Riddles In the Dark (1/1)
Title: Riddles in the Dark
Author: phar_ahkmenrah (halfblood alchemist)
Rating: R
Word Count: 2.023
Genre: Hurt/comfort, Dean/Castiel, implied Sam/Castiel
Spoilers: for 5x18, AU after that
Warnings: drug use, language, thoughts of overdose/suicide, hypothermia
Summary: Castiel is falling, in more ways than one.
A/N: when I get depressed, this is the kind of crap that happens. A quick doodle to get me out of my funk (who'd a thought?) Hopefully you guys like it though. Methinks this needs fanart if anyone's interested. Some inspiration comes from the song "The Prophecy" from the LOTR soundtrack.
~*~
The stars were too bright on a cold November evening. The time was just inching up on midnight, the ground already frosted up in the cold of impending winter. Castiel paid no heed to this piercing chill, despite the fact that it rocked his very bones, shivers arching up and down his spine in waves as he inhaled the cold night air. It didn't matter if he got sick; his lungs were already clogged with tar and bile.
Blood shot eyes took in the sights of the heavens above him, pinpricks of celestial beauty mirrored in the dulled irises of once too-blue orbs; once filled with honesty, hope and an undying affection. Those days were long past. Now in their wake lay endless hours of fog and misery, drugs and alcohol. Not that his transgressions were really worth a fuck anymore. He wasn't an angel anymore.
He wasn't an angel, yet he wasn't quite human.
He was nothing.
Castiel lay across the roof of one of the junker cars, arms curled at his chest as another shiver wracked his lonely body. Frozen tears threatened to fall, but the drag of another joint pinched tightly between cracked, broken lips grounded him reminded him that such a weak response to his roiling emotions wasn't worth the shit he'd put himself through.
The ex-angel tugged weakly at the cuffs of his worn flannel shirt, half-wishing he had listened to Sam and just taken the Goddamn coat outside. The younger Winchester knew about Castiel's nightly jaunts with his own inner turmoil, but said nothing. It wasn't like he had much room to talk, on the grounds of addictions.
He stared up at the sky, thinking about everything he had gone through in his short time with the company of the Winchesters. Pulling Dean from Hell; rebelling against Heaven for his charge and the abomination.
Falling for them.
He felt it all, like an open, gaping wound of regret and shame carved into his very soul it hurt to even give the effort to try.
Did he have a soul anymore? Castiel doubted it, but the nagging, optimistic little fucker in his head kept telling him to stop thinking like that. If he admitted the worst, he'd lose the last thing he had holding his spirit together.
Maybe that was why he and Sam were so compatible? In the beginning, he thought the younger brother to be lesser than he, a spawn of demon blood and prophecy that made him a lesser being that his holy dickness.
Now he didn't even have that. They were one in the same. The rebel and the abomination, running for the same team.
It wasn't so absurd to view it from this side of the situation; not really. The ex-angel remembered the day he fell, remembered how that night after returning to the Winchesters' sides, he'd felt the curl of large, sympathetic arms around him, pulling him close to offer what little ease an equally twisted soul could.
It wasn't much, but at least it had calmed his fragile soul for that night, drowning it in warmth not caused by comfort alone.
Castiel snorted, remembering his first night as a human; remembering how nightmares and fear of the ever living dark around him had reduced him to a quivering mess, like a child lost from its mother and left alone in a dark alley to fend off the things that go bump in the night. A fitting analogy. Maybe he wasn't inebriated enough.
He remedied with another hit.
Finally, he was beginning to feel the effects of the drug on his system, swilling the remains of his half frozen vodka with an unsteady hand. He made careful sure not to spill the expensive liquor, knowing Dean would yell at him for wasting even a precious drop.
He giggled slightly, loosening up even more as the night swirled by in a coalesced spattering of hues and smoke. The thought of Dean always brought a sense of warming relief, for even the briefest of moments it provided for him. Dean Winchester. The Righteous Man. The one Castiel had given all for and received nothing in return. He had given more than he could to the man, and received
Nothing.
"I gave all for you, you fucking bastard…" he murmured, glazed eyes glaring up heatedly at the sky above him. His words slurred in a way not only brought on by the liquor and pot in his system. His lips felt numb; frozen and he had lost feeling in the tips of his fingers long before.
Not that he gave a fuck.
~*~
He wasn't sure how long he'd been out in the freezing night, but the next time he opened his eyes, a light sheen of powdery snow had covered the ground, his clothing wet and ridged against his ashen skin. He coughed, rolling to sit up.
It was like trying to move through water. His limbs felt like lead, heavy and tingly, and his vision swam more dangerously than before. Castiel coughed again, running his dead hand over the front of his chest absentmindedly.
The raised bumps of his scars caught his touch, reminding him just why he was out there in the first place. Castiel slid down the side of the car, curling in on himself in the thickening blanket of slush around his feet, sitting down on the wet ground to soak up the frozen muck. No one had come for him yet. Maybe they had no idea he was even out there.
This struck Castiel oddly, an unfamiliar emotion filling his mind as he grappled for the vodka bottle. The night was serene.
This was the closest he had felt to being his old self; a weightless, out-of-body entity that lost physical feeling to everything around him. Frankly, he didn't want to give that up just yet. Maybe he could have it again…
Who was he fucking kidding? Heaven wouldn't admit him back, not as the broken soul he was. But surely… surely whatever lay beyond might be better than this self-inflicted prison he'd locked himself in for an incomprehensible amount of time.
Before the thoughts were even half formed in his mind, Castiel found himself guzzling the vodka, coughing as the hot, tangy liquor fought its way back up his throat, burning his nostrils. His eyes stung and watered. His vision further blurred as he stared at the skies, memorizing what the constellations told him the last time he'd see them.
If this was a way to go, he'd want it to be gazing at the stars he'd once flown with, and not staring at the ancient tomes and dusty parchments littering Bobby's study. Not staring at the broken gazes of two of Man's last hope, reminding him yet again of why he was in this situation in the first place.
Finally, Castiel tossed the empty bottle to the side, head lolled against the side of the broken car. His eyelids drooped dangerously, vision swaying in and out of focus. If he could slip off, it would be over sooner. He wouldn't even feel the cold grip him one last time. If only he could just slip off…
Suddenly, the ex-angel felt something wrap around him, something that felt oddly like scratchy material; warm hands gripping him tightly and raising him from his own personal perdition. He struggled slightly, wishing this intruder to leave him be so he could die and leave this place behind. He murmured incomprehensibly, his head lolling weakly.
He struggled to find purchase, his legs too weak to support his own weight. Despite his efforts, he found himself slumping against the warm, solid chest before him, curling into the furnace-like aura that now engulfed him, bringing him slowly back to this world.
"My fucking God, Cas. You're freezing to death…" he heard the voice say, although it took him a few moments to actually recognize who it was that was talking to him.
Maybe he was further gone than he thought. In honesty, he knew it shouldn't scare him, but he felt terror grip his heart at the realization of what exactly he was doing. But he pushed it back, instead resorting to his own brand of obstinacy he'd gained during his time in their company.
"Th-that… was the point, Dean…" he murmured, nevertheless burrowing further into his embrace. He felt the strong arms tighten around him, supporting him. Before he knew what was happening, Dean had whisked him into his arms, looping his knees over his forearm.
Dean cradled his angel close, wrapping the wool blanket around his gaunt frame more firmly. Ever since his fall, Castiel had never been the same. He still refused food despite the now growing urgency his body demanded sustenance.
Castiel had lost weight, grown bitterer, his world darkening around the edges. He resorted to sex and drugs, alcohol and hatred to fill the void he's attained since California and to achieve that "natural" high he'd felt when he was still thrumming with barely restrained Grace. To Dean, this reminded him too much of his flash forward to Camp Chitaqua.
Most likely, this was already the precursor to it.
Well to hell with that. Dean would stop this from happening to Cas even if it killed him. The angel… ex-angel had already given up enough for him. And he'd hadn't even had the courtesy to offer even a sincere thank you.
Biting his lower lip, Dean carried Castiel inside; ignoring the looks Bobby and Sam had cast over the hypothermic man in the elder Winchester's arms. He carried the frozen body upstairs to his own room, laying him on the bed. He looked so small and fragile; nothing like that powerful being that raised him up from the Pit. Now it was Dean's turn to save a soul from its own inflicted turmoil.
"Sorry, Cas." He murmured, stripping the sopping wet clothes from his trembling body. He grabbed a towel and dried whatever water remained on his too-blue skin.
Once finished, he tucked Castiel under the thick comforter, wishing he'd had dry flannels to dress him in. Dean paused a moment, glancing down at himself before beginning to undress himself. It wasn't like he hadn't been naked in front of Castiel before. Many of their nightly romps still etched in his brain, reminding him of just what he had.
The sex was rough, all teeth and grit, but it sated them, bringing them closer and closer with each night spent fucking each other into a rickety mattress, too small for two grown men. But it was enough; more than enough and neither of them left the other alone, choosing instead to offer the other side of their reassurance coin.
Now completely naked, Dean crawled into the bed with Castiel, wrapping himself around the still quivering frame. The skin was icy to the touch, bones protruding just enough to make his continual weight loss noticeable to the burly hunter. Sinew had given way to near emaciation, and deep down Dean thought-feared- that it was all leading to this.
He knew Castiel had nearly taken his own life that night, allowing himself to succumb to overdose and the elements. It frightened him to think that he had almost lost yet another of the most important people in his life and he wasn't going to let that happen. Not again.
Pressing kisses to the chilled lips of his lover, Dean willed life back into Castiel, arms firm and encouraging. After a moment, he felt the shivers still as warmth began to seep back into his bones. Dean smiled.
Those ever full lips gave way, allowing probing tongue entrance; to entertain another soul-filled kiss. Maybe even gain the reassurance he so desperately craved.
They wouldn't have sex that night. There were other nights for that. Right now, they only needed each other, fully exposed to each other in a gesture of trust they never really acknowledged before.
"Don't worry, baby." Dean murmured, running his fingers through damp, unruly locks. "I'm not gonna let you fall."
And deep inside, Castiel knew he was probably right.
~fin~
Author: phar_ahkmenrah (halfblood alchemist)
Rating: R
Word Count: 2.023
Genre: Hurt/comfort, Dean/Castiel, implied Sam/Castiel
Spoilers: for 5x18, AU after that
Warnings: drug use, language, thoughts of overdose/suicide, hypothermia
Summary: Castiel is falling, in more ways than one.
A/N: when I get depressed, this is the kind of crap that happens. A quick doodle to get me out of my funk (who'd a thought?) Hopefully you guys like it though. Methinks this needs fanart if anyone's interested. Some inspiration comes from the song "The Prophecy" from the LOTR soundtrack.
~*~
The stars were too bright on a cold November evening. The time was just inching up on midnight, the ground already frosted up in the cold of impending winter. Castiel paid no heed to this piercing chill, despite the fact that it rocked his very bones, shivers arching up and down his spine in waves as he inhaled the cold night air. It didn't matter if he got sick; his lungs were already clogged with tar and bile.
Blood shot eyes took in the sights of the heavens above him, pinpricks of celestial beauty mirrored in the dulled irises of once too-blue orbs; once filled with honesty, hope and an undying affection. Those days were long past. Now in their wake lay endless hours of fog and misery, drugs and alcohol. Not that his transgressions were really worth a fuck anymore. He wasn't an angel anymore.
He wasn't an angel, yet he wasn't quite human.
He was nothing.
Castiel lay across the roof of one of the junker cars, arms curled at his chest as another shiver wracked his lonely body. Frozen tears threatened to fall, but the drag of another joint pinched tightly between cracked, broken lips grounded him reminded him that such a weak response to his roiling emotions wasn't worth the shit he'd put himself through.
The ex-angel tugged weakly at the cuffs of his worn flannel shirt, half-wishing he had listened to Sam and just taken the Goddamn coat outside. The younger Winchester knew about Castiel's nightly jaunts with his own inner turmoil, but said nothing. It wasn't like he had much room to talk, on the grounds of addictions.
He stared up at the sky, thinking about everything he had gone through in his short time with the company of the Winchesters. Pulling Dean from Hell; rebelling against Heaven for his charge and the abomination.
Falling for them.
He felt it all, like an open, gaping wound of regret and shame carved into his very soul it hurt to even give the effort to try.
Did he have a soul anymore? Castiel doubted it, but the nagging, optimistic little fucker in his head kept telling him to stop thinking like that. If he admitted the worst, he'd lose the last thing he had holding his spirit together.
Maybe that was why he and Sam were so compatible? In the beginning, he thought the younger brother to be lesser than he, a spawn of demon blood and prophecy that made him a lesser being that his holy dickness.
Now he didn't even have that. They were one in the same. The rebel and the abomination, running for the same team.
It wasn't so absurd to view it from this side of the situation; not really. The ex-angel remembered the day he fell, remembered how that night after returning to the Winchesters' sides, he'd felt the curl of large, sympathetic arms around him, pulling him close to offer what little ease an equally twisted soul could.
It wasn't much, but at least it had calmed his fragile soul for that night, drowning it in warmth not caused by comfort alone.
Castiel snorted, remembering his first night as a human; remembering how nightmares and fear of the ever living dark around him had reduced him to a quivering mess, like a child lost from its mother and left alone in a dark alley to fend off the things that go bump in the night. A fitting analogy. Maybe he wasn't inebriated enough.
He remedied with another hit.
Finally, he was beginning to feel the effects of the drug on his system, swilling the remains of his half frozen vodka with an unsteady hand. He made careful sure not to spill the expensive liquor, knowing Dean would yell at him for wasting even a precious drop.
He giggled slightly, loosening up even more as the night swirled by in a coalesced spattering of hues and smoke. The thought of Dean always brought a sense of warming relief, for even the briefest of moments it provided for him. Dean Winchester. The Righteous Man. The one Castiel had given all for and received nothing in return. He had given more than he could to the man, and received
Nothing.
"I gave all for you, you fucking bastard…" he murmured, glazed eyes glaring up heatedly at the sky above him. His words slurred in a way not only brought on by the liquor and pot in his system. His lips felt numb; frozen and he had lost feeling in the tips of his fingers long before.
Not that he gave a fuck.
~*~
He wasn't sure how long he'd been out in the freezing night, but the next time he opened his eyes, a light sheen of powdery snow had covered the ground, his clothing wet and ridged against his ashen skin. He coughed, rolling to sit up.
It was like trying to move through water. His limbs felt like lead, heavy and tingly, and his vision swam more dangerously than before. Castiel coughed again, running his dead hand over the front of his chest absentmindedly.
The raised bumps of his scars caught his touch, reminding him just why he was out there in the first place. Castiel slid down the side of the car, curling in on himself in the thickening blanket of slush around his feet, sitting down on the wet ground to soak up the frozen muck. No one had come for him yet. Maybe they had no idea he was even out there.
This struck Castiel oddly, an unfamiliar emotion filling his mind as he grappled for the vodka bottle. The night was serene.
This was the closest he had felt to being his old self; a weightless, out-of-body entity that lost physical feeling to everything around him. Frankly, he didn't want to give that up just yet. Maybe he could have it again…
Who was he fucking kidding? Heaven wouldn't admit him back, not as the broken soul he was. But surely… surely whatever lay beyond might be better than this self-inflicted prison he'd locked himself in for an incomprehensible amount of time.
Before the thoughts were even half formed in his mind, Castiel found himself guzzling the vodka, coughing as the hot, tangy liquor fought its way back up his throat, burning his nostrils. His eyes stung and watered. His vision further blurred as he stared at the skies, memorizing what the constellations told him the last time he'd see them.
If this was a way to go, he'd want it to be gazing at the stars he'd once flown with, and not staring at the ancient tomes and dusty parchments littering Bobby's study. Not staring at the broken gazes of two of Man's last hope, reminding him yet again of why he was in this situation in the first place.
Finally, Castiel tossed the empty bottle to the side, head lolled against the side of the broken car. His eyelids drooped dangerously, vision swaying in and out of focus. If he could slip off, it would be over sooner. He wouldn't even feel the cold grip him one last time. If only he could just slip off…
Suddenly, the ex-angel felt something wrap around him, something that felt oddly like scratchy material; warm hands gripping him tightly and raising him from his own personal perdition. He struggled slightly, wishing this intruder to leave him be so he could die and leave this place behind. He murmured incomprehensibly, his head lolling weakly.
He struggled to find purchase, his legs too weak to support his own weight. Despite his efforts, he found himself slumping against the warm, solid chest before him, curling into the furnace-like aura that now engulfed him, bringing him slowly back to this world.
"My fucking God, Cas. You're freezing to death…" he heard the voice say, although it took him a few moments to actually recognize who it was that was talking to him.
Maybe he was further gone than he thought. In honesty, he knew it shouldn't scare him, but he felt terror grip his heart at the realization of what exactly he was doing. But he pushed it back, instead resorting to his own brand of obstinacy he'd gained during his time in their company.
"Th-that… was the point, Dean…" he murmured, nevertheless burrowing further into his embrace. He felt the strong arms tighten around him, supporting him. Before he knew what was happening, Dean had whisked him into his arms, looping his knees over his forearm.
Dean cradled his angel close, wrapping the wool blanket around his gaunt frame more firmly. Ever since his fall, Castiel had never been the same. He still refused food despite the now growing urgency his body demanded sustenance.
Castiel had lost weight, grown bitterer, his world darkening around the edges. He resorted to sex and drugs, alcohol and hatred to fill the void he's attained since California and to achieve that "natural" high he'd felt when he was still thrumming with barely restrained Grace. To Dean, this reminded him too much of his flash forward to Camp Chitaqua.
Most likely, this was already the precursor to it.
Well to hell with that. Dean would stop this from happening to Cas even if it killed him. The angel… ex-angel had already given up enough for him. And he'd hadn't even had the courtesy to offer even a sincere thank you.
Biting his lower lip, Dean carried Castiel inside; ignoring the looks Bobby and Sam had cast over the hypothermic man in the elder Winchester's arms. He carried the frozen body upstairs to his own room, laying him on the bed. He looked so small and fragile; nothing like that powerful being that raised him up from the Pit. Now it was Dean's turn to save a soul from its own inflicted turmoil.
"Sorry, Cas." He murmured, stripping the sopping wet clothes from his trembling body. He grabbed a towel and dried whatever water remained on his too-blue skin.
Once finished, he tucked Castiel under the thick comforter, wishing he'd had dry flannels to dress him in. Dean paused a moment, glancing down at himself before beginning to undress himself. It wasn't like he hadn't been naked in front of Castiel before. Many of their nightly romps still etched in his brain, reminding him of just what he had.
The sex was rough, all teeth and grit, but it sated them, bringing them closer and closer with each night spent fucking each other into a rickety mattress, too small for two grown men. But it was enough; more than enough and neither of them left the other alone, choosing instead to offer the other side of their reassurance coin.
Now completely naked, Dean crawled into the bed with Castiel, wrapping himself around the still quivering frame. The skin was icy to the touch, bones protruding just enough to make his continual weight loss noticeable to the burly hunter. Sinew had given way to near emaciation, and deep down Dean thought-feared- that it was all leading to this.
He knew Castiel had nearly taken his own life that night, allowing himself to succumb to overdose and the elements. It frightened him to think that he had almost lost yet another of the most important people in his life and he wasn't going to let that happen. Not again.
Pressing kisses to the chilled lips of his lover, Dean willed life back into Castiel, arms firm and encouraging. After a moment, he felt the shivers still as warmth began to seep back into his bones. Dean smiled.
Those ever full lips gave way, allowing probing tongue entrance; to entertain another soul-filled kiss. Maybe even gain the reassurance he so desperately craved.
They wouldn't have sex that night. There were other nights for that. Right now, they only needed each other, fully exposed to each other in a gesture of trust they never really acknowledged before.
"Don't worry, baby." Dean murmured, running his fingers through damp, unruly locks. "I'm not gonna let you fall."
And deep inside, Castiel knew he was probably right.
~fin~