls itself back together again, effortlessly almost, and the pain that would have normally accompanied his regeneration disappears, replaced by this divine pleasure. He’s lost in it-waves of it-and Castiel is pulsing around him, stroking him; he’s drowning in pleasure and he withers away again, pulls back together, explodes, comes back...
“You know,” Jack says when his body pulls itself back together and he revives for the fifth time, “the French used to say-they used to call orgasms le petit mort. A little death. And I-” he gasps as his eyes start to burn out again, as his body starts to burn away into a pile of ashes and embers, and throughout there’s just that celestial wonder and pleasure and awe that’s running through him-better than an orgasm; better than a million orgasms, “-would have to agree.”
“Hush,” Castiel says, because by now Jack’s ears have had time to get used to the sound of Castiel’s voice, and there are words buried beneath that screeching-well, not words, but just meaning, pure meaning unadulterated by language, meaning that shoots through him and fucks with his mind. And Castiel brushes a wavelength of himself-that angelic form, that celestial intent, against Jack’s cock, and Jack explodes with an orgasm that drowns his mind and wipes him blank; his body twists with pleasure and it’s almost too intense for him, but he’s Captain Jack motherfucking Harkness, and he’s not going to let something like physical boundaries and human limits to sensation stop him from fucking an angel.
Jack gasps as he regenerates for the sixth time, and even his eyes are starting to get used to Castiel. He’s still human, and he still has human perception, but the light’s suddenly not as harsh, and he can distinguish colors among the blinding white. He can tell that Castiel is still and letting Jack have a moment to recover; there’s something else, though, and Jack senses hesitation.
“I’m hurting you,” Castiel says, his voice piercing straight into Jack’s mind. Jack winces a little-the screeching’s still there, and it’s still painful-but then he laughs.
“Well, I’ve been told I have some masochistic tendencies,” he says, winking. “But, well-there’s some pain, sure, but there’s mostly just-” There’s little eddies of colors he didn’t even know existed, and Castiel has him wrapped in his wings?-arms?-light, and he’s floating hundreds of feet above the ground in this mass of angel, and every nerve in his body screams with wonder and bliss, and how can he even put this into words? “-it’s mostly just the most mind-blowing thing I’ve ever experienced,” he finishes weakly.
Castiel is-caressing?-him, with wavelengths of what he can only imagine are heavenly love, and Jack trembles because suddenly all that darkness and nothingness and blackness after he dies is replaced by this warmth, this light, this Heaven, and there’s something so utterly beautiful about it, something that replaces his desperation over being alone for an eternity, his utter desolation-
-it’s not that he doesn’t fear death, because he does, every time. He hates it: that nothingness, as if he’s gone to sleep but worse, as if he’s in this crushing void, except he isn’t because he’s not. He’s not anything; he doesn’t exist.
He’s nothing.
It’s a sensation that destroys him and breaks him every time, even when he knows it’s going to happen, and it’s a sensation that lingers with him when he comes back to life, a memory that hardens his face and lends an inhuman depth to his eyes. And now, suddenly, there’s something in that void, something that he didn’t think existed, something that he’d given up hope on and now it’s here, full, real, touching him and pleasuring him and loving him-
“Please,” he says when Castiel’s light draws him back, “let me-I want to do something for you.”
Jack feels himself surrounded by warmth, and it takes him a moment to realize that Castiel is smiling, laughing (or, at least, that’s what his human mind classifies it as).
“Angels love and ask nothing in return,” Castiel murmurs.
And then there’s a rush of something against Jack, and it reminds him of feathers, but he can’t see feathers-he can only see all these colors that he doesn’t even have names for and his eyes are burning out of his head again (slower this time, but still burning). There's the gentlest brush of that not-a-feather against Jack’s cheek, and his eyes roll back as he comes again and feels his body exploding again, sending him into the light.
❧
He wakes up the next morning in that motel room, his whole body aching and yet so soft and relaxed. His clothes sit folded in a neat pile on the bedside table; a blanket covers him and he realizes that he’s been tucked in.
He sits up. There’s not a trace of Castiel’s clothing in the room; Jack rubs his eyes and casts his gaze around. A small sheet of motel stationery lies on top of his pile of clothes; he picks it up and flops back down on the bed, his fingers with barely enough energy to hold the paper up.
The writing on the paper is compact, tight, but fluorished at the same time, reminiscent of the writing he saw when he was in Victorian England with the first iteration of Torchwood.
“So then death worketh in us, but life in you.”
I apologize for not giving you a proper good-bye, but there are things that must be done and places that I must be. The apocalypse is soon to be upon us-you will survive, but, all the same, keep yourself safe.
The Lord loves you, as do I.
- Castiel
Jack sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He lets his hand fall; the note drifts out of his fingers and floats to the ground.
He lies there for probably another hour, mind still reeling, before he gets up and decides to get dressed. There’s places that he has to be as well, things that must be done. Monsters to fight. People to save. People to lead.
He smirks as he straps on his suspenders and pulls on his coat.
Well, if he dies on the job, at least now he’s got something to look forward to.