As I Might Think of Daybreak (Dean/Castiel)
It's been a while, hasn't it?
Title: As I Might Think of Daybreak
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Warnings: Fallen/human Castiel (set between 5.20 - The Devil You Know and 5.21 - Two Minutes to Midnight), not-quite-explicit oral sex. PWP with no dialogue and a healthy dollop of apocalypse-related angst.
Spoilers: mild late s5 (5.18, 5.20 + 5.21)
Word Count: 607
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all characters therein are the property of Eric Kripke and the WB/CW, I'm just borrowing them for my own nefarious purposes.
Summary: "In the grey silence that lies between the darkness and the dawn, Dean watched the figure sleeping beside him and wondered how a world about to end could be so peaceful."
Author's Notes: Written for tiptoe39''s Pearl String of Fics: Morning Sex. Originally posted anonymously, because I wasn't sure about it. The force of Tiptoe's squee convinced me that fessing up and posting it here might be a good idea.
- title and cut text taken from Conrad Aiken's "Morning Song from 'Senlin'"
there are shadows across the window, clouds in Heaven
and a god among the stars, and I will go
In the grey silence that lies between the darkness and the dawn, Dean watched the figure sleeping beside him and wondered how a world about to end could be so peaceful.
It was quiet, so perfectly quiet, the steady tattoo of a heartbeat beneath his ear and the hushed whisper of breath blending into a comforting hum in the gentle stillness. As the murky twilight that filled the room grew brighter, Dean closed his eyes, savoring the final moments before daybreak and wishing he could will away the oncoming sunrise.
First light seeped through the blinds, motes of dust hanging on the air turning to fireflies as it bypassed bookshelves and desks and the unopened bottle of whiskey on the night-stand, coming to rest on the man who shared Dean's bed. When it reached the sprawl of limbs and alabaster flesh, it seemed to slow and take its time, relishing the task of highlighting tufts of dark, sex-wild hair and caressing swollen, kiss-stained lips.
Rays spilled over Castiel's collarbone, forming golden rivers that ebbed and flowed with the rise-falling rhythm of his chest, winding through the ridged channels of his sigil-scar and trickling over gently defined muscle before slipping into shadow under the edge of the sheet.
Where the light went, Dean followed, tracing its path with a graze of nails, fingers splaying over bared skin, dragging the fabric down beneath the jutting curl of a hipbone.
The sleep-lazy cadence of Castiel's breath quickened, moans winding their way between inhales and exhales.
He woke with a flutter of lashes and a deep groan, the smoky gravel of his voice pitched low and wanting as Dean sucked a kiss to the exposed hollow, leaving the imprint of his mouth behind, soft and scarlet against the pale stretch of Castiel's body.
Castiel could bruise, now, and Dean loved him all the more for it.
As an angel, he'd been untouchable.
Fallen, he could be shattered by calloused fingertips and pieced back together with a silky-wet slide of parted lips, broken by the sting of teeth and made anew in the patterns they left behind.
Dean cherished every nuance of this impossible, beautiful thing that had sprung up between them, just a handful of hours old but already doomed by the impending apocalypse. The odds of either of them surviving, let alone both of them, were slim to none; there was no time for commitment issues or bottling or thinking too much or any of the other scourges that had plagued Dean's past relationships. He threw himself headlong into the task of distracting Castiel from the Heaven he'd lost by introducing him to a Paradise forged in flesh, greedily taking in as much of Castiel as he could, coaxing a symphony of noises from the fallen angel and swallowing them down with crushing, possessive kisses.
The breathless growl of Dean's name in Castiel's throat turned to a wordless cry as his mouth traveled lower.
Lips stretched, cheeks hollowed, an agile tongue wound and curled just so, strong arms pinned writhing, twisting hips to the mattress and held them fast until they stilled, shaking and half-paralyzed with need.
The morning after their last night on Earth, with Pestilence behind them and Death ahead, Dean's hands re-learned the vaulted arch of Castiel's ribs, skin drawn taut over graceful bones by the obscene curve of his spine.
In the dappled light of that unwelcome day, the righteous man worshipped a fallen angel with a mouth that promised pleasure and a touch that promised sanctuary, keeping the world at bay for a few more precious minutes as the sun rose higher in the sky.
Title: As I Might Think of Daybreak
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Warnings: Fallen/human Castiel (set between 5.20 - The Devil You Know and 5.21 - Two Minutes to Midnight), not-quite-explicit oral sex. PWP with no dialogue and a healthy dollop of apocalypse-related angst.
Spoilers: mild late s5 (5.18, 5.20 + 5.21)
Word Count: 607
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all characters therein are the property of Eric Kripke and the WB/CW, I'm just borrowing them for my own nefarious purposes.
Summary: "In the grey silence that lies between the darkness and the dawn, Dean watched the figure sleeping beside him and wondered how a world about to end could be so peaceful."
Author's Notes: Written for tiptoe39''s Pearl String of Fics: Morning Sex. Originally posted anonymously, because I wasn't sure about it. The force of Tiptoe's squee convinced me that fessing up and posting it here might be a good idea.
- title and cut text taken from Conrad Aiken's "Morning Song from 'Senlin'"
there are shadows across the window, clouds in Heaven
and a god among the stars, and I will go
In the grey silence that lies between the darkness and the dawn, Dean watched the figure sleeping beside him and wondered how a world about to end could be so peaceful.
It was quiet, so perfectly quiet, the steady tattoo of a heartbeat beneath his ear and the hushed whisper of breath blending into a comforting hum in the gentle stillness. As the murky twilight that filled the room grew brighter, Dean closed his eyes, savoring the final moments before daybreak and wishing he could will away the oncoming sunrise.
First light seeped through the blinds, motes of dust hanging on the air turning to fireflies as it bypassed bookshelves and desks and the unopened bottle of whiskey on the night-stand, coming to rest on the man who shared Dean's bed. When it reached the sprawl of limbs and alabaster flesh, it seemed to slow and take its time, relishing the task of highlighting tufts of dark, sex-wild hair and caressing swollen, kiss-stained lips.
Rays spilled over Castiel's collarbone, forming golden rivers that ebbed and flowed with the rise-falling rhythm of his chest, winding through the ridged channels of his sigil-scar and trickling over gently defined muscle before slipping into shadow under the edge of the sheet.
Where the light went, Dean followed, tracing its path with a graze of nails, fingers splaying over bared skin, dragging the fabric down beneath the jutting curl of a hipbone.
The sleep-lazy cadence of Castiel's breath quickened, moans winding their way between inhales and exhales.
He woke with a flutter of lashes and a deep groan, the smoky gravel of his voice pitched low and wanting as Dean sucked a kiss to the exposed hollow, leaving the imprint of his mouth behind, soft and scarlet against the pale stretch of Castiel's body.
Castiel could bruise, now, and Dean loved him all the more for it.
As an angel, he'd been untouchable.
Fallen, he could be shattered by calloused fingertips and pieced back together with a silky-wet slide of parted lips, broken by the sting of teeth and made anew in the patterns they left behind.
Dean cherished every nuance of this impossible, beautiful thing that had sprung up between them, just a handful of hours old but already doomed by the impending apocalypse. The odds of either of them surviving, let alone both of them, were slim to none; there was no time for commitment issues or bottling or thinking too much or any of the other scourges that had plagued Dean's past relationships. He threw himself headlong into the task of distracting Castiel from the Heaven he'd lost by introducing him to a Paradise forged in flesh, greedily taking in as much of Castiel as he could, coaxing a symphony of noises from the fallen angel and swallowing them down with crushing, possessive kisses.
The breathless growl of Dean's name in Castiel's throat turned to a wordless cry as his mouth traveled lower.
Lips stretched, cheeks hollowed, an agile tongue wound and curled just so, strong arms pinned writhing, twisting hips to the mattress and held them fast until they stilled, shaking and half-paralyzed with need.
The morning after their last night on Earth, with Pestilence behind them and Death ahead, Dean's hands re-learned the vaulted arch of Castiel's ribs, skin drawn taut over graceful bones by the obscene curve of his spine.
In the dappled light of that unwelcome day, the righteous man worshipped a fallen angel with a mouth that promised pleasure and a touch that promised sanctuary, keeping the world at bay for a few more precious minutes as the sun rose higher in the sky.