Fic: Angel Touches
Title: Angel Touches
Author: Aithilin
Rating: PG
Genre: fluff
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Season 4
Warnings: fluff and not-so-fluffy thoughts
Word Count: approx. 690
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this.
Summary: Dean muses on the nature of angels and demons one night.
Author’s Notes: No idea where this came from, so don't ask. I just started writing and it appeared.
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Fire was not something he used to associate with demons. He had seen them hundreds of times now, and it was still hard to make sense of. They all looked the same in the physical world-- billowing, twisting, invading black clouds dripped, oozed, and spewed from and into every available orifice on a host. Despite the stench of sulphur and the way an inexperienced demon burned the vocal cords of its host when speaking, that sort of thing just never rang "burning hellfire" in his mind.
At least, not until he went to Hell.
There, Dean found that demons did burn. The writhing clouds of black smoke hid a molten core that burned a host from the inside out (he never believed Sammy about that feeling before). In Hell, that core was a soul, fuelled by hate, grief, and eternal grudges until it formed that little molten ball of personalized hellfire. Down there, everything burned.
He remembered the emotions (hate, anger, resentment) burning a thousand times hotter than they ever did in life. The burn of a blade as it cut into metaphysical flesh seared the fragile soul and stoked the heated emotions. A demon's touch was a hundred times worse.
Sometimes, Dean could still feel it. Those nights when he woke in a sweat, writhing in remembered pain, he could still feel Hell burning his soul.
Then Castiel would touch him and chase the fire away.
After what happened to Pamela, Dean had assumed that all angels were forged from some sort of holy light-- a living righteous fire. They were damn well bright enough to be balls of holy fire.
But it was another memory from Hell, one that was almost lost in the memories of pain and torture. Dean could remember the instant the angel's hand wrapped around his arm to pull him away from the pain. It was a moment of pure calm. A frigid water pouring over the fire and cleaning out the wounds. The handprint was raised against it-- Hell's claim on Dean's soul trying to fight the soothing light of Heaven.
Dean hated the scar. On the nights he still dreamt of Hell, it still burned, eating away at his soul, little by little.
But the thoughts, like the pain were always chased away by Castiel. Sometimes with a touch to bring him peace, sometimes kisses.
Right now, Dean was more than happy to take the kisses the angel pressed to heated flesh. Head fell back and eyes closed as he felt grace wash over him. Through him.
"Cas…"
"Peace, Dean." It was muttered into the hunter's shoulder, lips pressing against the pallid scar to cool the fire.
Dean was never very good at taking orders.
The hunter pulled the angel closer to him, catching the vessel's lips (he would never give much thought to that little hitch in their relationship). The wash of soothing cool was a hundred times better this way. Everywhere he touched, everywhere Castiel touched, was like sinking further and further into an ocean.
"Holy water." Dean muttered it without really pulling away, wanting to keep that contact that soothed.
"What?"
"Angels. You. You're like holy water."
Trails of a pleasant wind seemed to spread under his skin as Castiel's fingers carded through his hair. Points of contact like tiny pricks of ice and serenity. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, welcoming the sensation of grace and forgiveness and everything good in life wrapped beneath the flesh that was touching flesh.
He opened his mouth to say something (or just moan as the touch chased away the remnants of the nightmare), but nothing escaped him as the angel's lips pressed against his.
Sometimes, Dean just thought too much.
He pressed (reluctantly) against Castiel's shoulders to dislodge the angel and look him over properly. He couldn't help the smirk that played across his features as he willed his thoughts to calm with the touches.
"We should test that stamina of yours, Cas."
The angel's touch was like holy water dousing hellfire. But Dean had started to wonder if that was just something Castiel could do.
Author: Aithilin
Rating: PG
Genre: fluff
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Season 4
Warnings: fluff and not-so-fluffy thoughts
Word Count: approx. 690
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this.
Summary: Dean muses on the nature of angels and demons one night.
Author’s Notes: No idea where this came from, so don't ask. I just started writing and it appeared.
---------------------------
Fire was not something he used to associate with demons. He had seen them hundreds of times now, and it was still hard to make sense of. They all looked the same in the physical world-- billowing, twisting, invading black clouds dripped, oozed, and spewed from and into every available orifice on a host. Despite the stench of sulphur and the way an inexperienced demon burned the vocal cords of its host when speaking, that sort of thing just never rang "burning hellfire" in his mind.
At least, not until he went to Hell.
There, Dean found that demons did burn. The writhing clouds of black smoke hid a molten core that burned a host from the inside out (he never believed Sammy about that feeling before). In Hell, that core was a soul, fuelled by hate, grief, and eternal grudges until it formed that little molten ball of personalized hellfire. Down there, everything burned.
He remembered the emotions (hate, anger, resentment) burning a thousand times hotter than they ever did in life. The burn of a blade as it cut into metaphysical flesh seared the fragile soul and stoked the heated emotions. A demon's touch was a hundred times worse.
Sometimes, Dean could still feel it. Those nights when he woke in a sweat, writhing in remembered pain, he could still feel Hell burning his soul.
Then Castiel would touch him and chase the fire away.
After what happened to Pamela, Dean had assumed that all angels were forged from some sort of holy light-- a living righteous fire. They were damn well bright enough to be balls of holy fire.
But it was another memory from Hell, one that was almost lost in the memories of pain and torture. Dean could remember the instant the angel's hand wrapped around his arm to pull him away from the pain. It was a moment of pure calm. A frigid water pouring over the fire and cleaning out the wounds. The handprint was raised against it-- Hell's claim on Dean's soul trying to fight the soothing light of Heaven.
Dean hated the scar. On the nights he still dreamt of Hell, it still burned, eating away at his soul, little by little.
But the thoughts, like the pain were always chased away by Castiel. Sometimes with a touch to bring him peace, sometimes kisses.
Right now, Dean was more than happy to take the kisses the angel pressed to heated flesh. Head fell back and eyes closed as he felt grace wash over him. Through him.
"Cas…"
"Peace, Dean." It was muttered into the hunter's shoulder, lips pressing against the pallid scar to cool the fire.
Dean was never very good at taking orders.
The hunter pulled the angel closer to him, catching the vessel's lips (he would never give much thought to that little hitch in their relationship). The wash of soothing cool was a hundred times better this way. Everywhere he touched, everywhere Castiel touched, was like sinking further and further into an ocean.
"Holy water." Dean muttered it without really pulling away, wanting to keep that contact that soothed.
"What?"
"Angels. You. You're like holy water."
Trails of a pleasant wind seemed to spread under his skin as Castiel's fingers carded through his hair. Points of contact like tiny pricks of ice and serenity. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, welcoming the sensation of grace and forgiveness and everything good in life wrapped beneath the flesh that was touching flesh.
He opened his mouth to say something (or just moan as the touch chased away the remnants of the nightmare), but nothing escaped him as the angel's lips pressed against his.
Sometimes, Dean just thought too much.
He pressed (reluctantly) against Castiel's shoulders to dislodge the angel and look him over properly. He couldn't help the smirk that played across his features as he willed his thoughts to calm with the touches.
"We should test that stamina of yours, Cas."
The angel's touch was like holy water dousing hellfire. But Dean had started to wonder if that was just something Castiel could do.