[DCBB-FIC] Castiel Rising; NC-17; The Body
The Body
The world is so bright, the air is so thick, and everything is so loud and so quiet all at once. Castiel opens all his eyes, and finds himself staring into a dark sky. The stars are dim and hard to spot even for his eyes-the sky is lit by artificial light. Castiel draws himself onto his hind legs, body curving to support itself, as he stretches his wings. He sees shapes in the distance, like the huts that humans had lived in back… before. But they’re taller, far taller. Most nearing an angel’s true height and nearly all of them towering over Castiel’s.
Did humanity do all this?
Then he feels it-grace. Several of them, all gathered nearby. Castiel spreads his wings and takes off, darting through the air. It’s nothing like Hell. Nothing is like Hell. This is easy. The world moves beneath him at the blink of an eye, and he flies through the walls of a small building of red stone and into a room that smells of magic and blood, and where the graces of his brothers are.
It’s not just any of his brothers, Castiel realizes as he lands inside the building, shrinking down to fit his entire form in the back of the room. He sees four orange wings and recognizes Zachariah immediately. On either side of him are angels with pale blue and teal wings-Qafsiel and Manakel. It takes Castiel a second more to realize that there are more than just angels in the building: there are two humans, and both are hidden from Castiel’s senses. But he can smell blood, fear, and desperation. It’s familiar.
It’s Dean.
He’s kneeling, clutching his stomach, and vomiting blood onto the floor at Zachariah’s vessel’s feet. The room is engulfed in pain, not only Dean’s, but of the human male crumpled beside him. That man isn’t dying, though. Dean is. Castiel can hear his heart pounding violently, and he can sense the growth in Dean's stomach that shouldn’t be there. If something isn’t done, he will die, and Castiel will have failed Lucifer.
Castiel slinks forward, and Qafsiel turns his head toward the noise, his vessel’s eyes flashing puce. His pale blue wings snap out when his gaze lands on Castiel, and he spins to face him. Zachariah looks back at him, orange wings folding tight against his back.
“What?” he snaps. Qafsiel reaches out, pointing, and Zachariah follows the line of his finger all the way to Castiel. His vessel’s eyes flash green, and he recoils. “What are-wait.” Zachariah steps forward, his wings quivering. He shakes his head. “Castiel?”
Castiel narrows his eyes, snorting through his nose. “Zachariah,” he growls. “You will heal them.”
Zachariah leans back, raising an eyebrow. “Who?” he says, then his eyes widen. “Oh, you mean Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum over there?” He gestures to where Sam and Dean are laying, confusion plain on their pained faces. Zachariah laughs, flicking his lower wings out, and tilts his head. “What are you going to do if I don’t? Hmm?” he chirps, stepping forward. “You can’t touch us,” he drawls.
Sam groans from the floor and Castiel looks to him, but Sam’s wide hazel eyes are locked onto Zachariah. “What are you doing?” he rasps. “Who are you talking too?” His eyes clench shut as he shifts, and Castiel can hear his broken bones rubbing together. Dean looks away from Zachariah, reaching out to Sam, but, as he twists and spasms, blood gushes from his lips. “Dean!” Sam shouts, and gasps again.
Zachariah looks over at them and snorts. “They’re a couple of pathetic lumps, aren’t they?” he says. “Nope, no, it’s the skin they’re in that’s important.” He walks toward them, away from Castiel, and sneers at the two of them. “And this can all stop if you just let us take that skin.”
Dean lifts his head, eyes narrow, blood dripping down his chin. “I won’t say yes even if you peel it off me.”
Zachariah pauses, tilting his head. “That’s a brilliant idea,” he says, and slices his hand through the air. Dean screams, arching his back, and Castiel watches as his t-shirt darkens with more blood.
Sam lunges despite the agony he must be in, panic in his eyes. “Stop!” he shouts, dragging his broken body to Dean and clutching his shoulders. Dean slumps back, eyes wide and blank, and simply shakes. His shirt slides across his chest and sags to the side, blood dripping through the fabric and pooling around their huddled bodies.
Zachariah only smiles wider.
Castiel hisses, lashing out. A shelf next to him rattles as his wings beat, and he draws himself up. Qafsiel steps back, gripping Manakel’s vessel’s arm. Zachariah looks back at him, unaffected. “You’ll have to do better than that, Puff,” he says, sneering. “Without a vessel, you might as well be an annoying gust of wind.”
Castiel bares his teeth, snapping his wings high, and Zachariah flinches back. “Then I’ll have to take one,” Castiel says, and whips across the room. The breeze from his flight makes the shelf topple, and Sam turns toward it as he wraps a protective arm around Dean’s upper chest, twitching at the pained noise he gets in response. Castiel ignores him, morphing and folding his body into his more humanoid form, and focuses on the man whose soul he knows. “Dean,” he says, reaching out and laying a hand on Dean’s chest.
Dean gasps, going stiff, and his eyes drop to where Castiel’s hand is. Sam stares at him and glares into space. “What is it?” he says, just as Zachariah snarls, “What are you doing?!”
“Dean,” Castiel says again, and Dean closes his eyes. “You know me.”
“I,” Dean starts, voice rough, and coughs again. Castiel reaches out with his grace, passing through bloody cloth and exposed muscle to Dean’s soul.
“You know me,” Castiel says, narrowing his eyes, and Dean’s eyes snap open.
“The sky,” he whispers, and his eyes fall onto where Castiel is leaning over him. “I know you.”
Castiel smiles. “Then let me in, Dean,” he says. “Let me in and I will save you.”
Dean grits his teeth, eyes clenching shut. He strains as he hisses out, “No.”
Castiel frowns, nostrils flaring, and leans closer. “I will save you, and Sam,” he whispers, “and then I will let you go.” He feels Dean struggling weakly beneath him, and Castiel pulses more of his grace to him. “I swear a grace-oath to you, Dean. I will save you both, and then release you.” Dean wavers, and Castiel pushes. “I swear it on all that I am, Dean. Let me save you.”
Dean’s eyes open, slowly, and he takes in a quick breath. “Yes,” he whispers, staring into Castiel’s eyes. “Yes.”
With both Sam and Zachariah shouting in the background, Castiel dives into Dean’s maimed body. His soul struggles against Castiel only for a moment, then fades back, allowing him passage. Castiel folds his form, curling in on himself, shifting to fill the empty spaces, and it’s confining and wrong-Dean isn’t of Castiel’s promised bloodline, but he is a powerful vessel, and Dean’s soul knows him. It gives Castiel time. It gives him a form to control, even briefly.
Even before Castiel is fully settled, his grace floods Dean’s body and starts to heal the wounds Zachariah inflicted on it, starting with the foreign masses spread through his guts. They burn away, leaving smooth, perfect flesh behind. Then Castiel regenerates the skin on Dean’s chest, feels the blood evaporate off of him, feels the clothing dry. It all happens in one breath, and Castiel opens Dean’s eyes.
“Dean?” Sam whispers behind him, and Castiel can feel how he quivers. His fingers tighten on Castiel’s-Dean’s-shoulder, hugging him closer. “Dean, please.”
Castiel reaches up and takes the arm off of him. “My name is Castiel,” he says, and Sam’s body goes stiff. “Your brother will be returned to you.” He pushes himself to his feet and turns his gaze to his own brothers.
Zachariah has stepped back several paces, and Qafsiel and Manakel have their blades out, walking toward Castiel. Castiel spreads his two black wings, narrowing his eyes, and darts forward. In the blink of an eye, Castiel takes Manakel’s sword arm and twists it back around, sticking the sword into Manakel’s own chest. The eyes of Manakel’s vessel glow olive as he dies, teal wings twitching, but Castiel only takes a moment to pull the sword from his vessel’s body before he turns on Qafsiel.
Qafsiel glares at him and flares his pale blue wings. He rushes forward, swifter than any other angel Castiel has known. Aside from himself, that is, and Castiel dodges out of his way and kicks Qafsiel into the wall. Qafsiel stumbles, wings snapping wider, and Castiel tackles him, sinking the blade into back of his neck. He turns away as Qafsiel dies behind him, exploding into light, energy, and wind.
“Now, Castiel,” Zachariah says, stepping backwards. He holds his hands out and smiles a little weakly. “We can talk about this.”
“We can,” Castiel says, twirling the blade in his hand. He charges at Zachariah, and grabs the clothing on his vessel’s chest with one hand, pressing his blade to Zachariah’s throat with the other. Zachariah’s eyes flash green and he swallows. Castiel glares. “Fix Samuel, and I will let you live.”
“That’s it?” Zachariah says, blinking. He clears his throat and grins. “Not that I’m complaining, of course,” he says, and snaps his fingers. Sam gasps behind them, and Castiel can hear him scrambling to his feet. Zachariah spreads his hands, raising his eyebrows. “Alright, you can let me go now.”
Castiel tilts his head, then leans forward. “If you touch either of them again, Zachariah,” he growls, releasing him, and Zachariah’s eyes go wide, “I will find you, and kill you.”
Zachariah’s eyes narrow, but he grins a little wider. “We’ll see,” he says. With a flap of his orange wings, he disappears through the roof. Castiel watches after him, folding his own wings against his back.
“Alright,” Sam says behind him, and Castiel looks over his shoulder. Sam holds Qafsiel’s blade in his hand, as if ready to attack. He takes a breath and furrows his brow. “Let Dean go.”
Castiel turns toward him, frowning. “I said I would.”
Sam huffs at him and Castiel can feel his bitterness. “Sorry if I have a hard time believing you,” he says. “Most of your brothers are assholes.”
“They are,” Castiel says. “But I won’t lie to you. I don’t believe I need to.”
Sam glares. “Then why are you still in Dean?”
Castiel closes his eyes, inhaling. He feels his grace spreading through Dean’s body, now that he’s no longer focused on the battle. “I’m acclimatizing,” he says. “Learning about the world through Dean.”
“Through his memories?”
“Yes,” Castiel says. “It has been a very long time since I was here.” Such a long time to be trapped in Hell, Castiel thinks as he absorbs what Dean can offer. “So much has changed.”
The tip of the angel blade touches the base of Castiel’s throat, and he opens his eyes again. Sam towers over him, his own eyes narrow with rage and fear. “Get the fuck out of his head,” Sam hisses. “And out of his body. You may not work for Zachariah and his goons, but that only leaves one other side.”
“If you kill me, you kill Dean,” Castiel says frankly, and Sam’s face crumples. The blade never moves, though. Castiel approves.
“Dean wouldn’t want to be used as the devil’s lackey,” Sam growls, and pushes harder against Castiel’s throat.
“Lucifer wants you and Dean alive and safe,” Castiel says, and Sam’s eyes widen. “He’s charged me with your protection.”
Sam snarls. “We don’t need your help.”
Castiel looks over his shoulder, to where the bodies of two angels lie, crumpled. He withdraws from Dean’s mind, feeling satisfied, and looks back at Sam. “I see,” he says. “If that changes, pray for me and I will find you anywhere.” He pauses, then presses his palm against Sam’s chest before he can react.
Sam stumbles back, curling over, and glares. “What did you do?”
“I’ve hidden you from both angelic and demonic sight,” he says, pressing his hand against Dean’s chest. He feels the markings carve into the bones beneath his fingers, and the sensation of both knowing and not sensing where Dean and Sam are war at his mind. It’s strange.
“I don’t want this,” Sam snaps, and Castiel stares at him.
“I don’t care,” he says, then spreads his wings. “I will see you soon.” He pulls himself away from Dean and expands back into his draconic form. Dean collapses, but Sam grabs him, hauls him back to his feet, and shakes him.
“Shit, Dean!” Sam says, running a hand over Dean’s face. “Dean, open your eyes, and tell me it’s you.”
Castiel watches as Dean’s conscious stirs, body quivering from the after-effects of holding an angel within it. He swallows and reaches out, grabbing Sam’s shirt and staring at him. “Sammy?” he grits out, voice rough.
Sam smiles, eyes shiny. “Don’t call me that,” he says, and Castiel snorts at them before taking to the air, and to where he can feel the draw of his true vessel.
It’s odd, he thinks, that he can only feel two of his own vessels, when there should be thousands more spread across the world. In the years (and years and years) since Castiel had last set foot on this planet, he would have thought that his given bloodline would have spread. Two vessels in all makes Castiel anxious and he flies faster to where he can feel their pull. When one of the vessels suddenly vanishes from Castiel’s senses, he blurs the rest of the way in a split-second, straining wings that are no longer used to speed.
He flies through the roof of a house in what Dean would have called an upper-class neighborhood and morphs into his more humanoid shape as he lands on carpeted floors. Castiel wings ache from how he pushed them, but he ignores the pain-there is blood smeared over the white walls, in a waving line, like a trail. A side table is overturned, and a lamp lies in the middle of the floor, its light flickering, casting shadows. In the middle of the wall, at the start of the blood trail, is a sigil Castiel hasn’t ever seen before, but he can read it well enough to know the symbols.
It’s an angel-banishing sigil.
Castiel follows the blood smear, the pull of his true vessel stronger than ever, yanking at his grace. He walks around a corner and stills, looking at the floor of the house’s kitchen-a woman lies in a pool of her own blood, eyes open and unseeing, a hole in the base of her neck. A brown paper bag lies next to her, its contents spread over the floor. But there are no wing-marks around her body, no sign of possession by either demon or angel, and Castiel bares his teeth.
“Zachariah,” he hisses, lifting his eyes, and turns away. The trail doesn’t stop there: instead, it leads through a door at the back of the kitchen, another smear of blood across the door handle. Castiel walks through the door and into a large, nearly-empty garage. The light bulbs are on, and Castiel can see a form huddled in the far corner, beside a set of shelves. Castiel lifts his draconic face and watches the man with his Godface, stepping forward.
“Did they send you?” the man whispers with a broken voice, and Castiel pauses. The man raises his head from the small body he has cradled against his own. “Are you finally back for me?” He sobs, burying his face into the bloodied blonde hair of the child. “You’ve taken everything else.”
“I’m not with the ones who butchered your family,” Castiel says, and the man’s eyes rise. Novak, Castiel thinks as he meets the man’s eyes. James Novak. Castiel walks towards him, and the man pulls his daughter’s body closer to his own. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
James laughs, leaning his head back against the wall, and tears roll down his face. “I’m not scared of you,” he says, looking up at Castiel. He strokes the girl’s hair with a shaking hand. “They’re dead. The only thing I’m scared of now is being left alive.”
Castiel crouches down, looking at the child. “What happened?”
“Does it matter?” James says, and Castiel raises his eyes. James keeps his gaze for a moment before biting down on his lower lip. “I don’t know,” he blurts, blue eyes wide. “I came from work just… just minutes ago and I found…” He clenches his eyes shut and drops his head. “Oh God, Amelia.” He chokes on his breath before continuing. “She was already dead, and I could hear Claire scr-screaming in the living room. I ran to her, but they had already…” James voice gives out and he weeps into the corpse in his arms.
Castiel reaches out and gently touches the girl’s hair. He can’t feel it, not physically, but he can sense that the soul has moved on. He looks up at James again. “How did you survive?”
“The picture,” James says hoarsely, eyes still trained on his daughter’s face. “It came to me, and I just… did it. Like it was an instinct, like breathing.” He goes quiet for a moment. “I don’t think, if I had been in control, that I would have saved myself.”
Castiel stares at him. “Do you want to die?”
“Yes,” James says without hesitation. “Yes.” Castiel watches him, waits, and James lifts his eyes. “I can’t do it myself,” he whispers, swallowing. “That’s sin, and Claire and Amelia, they… they’re waiting for me. I can’t…”
Castiel nods. “I understand,” he says, and relief floods James’s face. “But I need something from you.”
James narrows his eyes. “What?” he says, looking at Castiel. “Are you a demon? Do you want my soul?”
“No,” Castiel says as an answer to both of his questions. “I am an angel, like those who attacked you and murdered Amelia and Claire.”
James closes his eyes and weeps again. “They said they were, but I didn’t…” He swallows loudly. “Why would God allow this?”
“Because He no longer cares,” Castiel says, and James stares at him. Castiel leans forward, cupping his chin with a clawed hand. “Listen to me, James Novak,” he says, and James eyes lock onto his own. “I will avenge your family, I will let your soul be free of this world, but I need your body.”
James blinks once more before nodding. “Yes,” he says, shaking. “Yes, yes, please, anything.”
Castiel nods, allowing a small smile to cross his face. “Thank you, James Novak,” he says, and pushes into the man’s body. The difference between this body and Dean’s is staggering-it’s easier, smoother, and James’s soul leads Castiel’s grace instead of fighting it, helps him maneuver into the small places that Castiel hadn’t noticed while in Dean, giving him total control. His grace spreads out immediately, sealing the bloody gash on James’s arm he hadn’t even seen, fixing the stained and torn clothing, moving into his mind and seeping into his memories. It takes a fraction of the time to settle than it had with Dean, and Castiel opens his eyes to find himself still holding the steadily cooling body of Claire Novak.
James’s soul is quiet, sleeping, protecting itself from Castiel’s grace. It would be so easy to just leave, just drop the girl, leaving the corpses behind and James hibernating, unaware. It’d be easier, Castiel thinks, but it would be a lie. He rises to his feet, cradling the girl to his chest, and walks back into the house.
Later, as Castiel watches the Novak home burn as a make-shift funeral pyre, he pulls James’s still-slumbering soul from his body, and lets it go.
-----
After Castiel watches the last ember being doused by the fire fighters hours later, he takes to the night skies and stretches his wings. As he wonders what he should do next, he feels a tugging on his grace, powerful and insistent, and Castiel knows who’s calling him. He flies over cities and towns and into the rural parts of the land. The tugging takes him to a specific farmland, and a specific field, and he lands in the midst of a mile of corn.
He stretches his wings as he walks the last few feet to the summons, feeling the muscles out. It’s been so long since he’s moved like this, feeling leaves, smelling dirt, hearing wind. It’s almost a brand-new experience, especially with how the world has changed. But, like flying over large stretches of land, it all comes back to Castiel quickly, and once he pushes his way into a burned-down clearing in the corn, it’s like Castiel had been created to move in this body instead of the other way around.
Castiel looks around the small area, smelling the burned plants, and frowns. He sees a metal cage hanging from a tall metal pole jammed into the ground. The cage contains three people inside it, and sways gently several feet above more corn. As curious as he is about that, he feels Lucifer’s grace. He’s here. But where?
“I couldn’t find Sam Winchester,” Lucifer says behind him, and Castiel turns around, unable to help the smile that spreads across his face. Lucifer has his six white wings spread as far as he can, and his eyes are constantly glowing gold. He smiles when Castiel meets his gaze, and raises one of his vessel’s eyebrows. “Is that your doing?”
Castiel nods, feeling his leathery wings quiver. “Zachariah had already found them,” he says, “and I didn’t have a vessel.”
“So you hid them from everyone, hoping you’d find them later?” he says, smirking, and crosses his arms. “A bit rash.”
“I won’t fail you,” Castiel says. “I plan on using Dean’s dreams.”
Lucifer smiles wider. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”
Castiel frowns, looking back at the hanging cage. “What is that for?”
Lucifer walks past him, flashing a grin over his shoulder. “The second of the Horseman rituals.”
“Second?” Castiel says, walking after him.
“Yes,” Lucifer says. “I’ve already raised War by pulling Wormwood out of the sky. Now I’m working on Famine.”
Castiel stares at the three people in the cage, all of them bundled together as far from Castiel and Lucifer as they can get. “You’ve been busy.”
“So have you,” Lucifer says, smiling at him. “Besides, the quicker I can get to Hell on Earth, the quicker Sam Winchester will give in. But,” he says, clapping his hands, “that’s in the future. Right now, I just need to keep our brothers busy.”
“Which is where I come in.”
Castiel can’t help how quickly he turns around, and how his wings twitch at the sight of Meg, controlling a woman, a ‘meatsuit’ she’d call it. He knows it’s her-he can still see shadows of her true face.
Meg smiles at him, tilting her head to the side, and tucks her thumbs into her belt loops. “Hey there, Clarence,” she says, and grins at his wings. “Good to see you’re still earning your feathers back.” She spreads her arms and gives a little twirl, her meatsuit’s brown hair bouncing behind her. “Do you like?” she asks, running a hand down her purple shirt, and an odd sensation coils in Castiel’s vessel’s gut. Meg grins like she knows.
Lucifer walks forward, wings pulling a little closer to himself. “You know each other?” he asks, staring at Castiel.
“Yes,” Castiel says. “I met her when I was watching Dean Winchester in Hell.”
“Well, good,” Lucifer says, grinning. “Then I won’t have to make introductions. Meg, fill him in on your orders. I have more chanting to do, and runes to carve.”
“As you wish,” Meg says, watching him walk away. Then she grins at Castiel and starts walking backwards, crooking her finger. “C’mon. I’ve got some… plans to show you.” She disappears into the corn field, and Castiel only hesitates a second before following after.
He follows the sound of her rushing through the field, enjoying the sensation of running, of the chase. He freezes, though, when he finds Meg’s leather jacket hanging on a cornstalk. And he sees her belt and one boot lying a few feet ahead of that. Her laughter echoes back to Castiel, and he grabs her clothing and walks toward the noise, picking up other wayward pieces as he finds them.
He’s stunned when he stumbles out of the corn field and into another small clearing, this one a perfect circle. Meg lies in the center of it, dressed in only a strapless black bra and black lace panties, her head pillowed on her arms. Castiel feels a stirring low in his body and he knows it’s arousal. It’s nothing like what he’d felt in Hell, when he’d forced his humanoid form to grow genitalia. That had been only a wanting. This is like fire in his guts and pressure building. It’s good, and he knows it gets better.
“Are you going to just stand there,” Meg drawls, cupping one of her breasts, “or are you going to let me welcome you to the world of flesh officially?”
Castiel drops the clothing, and walks to her. He slides the trench coat off his shoulders, followed by the black suit jacket, staring down at Meg, whose own eyes follow his hands. He loosens his tie before pulling it off and tossing onto the pile of clothing, then kicks off his shoes and socks. Meg bites at her lip as Castiel undoes every button on his dress shirt, and it, too, joins the rest of his clothing on the ground.
Meg smirks, sitting up, and raises an eyebrow. “Not exactly the most toned meatsuit I’ve ever seen,” she says.
“Not many options,” Castiel grunts, pulling his belt off, and tugs his dress pants down. As he goes for his boxers, Meg shakes her head.
“I want to do that,” she purrs, and gives a tiny tug on them. She spreads her legs and strokes the ground in front of her groin, grinning. “Join me.”
Castiel lowers himself to his knees, and reaches out for her shoulder. When Castiel touches her, though, he immediately flinches away-he can hear the body’s soul screaming for help, screaming in pain, just screaming. Meg scowls at him, raising an eyebrow.
“What? Fucking in Alistair’s torture chamber was fine, but one teeny-weeny soul is enough to turn you off?” She raises an eyebrow at him.
Castiel frowns, staring, and stretches for her again. She smiles, lying back on the grass, but her eyes widen when Castiel pushes his hand against her chest, and then slips inside. She shudders, eyes slipping shut, as Castiel reaches into her and grabs hold of the screaming soul. Slowly, he pulls it out and stares at it in his hand. Meg looks up at him, scowling, as he lets it go.
“You steal all of my fun,” she pouts.
“I don't share,” Castiel growls, putting his hands on either side of her head, and kisses Meg firmly. The burn is still there, but lessened, their human bodies acting like buffers.
She pushes him away, panting, and smiles. “You don't share, you don’t lie…” she lists, tugging his boxers down, and Castiel groans when the material brushes against him. She licks her lips as Castiel kicks them away. “Is there anything else I should be aware of?”
Castiel glares at her and moves her arms above her head, pinning them with one hand. “I don't wait,” he says, and uses his free hand to pull her underwear down.
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