(no subject)
Title: These Violent Delights
Author/Artist: dramaturgy
Recipient: ensign_amy
Pairing: Castiel/Meg, Castiel/Anna
Rating: R
Warnings: Uh none.
Summary: God is not watching. God is not listening. God doesn't care. Castiel knows he shouldn't… but does anyway.
Notes: Title is from Romeo and Juliet. This has been kicking around in my head for awhile, actually, and the prompts were just perfect to get the ball rolling.
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.
Romeo and Juliet, I.V
-----
She tastes like ashes.
The ashes don't overpower the smell of sulfur that is so acrid in Castiel's nostrils that tastes it thick in his mouth, enough to make him choke with it. She tastes of ashes and smells of sulfur and blood, a demon's scent. It's not as strong as it once was for him, but he doesn't think about that.
He does his best not to think about it, period, because there are so many things wrong with this. The fact that this goes unrecognized by the universe just makes it worse. It drives home again what Dean and Sam learned in the Garden: God is not watching. God is not listening. God doesn't care.
He breaks away, because even armed with the knowledge of his Father's absence he can still only make himself commit so much sin at once.
Meg smirks briefly, her tongue sneaking out and wetting her lips. "If I haven't killed you yet, Clarence, I'm not gonna. So relax. Enjoy the ride." The beautiful face she's wearing twists into an unearthly leer.
While he's sure 'Clarence' is a clever reference to something and not Meg simply being difficult by getting his name wrong, he doesn't know what it is, nor does he care. He isn't supposed to be here. He pushes her away and holds her at arm's length to show he's in control, when really he's struggling. "You couldn't."
She still smirks -- at least when he's lowering himself to be lost in physical sensation he doesn't have to look at her. "Everything dies," she said. "You'd know. You're quite the little killer, not to mention having cashed in your own chips."
His dead brothers and sisters weigh heavily on his conscience; it is a piece of himself he would not mind losing if it were so easy to be rid of. He releases her and shoves lightly. "Didn't take," he says.
Meg laughs at him. "Your Father gave up on you. When you're ready to admit that, I'm sure mine will be happy to welcome you to his side."
Her smile widens, so Castiel is satisfied that his disgust has registered on his face. "That will never happen."
"Never say never, Clarence." She disappears, leaving the smell of brimstone hanging in the air.
---
She takes great pleasure in taunting him, not just about his seeming fall in progress, but about everything she can think of. He lets her, because he can deal with a demon. He can toss her back in to Hell, slay her, and be rid of her anytime he wants.
At least he tells himself that. Even if he's wrong, the illusion of being in control is greatly preferable to a situation where he knows he has no hope.
One time she comes to him in a beautiful white sundress, but her hair completes the picture and makes his humiliation complete. Her hair -- whoever 'she ' is -- is the most distracting shade of auburn. Castiel has only seen this shade in a handful of places in this magnificent universe: flowers, leaves as they're changing before they fall off the trees, and Anna Milton's hair. Living, dying, dead.
It slips through his fingers when he touches it, like something more substantial than water but just as smooth. He trembles because it's more physical and causes more pain than anything he's ever felt, and that itself indicates more than what he wants to deal with.
She would have faith, he's the only one he knows who could have faith now. She could tell him what to do now.
Stop it.
The voice -- he doesn't know where it comes from -- startles him so suddenly that he drops the lock of hair. "What is this," he growls at Meg.
He doesn't know who she's taken possession of now, but she has a face that wears innocence well, even when he knows she's putting it on and there is no such thing left in her. "Castiel," she says as though she was expecting something more from him, "I thought you liked redheads with your blasphemy."
The surprised look that crosses her face when he takes her by the throat and pushes her back into the rough bricks satisfies him. Wrath is such a dangerous but exhilarating vice, and judging from the way Meg wraps one of her legs around his waist, she agrees. That leg and the grip that she has on the tie around his neck keep him close.
There is a split second where he could back away, but she pulls him forward. She still tastes like ashes, but she's masked it with something that tastes of mint and fake cherries. He hates himself for wanting more of the disgusting combination, but he hates her even more, for looking into him and seeing who it was he misses the most. He hates himself even more for being so hopelessly transparent.
He doesn't back away when he feels her hand on his belt either. He knows he should, but he also knows that it's the closest he will ever be to her, and it's still so far. He could have spared her at least burning, not everything was meant for death.
His body moves against hers but there's no heart in it. He's the only one who cares, and he tangles her flaming hair in one hand, anchoring himself with that one earthly bit of her that Meg had successfully recreated.
Meg finishes after him, while he's still concentrating on her hair in his grip. Her fingernails rake down his chest, perhaps just a bit harder than would be considered playful, and she makes a deep, satisfied noise in her throat that Castiel thought reserved for felines. "You couldn't have gotten that outta her with a pair of pliers, Clarence," she says, clearly pleased with herself.
The magic is gone, and the fantasy disappears. This is no visit to some brothel with Dean, it's much worse. She's no lost child, she has taken possession of a body and kept someone else captive, and he's been party to that. It's just the two (or three) of them in an alley with the sundress bunched up around her waist and him tucking his shirt back in. "Don't speak of her, demon."
"I know Michael toasted her." She reaches out and straightens his tie, mockery of such a caring gesture. "But everything dies, remember."
"We don't." He backs far away enough that she can't touch him anymore. We don't die, we have to be killed.
She straightens, pushing her dress back down to cover her legs. "Your dad doesn't care," she reminds him, skating a hand across his shoulder as she walks away. "Rules don't apply anymore."
Her steps echo against his surroundings, taunting him with all the rules that still applied now that he'd broken into shards.
---
He is restored.
Against all logic and all his battered belief, Castiel is alive and whole once more. He sees the world as he used to, in all the vivid color his Father made it with. The stars sing to him and he walks on air, he hears prayers of thanks and pleading, and sees inside of people in a way he hasn't since he took Dean out of Hell.
Things are in turmoil with the Apocalypse averted. Castiel is sure that none of them could have known how derailing what was foretold would work our, or may still yet come to pass.
Then again, maybe that was the point.
Demons who enjoyed their freedom on the surface under Lucifer are being contained, some lashing out and attacking, mad with their loss, and there are angels all too willing to oblige them in slaying them.
There are still others who hide away like rats in holes, and it is lurking in an alleyway off a street devoid of life in the middle of the night, like the ones they frequented, that Castiel finds Meg. She's gotten rid of the redhead, and she snarls at passersby. "Angel, get away," she seethes at him, dirty-faced and not even attempting to hide herself in the human.
It's a truly piteous image. He crouches in front of her, quiet, and she mutters under her breath. Her host is fighting, giving her trouble, though nearly dead. He touches her arm and she screeches like he's burned her, lunging at him and pinning him to the pavement. She scratches wildly at him like a diseased animal. Since she is weakened and he is renewed it's no task to push her away, into the wall. She rests there, angry and hate filled. It pours off her in waves.
"It would be you who came to kill me," she hisses through her teeth. She's not holding on very well.
He looks at her. "I thought it would be a mercy."
"Angels don't kill demons because it's merciful. You do it because you're programmed to do it."
Whether it's true or not in general, he knows why he's there in the specific. "Meg."
"Stop it and get it over with already."
He now sees that he was wrong when he thought he saw nothing lost in her. Azazel's favored daughter is a demon so twisted she still thinks the Apocalypse will come back, continue, and they will win -- she will win. It's such a human attitude, of willful blindness and a desire for what she can't have. This time when he touches her forehead, she shudders, and he says, "It will be like falling asleep."
"An angel who lies to spare a demon." She trembles with the power he bears over her. "That's what the universe has come to."
"A white lie," he replies and pushes her from the body. The light banishes her darkness, scrubs her from the body, and the demon Meg simply is no more.
After all, everything dies.
Author/Artist: dramaturgy
Recipient: ensign_amy
Pairing: Castiel/Meg, Castiel/Anna
Rating: R
Warnings: Uh none.
Summary: God is not watching. God is not listening. God doesn't care. Castiel knows he shouldn't… but does anyway.
Notes: Title is from Romeo and Juliet. This has been kicking around in my head for awhile, actually, and the prompts were just perfect to get the ball rolling.
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.
Romeo and Juliet, I.V
-----
She tastes like ashes.
The ashes don't overpower the smell of sulfur that is so acrid in Castiel's nostrils that tastes it thick in his mouth, enough to make him choke with it. She tastes of ashes and smells of sulfur and blood, a demon's scent. It's not as strong as it once was for him, but he doesn't think about that.
He does his best not to think about it, period, because there are so many things wrong with this. The fact that this goes unrecognized by the universe just makes it worse. It drives home again what Dean and Sam learned in the Garden: God is not watching. God is not listening. God doesn't care.
He breaks away, because even armed with the knowledge of his Father's absence he can still only make himself commit so much sin at once.
Meg smirks briefly, her tongue sneaking out and wetting her lips. "If I haven't killed you yet, Clarence, I'm not gonna. So relax. Enjoy the ride." The beautiful face she's wearing twists into an unearthly leer.
While he's sure 'Clarence' is a clever reference to something and not Meg simply being difficult by getting his name wrong, he doesn't know what it is, nor does he care. He isn't supposed to be here. He pushes her away and holds her at arm's length to show he's in control, when really he's struggling. "You couldn't."
She still smirks -- at least when he's lowering himself to be lost in physical sensation he doesn't have to look at her. "Everything dies," she said. "You'd know. You're quite the little killer, not to mention having cashed in your own chips."
His dead brothers and sisters weigh heavily on his conscience; it is a piece of himself he would not mind losing if it were so easy to be rid of. He releases her and shoves lightly. "Didn't take," he says.
Meg laughs at him. "Your Father gave up on you. When you're ready to admit that, I'm sure mine will be happy to welcome you to his side."
Her smile widens, so Castiel is satisfied that his disgust has registered on his face. "That will never happen."
"Never say never, Clarence." She disappears, leaving the smell of brimstone hanging in the air.
---
She takes great pleasure in taunting him, not just about his seeming fall in progress, but about everything she can think of. He lets her, because he can deal with a demon. He can toss her back in to Hell, slay her, and be rid of her anytime he wants.
At least he tells himself that. Even if he's wrong, the illusion of being in control is greatly preferable to a situation where he knows he has no hope.
One time she comes to him in a beautiful white sundress, but her hair completes the picture and makes his humiliation complete. Her hair -- whoever 'she ' is -- is the most distracting shade of auburn. Castiel has only seen this shade in a handful of places in this magnificent universe: flowers, leaves as they're changing before they fall off the trees, and Anna Milton's hair. Living, dying, dead.
It slips through his fingers when he touches it, like something more substantial than water but just as smooth. He trembles because it's more physical and causes more pain than anything he's ever felt, and that itself indicates more than what he wants to deal with.
She would have faith, he's the only one he knows who could have faith now. She could tell him what to do now.
Stop it.
The voice -- he doesn't know where it comes from -- startles him so suddenly that he drops the lock of hair. "What is this," he growls at Meg.
He doesn't know who she's taken possession of now, but she has a face that wears innocence well, even when he knows she's putting it on and there is no such thing left in her. "Castiel," she says as though she was expecting something more from him, "I thought you liked redheads with your blasphemy."
The surprised look that crosses her face when he takes her by the throat and pushes her back into the rough bricks satisfies him. Wrath is such a dangerous but exhilarating vice, and judging from the way Meg wraps one of her legs around his waist, she agrees. That leg and the grip that she has on the tie around his neck keep him close.
There is a split second where he could back away, but she pulls him forward. She still tastes like ashes, but she's masked it with something that tastes of mint and fake cherries. He hates himself for wanting more of the disgusting combination, but he hates her even more, for looking into him and seeing who it was he misses the most. He hates himself even more for being so hopelessly transparent.
He doesn't back away when he feels her hand on his belt either. He knows he should, but he also knows that it's the closest he will ever be to her, and it's still so far. He could have spared her at least burning, not everything was meant for death.
His body moves against hers but there's no heart in it. He's the only one who cares, and he tangles her flaming hair in one hand, anchoring himself with that one earthly bit of her that Meg had successfully recreated.
Meg finishes after him, while he's still concentrating on her hair in his grip. Her fingernails rake down his chest, perhaps just a bit harder than would be considered playful, and she makes a deep, satisfied noise in her throat that Castiel thought reserved for felines. "You couldn't have gotten that outta her with a pair of pliers, Clarence," she says, clearly pleased with herself.
The magic is gone, and the fantasy disappears. This is no visit to some brothel with Dean, it's much worse. She's no lost child, she has taken possession of a body and kept someone else captive, and he's been party to that. It's just the two (or three) of them in an alley with the sundress bunched up around her waist and him tucking his shirt back in. "Don't speak of her, demon."
"I know Michael toasted her." She reaches out and straightens his tie, mockery of such a caring gesture. "But everything dies, remember."
"We don't." He backs far away enough that she can't touch him anymore. We don't die, we have to be killed.
She straightens, pushing her dress back down to cover her legs. "Your dad doesn't care," she reminds him, skating a hand across his shoulder as she walks away. "Rules don't apply anymore."
Her steps echo against his surroundings, taunting him with all the rules that still applied now that he'd broken into shards.
---
He is restored.
Against all logic and all his battered belief, Castiel is alive and whole once more. He sees the world as he used to, in all the vivid color his Father made it with. The stars sing to him and he walks on air, he hears prayers of thanks and pleading, and sees inside of people in a way he hasn't since he took Dean out of Hell.
Things are in turmoil with the Apocalypse averted. Castiel is sure that none of them could have known how derailing what was foretold would work our, or may still yet come to pass.
Then again, maybe that was the point.
Demons who enjoyed their freedom on the surface under Lucifer are being contained, some lashing out and attacking, mad with their loss, and there are angels all too willing to oblige them in slaying them.
There are still others who hide away like rats in holes, and it is lurking in an alleyway off a street devoid of life in the middle of the night, like the ones they frequented, that Castiel finds Meg. She's gotten rid of the redhead, and she snarls at passersby. "Angel, get away," she seethes at him, dirty-faced and not even attempting to hide herself in the human.
It's a truly piteous image. He crouches in front of her, quiet, and she mutters under her breath. Her host is fighting, giving her trouble, though nearly dead. He touches her arm and she screeches like he's burned her, lunging at him and pinning him to the pavement. She scratches wildly at him like a diseased animal. Since she is weakened and he is renewed it's no task to push her away, into the wall. She rests there, angry and hate filled. It pours off her in waves.
"It would be you who came to kill me," she hisses through her teeth. She's not holding on very well.
He looks at her. "I thought it would be a mercy."
"Angels don't kill demons because it's merciful. You do it because you're programmed to do it."
Whether it's true or not in general, he knows why he's there in the specific. "Meg."
"Stop it and get it over with already."
He now sees that he was wrong when he thought he saw nothing lost in her. Azazel's favored daughter is a demon so twisted she still thinks the Apocalypse will come back, continue, and they will win -- she will win. It's such a human attitude, of willful blindness and a desire for what she can't have. This time when he touches her forehead, she shudders, and he says, "It will be like falling asleep."
"An angel who lies to spare a demon." She trembles with the power he bears over her. "That's what the universe has come to."
"A white lie," he replies and pushes her from the body. The light banishes her darkness, scrubs her from the body, and the demon Meg simply is no more.
After all, everything dies.