Random Dean/Cas
This stems originally from a very lengthy prompt that onetouchspark gave me, reading thus:
Cas is forbidden any human emotion or bonds. When Dean turns on him, Cas hesitates. He might have been feeling for Dean already, but he doesn't want to risk himself and Dean. He gives in eventually though for which he is taken back to heaven and tortured and he learns his lesson. Dean finds out and feels guilty for it. But they figure it out at some point (Cas rebels?
From this I only remembered the second part when I went to write it, and so what I did was something entirely different: After 4x20, which I just rewatched and is thus fresh in my mind, Castiel and Dean find a unique way to communicate about what really happened when Castiel was called back to heaven and "learned his lesson."
So, this is something COMPLETELY different. I hope it tickles anyway.
While Sam suffered in a room far below, Dean slept in a bed above. And he dreamed.
He dreamed of angels and of demons, and of himself, and of the likes and loves and loyalties he'd thought he'd restored since his unspeakable sin. Despite what he'd done, Sam loved him, accepted him. Anna forgave him. Castiel had faith in him.
That was all he'd had, and it was all he'd clung to, and now it seemed every last strand of golden hope had been torn away from him. Those he'd thought he could trust were proving to be betrayers. Those he'd thought understood him had stalked off, declaring he was not what they'd hoped he'd be. Was there a moment of his life that he was not a disappointment to somebody?
As sick to his stomach as it made Dean to think of Sam and what he'd been doing, Cas' rebuke had stung worse. He'd thought for a few minutes that maybe Castiel had come over to his side. Castiel had helped him figure out how to spook off Lilith, given him that crucial clue. He'd come to him and offered to meet him, to say something important. Despite how careful he'd been, he'd been intercepted. What had that message been? What had Castiel wanted to tell him that had been so important that he'd been blasted back to heaven for it? And come back so horribly warped?
He supposed he couldn't look to his dreams for an answer anymore. Because, as Cas had said, someone could be listening.
Someone could be listening, but could they see?
Dean tossed and he turned. He made the bed creak and he probably sounded like he was having a way better time than he was. But in his mind he just called out. Cas. Just come see me. Don't talk. Just be there.
And then, Cas was there.
A hand on Dean's mouth. Another hand at his own lips.
Dean nodded, and Cas took his hand away. Dean turned questioning eyes on him. They were crouched close together. In answer, Castiel stretched his neck and let Dean see where the scars were forming.
In real life, they weren't on Jimmy's body. But in the dream, it was Castiel's experience, so they rose up on Castiel's form. It made perfect sense.
Dean ran his fingers over the welts. The skin was raised where it had been whipped, puckered where it had been cut. He reached beneath the collar of Castiel's coat and saw a crisscross interlace of cuts that rivaled his worst work. His cry of sorrow sprang forth, and Castiel quickly silenced it with a finger to his lips. Dean looked at him apologetically and nodded his understanding.
Castiel took both hands, then -- they, too, were scarred with cuts and blows, Dean saw -- and pressed them to Dean's face. He leaned forward to touch his forehead to Dean's.
Flashes of images. Pain. Laughter. Flame. Punishment. Heaven was a stern place, that much Dean could see. His eyes watered and he stared at Castiel, biting back tears, when the litany of images had seared through his memory.
Castiel's own eyes filled with tears as they looked at each other.
Dean took one of Castiel's palms from his face and rested it, gingerly, in his own palm. Looking at the outspread fingers, he folded his other hand over it. Warming Castiel's scarred palm in both of his.
Castiel's eyes were aqua pools of confusion as they looked into Dean's.
At a loss, full of sorrow, Dean leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Castiel's forehead.
He could feel Castiel's intake of breath though he could not hear it. He felt his own heart stutter.
He kissed Castiel's nose. His eyelid.
When their lips finally brushed, it was hardly a kiss at all, just the inevitable continuation of their wordless conversation.
Castiel pulled back. Stared at him. Half the question in those eyes had been answered. The other half was bigger than ever.
Dean shrugged. He rubbed Castiel's palm in his. Interlaced his fingers with Castiel's.
He didn't remember when they came together again. He just knew that in a moment they were kissing, ardently, pressing close together. Hands folded as though in prayer.
The dream flashed by in a series of strange scenes. When had they come to lie together? When had Dean taken off his shirt? It didn't matter. It was a dream; these things happened. In the dream he could understand it.
He was staring in mute wonder and sympathy as Castiel removed his shirt, revealed a pattern of torture and discipline so clear that Dean no longer doubted what had happened to him while he was gone. He pressed his lips to the edge of one long scar, ran his mouth down the length of it. Pausing at the other end, just beneath Castiel's navel, he looked up to see blue eyes still blazing at him, still intent and devoted. Castiel still trusted him, still believed in him after all. And despite everything said aloud, he knew in the silence that Castiel was on his side.
He crawled up the column of tortured flesh. slid up and into Castiel's arms. Their mouths joined and they kissed. Lights flickered around them. Beneath Dean's wandering hands Castiel's wounds began to heal. And Dean's heart soared. Here, in this dream, he could go back and redeem himself, ease his shame. He kissed healing and faith and joy into Castiel, rubbed wholeness into his skin.
Nothing was clear. The whole dream was hazy. There was sweat, and pleasure, and the movement of bodies, muscle under muscle. There were wounds that healed. There was so much hope. And the whole thing, silent, a heaven where nobody could hear them, a place where they could be with each other and each other only.
Dean closed his eyes. Now there was neither sound nor sight, just touch, fire, healing, purpose.
Sweaty, dazed, they kissed lingeringly, and Castiel leaned limp against him. Dean folded him up in his arms. His urge was to whisper to the angel in his arms -- what a strange thing, he thought, an angel in his arms -- but he must not.
So in the dream, he closed his eyes and fell asleep, and let heaven take him forward into waking daylight.
The next time Castiel appeared, his eyes would be purposeful. His words would be urgent. And Dean would know, despite it all. He would know, and Castiel would come through.
Cas is forbidden any human emotion or bonds. When Dean turns on him, Cas hesitates. He might have been feeling for Dean already, but he doesn't want to risk himself and Dean. He gives in eventually though for which he is taken back to heaven and tortured and he learns his lesson. Dean finds out and feels guilty for it. But they figure it out at some point (Cas rebels?
From this I only remembered the second part when I went to write it, and so what I did was something entirely different: After 4x20, which I just rewatched and is thus fresh in my mind, Castiel and Dean find a unique way to communicate about what really happened when Castiel was called back to heaven and "learned his lesson."
So, this is something COMPLETELY different. I hope it tickles anyway.
While Sam suffered in a room far below, Dean slept in a bed above. And he dreamed.
He dreamed of angels and of demons, and of himself, and of the likes and loves and loyalties he'd thought he'd restored since his unspeakable sin. Despite what he'd done, Sam loved him, accepted him. Anna forgave him. Castiel had faith in him.
That was all he'd had, and it was all he'd clung to, and now it seemed every last strand of golden hope had been torn away from him. Those he'd thought he could trust were proving to be betrayers. Those he'd thought understood him had stalked off, declaring he was not what they'd hoped he'd be. Was there a moment of his life that he was not a disappointment to somebody?
As sick to his stomach as it made Dean to think of Sam and what he'd been doing, Cas' rebuke had stung worse. He'd thought for a few minutes that maybe Castiel had come over to his side. Castiel had helped him figure out how to spook off Lilith, given him that crucial clue. He'd come to him and offered to meet him, to say something important. Despite how careful he'd been, he'd been intercepted. What had that message been? What had Castiel wanted to tell him that had been so important that he'd been blasted back to heaven for it? And come back so horribly warped?
He supposed he couldn't look to his dreams for an answer anymore. Because, as Cas had said, someone could be listening.
Someone could be listening, but could they see?
Dean tossed and he turned. He made the bed creak and he probably sounded like he was having a way better time than he was. But in his mind he just called out. Cas. Just come see me. Don't talk. Just be there.
And then, Cas was there.
A hand on Dean's mouth. Another hand at his own lips.
Dean nodded, and Cas took his hand away. Dean turned questioning eyes on him. They were crouched close together. In answer, Castiel stretched his neck and let Dean see where the scars were forming.
In real life, they weren't on Jimmy's body. But in the dream, it was Castiel's experience, so they rose up on Castiel's form. It made perfect sense.
Dean ran his fingers over the welts. The skin was raised where it had been whipped, puckered where it had been cut. He reached beneath the collar of Castiel's coat and saw a crisscross interlace of cuts that rivaled his worst work. His cry of sorrow sprang forth, and Castiel quickly silenced it with a finger to his lips. Dean looked at him apologetically and nodded his understanding.
Castiel took both hands, then -- they, too, were scarred with cuts and blows, Dean saw -- and pressed them to Dean's face. He leaned forward to touch his forehead to Dean's.
Flashes of images. Pain. Laughter. Flame. Punishment. Heaven was a stern place, that much Dean could see. His eyes watered and he stared at Castiel, biting back tears, when the litany of images had seared through his memory.
Castiel's own eyes filled with tears as they looked at each other.
Dean took one of Castiel's palms from his face and rested it, gingerly, in his own palm. Looking at the outspread fingers, he folded his other hand over it. Warming Castiel's scarred palm in both of his.
Castiel's eyes were aqua pools of confusion as they looked into Dean's.
At a loss, full of sorrow, Dean leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Castiel's forehead.
He could feel Castiel's intake of breath though he could not hear it. He felt his own heart stutter.
He kissed Castiel's nose. His eyelid.
When their lips finally brushed, it was hardly a kiss at all, just the inevitable continuation of their wordless conversation.
Castiel pulled back. Stared at him. Half the question in those eyes had been answered. The other half was bigger than ever.
Dean shrugged. He rubbed Castiel's palm in his. Interlaced his fingers with Castiel's.
He didn't remember when they came together again. He just knew that in a moment they were kissing, ardently, pressing close together. Hands folded as though in prayer.
The dream flashed by in a series of strange scenes. When had they come to lie together? When had Dean taken off his shirt? It didn't matter. It was a dream; these things happened. In the dream he could understand it.
He was staring in mute wonder and sympathy as Castiel removed his shirt, revealed a pattern of torture and discipline so clear that Dean no longer doubted what had happened to him while he was gone. He pressed his lips to the edge of one long scar, ran his mouth down the length of it. Pausing at the other end, just beneath Castiel's navel, he looked up to see blue eyes still blazing at him, still intent and devoted. Castiel still trusted him, still believed in him after all. And despite everything said aloud, he knew in the silence that Castiel was on his side.
He crawled up the column of tortured flesh. slid up and into Castiel's arms. Their mouths joined and they kissed. Lights flickered around them. Beneath Dean's wandering hands Castiel's wounds began to heal. And Dean's heart soared. Here, in this dream, he could go back and redeem himself, ease his shame. He kissed healing and faith and joy into Castiel, rubbed wholeness into his skin.
Nothing was clear. The whole dream was hazy. There was sweat, and pleasure, and the movement of bodies, muscle under muscle. There were wounds that healed. There was so much hope. And the whole thing, silent, a heaven where nobody could hear them, a place where they could be with each other and each other only.
Dean closed his eyes. Now there was neither sound nor sight, just touch, fire, healing, purpose.
Sweaty, dazed, they kissed lingeringly, and Castiel leaned limp against him. Dean folded him up in his arms. His urge was to whisper to the angel in his arms -- what a strange thing, he thought, an angel in his arms -- but he must not.
So in the dream, he closed his eyes and fell asleep, and let heaven take him forward into waking daylight.
The next time Castiel appeared, his eyes would be purposeful. His words would be urgent. And Dean would know, despite it all. He would know, and Castiel would come through.