[fic] Oh, Fearless Leader
Author ofolivesnginger
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 805
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, bad poetry, spoilers for 5x04, otherwise known a end!verse.
Summary: A poem written from Castiel's perspective.
Notes: This is my first time posting a fic on LJ and needless to say I am lost within this formatting. I hope I'm doing this right; if not, you can always find the story on my AO3. Here it is, something I'm somewhat proud of at the moment.
I still haven’t forgiven you for that time you shot my raven. Target practice, I get it, and the whole world was dying anyway, and he was just leaving one decrepit land for another, someplace else where the whole world was dying but he was going home. And you shot him, red bursting from his wings, and he danced a beautiful pirouette on the way down just for you, but you were too busy picking up the bullet shells to watch.
Oh, come now, Fearless Leader. I remember the times when one syllable and three letters can steal your breath, like your lungs punctured by “what if’s” that I no longer looked for. And you wonder if the no you received is in direct correlation to the no you gave, if it’s reciprocity that befalls a crippled man who was blind enough to push away his guiding hands, if a yes is always worth more than a no in this economy. The hands leave the cripple, the God forsakes the man, as if there are not a pair of crutches leaning against the wall. But if he wishes to stand on his own until the hands are back this is what he must do-for this much I have learned about misguided captains, if nothing else: he must become the Lighthouse, back straight in the storm he must light the way even if no one sees, and do naught but pray that one day his king will find his way home again.
So erect an altar where the other half of your heart used to be and kill in the name of your deity. Wrap the bodies in golden fleece and present it to him on your knees, but the offering’s dim in the moonlight and you are out of candles, so you come to me for candles, and I’m having sex, and you are here to borrow candles, so I give them to you and have sex in the dark and you never seem to have anything to say, but please, if you won’t stay, at least have the decency to close the door when you leave. You say I’m hopeless, but I’m not the one who takes someone’s light so he can sit one more night curled beneath the wood of the altar chanting some lost soul’s name with molten wax weeping down his palm to distract him from a weeping that doesn’t burn the fingers but hurts all the same. I say I’m a true adorer of life, and if I can’t reach as high as the face of it I plant my kiss somewhere lower down, and you think it’s a dumb book, but if I offer to illuminate the dark so you can find the place to kiss and you refuse, you have no right to disparage me, you who has taken a dying man’s light, a dying man’s warmth, his love, his will. His candles.
Slide into my bed, the way you’ll slide out next morning before the sun slides above the horizon and burns you for another day. Slide off your pants, your socks, or shed them. Come into my arms, come into me, Fearless Leader, dig your nails into my thighs and maybe I’ll forget about the raven. Slide into me. Dig into me, with your hands in the cavity of my chest, your hands where my heart had once been, your hands and your gun the atria and ventricles that keep these rusted veins alive; dig into me, with your cock, deep and deeper, your hands in my bloodied chest, and look at how the red blossoms for you. Plunge into me and I’ll slide a thumb across your cheek and feel the slide of sweat down our tangled limbs, and fuck me, Dean, fuck me and I’ll slide the tears off your face and kiss your sunken eyes because Hush, Fearless Leader, don’t you cry now, just cry my name behind your teeth and come to me, come into me, Fearless Leader, and you will slip out sore and tired, collapse into the hollow of my chest and my ribs will wrap themselves around you until dawn comes, and dawn will come, why does dawn still come, and you’ll wake and dig into a dying man’s chest and take a handful of the only substance he has left and slip out sore and tired, so tired. But once your boots are tied and the snap ’n’ crunch is under your feet again you’ll come up empty-handed because I have nothing left to give, but I always steal a piece of you in the tender moments before the sun when your eyelids flutter feeble and frail and frightened under my lips.
You have proven me fallible, Fearless Leader.
And have I fallen, oh have I fallen.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 805
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, bad poetry, spoilers for 5x04, otherwise known a end!verse.
Summary: A poem written from Castiel's perspective.
Notes: This is my first time posting a fic on LJ and needless to say I am lost within this formatting. I hope I'm doing this right; if not, you can always find the story on my AO3. Here it is, something I'm somewhat proud of at the moment.
I still haven’t forgiven you for that time you shot my raven. Target practice, I get it, and the whole world was dying anyway, and he was just leaving one decrepit land for another, someplace else where the whole world was dying but he was going home. And you shot him, red bursting from his wings, and he danced a beautiful pirouette on the way down just for you, but you were too busy picking up the bullet shells to watch.
Oh, come now, Fearless Leader. I remember the times when one syllable and three letters can steal your breath, like your lungs punctured by “what if’s” that I no longer looked for. And you wonder if the no you received is in direct correlation to the no you gave, if it’s reciprocity that befalls a crippled man who was blind enough to push away his guiding hands, if a yes is always worth more than a no in this economy. The hands leave the cripple, the God forsakes the man, as if there are not a pair of crutches leaning against the wall. But if he wishes to stand on his own until the hands are back this is what he must do-for this much I have learned about misguided captains, if nothing else: he must become the Lighthouse, back straight in the storm he must light the way even if no one sees, and do naught but pray that one day his king will find his way home again.
So erect an altar where the other half of your heart used to be and kill in the name of your deity. Wrap the bodies in golden fleece and present it to him on your knees, but the offering’s dim in the moonlight and you are out of candles, so you come to me for candles, and I’m having sex, and you are here to borrow candles, so I give them to you and have sex in the dark and you never seem to have anything to say, but please, if you won’t stay, at least have the decency to close the door when you leave. You say I’m hopeless, but I’m not the one who takes someone’s light so he can sit one more night curled beneath the wood of the altar chanting some lost soul’s name with molten wax weeping down his palm to distract him from a weeping that doesn’t burn the fingers but hurts all the same. I say I’m a true adorer of life, and if I can’t reach as high as the face of it I plant my kiss somewhere lower down, and you think it’s a dumb book, but if I offer to illuminate the dark so you can find the place to kiss and you refuse, you have no right to disparage me, you who has taken a dying man’s light, a dying man’s warmth, his love, his will. His candles.
Slide into my bed, the way you’ll slide out next morning before the sun slides above the horizon and burns you for another day. Slide off your pants, your socks, or shed them. Come into my arms, come into me, Fearless Leader, dig your nails into my thighs and maybe I’ll forget about the raven. Slide into me. Dig into me, with your hands in the cavity of my chest, your hands where my heart had once been, your hands and your gun the atria and ventricles that keep these rusted veins alive; dig into me, with your cock, deep and deeper, your hands in my bloodied chest, and look at how the red blossoms for you. Plunge into me and I’ll slide a thumb across your cheek and feel the slide of sweat down our tangled limbs, and fuck me, Dean, fuck me and I’ll slide the tears off your face and kiss your sunken eyes because Hush, Fearless Leader, don’t you cry now, just cry my name behind your teeth and come to me, come into me, Fearless Leader, and you will slip out sore and tired, collapse into the hollow of my chest and my ribs will wrap themselves around you until dawn comes, and dawn will come, why does dawn still come, and you’ll wake and dig into a dying man’s chest and take a handful of the only substance he has left and slip out sore and tired, so tired. But once your boots are tied and the snap ’n’ crunch is under your feet again you’ll come up empty-handed because I have nothing left to give, but I always steal a piece of you in the tender moments before the sun when your eyelids flutter feeble and frail and frightened under my lips.
You have proven me fallible, Fearless Leader.
And have I fallen, oh have I fallen.