[Fic] Views from the Event Horizon (NC-17) for spacemonkey_699

[deancas_xmasmod]

Gift type: Fanfic
Title: Views from the Event Horizon
Recipient: spacemonkey_699
Author: emerald_embers
Rating: NC17.
Warnings: Explicit slash, briefly referenced het, some scenes of violence and torture.
Spoilers: All aired episodes.
Summary: Given neither had seen the other in millennia, it was of small surprise a djinn could not account for an angel's dreams.
Word Count: 5081
Author notes: Hurt/comfort isn't my speciality, but it certainly was fun giving it a go; and I hope you don't mind the somewhat unusual take on 'first times', dear recipient!



"I will not turn on them," Castiel said. "Not for you. Not for anyone."

"No. I suppose you wouldn't," Lucifer agreed amiably, smile gentle, before whistling.

The creature he called was at once proud and ashamed of itself, clearly indebted to Lucifer or otherwise bound to him, but regretting the situation; it was not human, that much was clear, eyes burning
blue with the same electric fire that crackled over its elaborately marked skin.

"Sleep well, brother," Lucifer said, and with nothing to escape to other than the promised death of the flames circling him, Castiel had little choice save to accept the creature's hand on his forehead.

When Castiel woke, the world was - different. Scentless. There was colour, and warmth, sound too, but all strangely muted. It was easy to move and flex his fingers, to shift and sit up, but pain did not seem to be the aim of this spell, whatever it happened to be.

The bed was comfortable, but not overly luxurious; soft neon light filtered through the window. Night time.

"Cas, go back to sleep," Dean grunted, hand falling heavy against Castiel's stomach, and Castiel found himself tensing automatically in response. "Cas? S'up?" Dean's voice was only half-interested but Castiel sensed true concern.

"I am fine, Dean," He lied, stroking a hand through Dean's hair and realising in an instant something else wrong in this world. Dean did not shy away from the absent-minded touch, or come up with a remark suitable for the occasion; he arched into it.

This was not his Dean; and only a handful of creatures on Earth had the power to create illusions of such depth. He should have recognised the flames, but had observed only humans for long enough to grow forgetful.

A djinn.

Castiel should not have known how to sleep, save for memories gathered from Jimmy too long ago now reminding him of what it was like, but nonetheless found himself fatigued; there was warmth, a false sense of safety, and the lie of Dean's weight at his side; falling asleep was just that. Falling.

"He will not die," said Lucifer, so far above him, cold and beautiful and immeasurably cruel. "Look after him and he will feed you forever. Mistreat him," And calm sincerity entered into his voice, nothing like steel, simply a promise that if the djinn tempted fate, it would find him. "And I will hear of it."

"C'mon," Dean urged, shaking Castiel by the shoulder. "Bad guys to kill, good guys to save, and if Sam's had the last of the bacon I owe him an ass-kicking."

Castiel nodded and climbed out of the bed, still wary; uncertain of the terms of this reality, only that in his own reality he was being at once sacrificed and, strangely, protected by Lucifer. Dressing was straightforward enough, but when he bent to pull on his shoes and found Dean staring unapologetically at his backside, he realised with an uncomfortable twist of his stomach just how deep the djinn had gone to find his wishes.

"See you downstairs," Dean said, pulling on a shirt and heading outside.

Piecing together the new world inch by inch was slow but straightforward. It required only pinpointing the moment the past he knew and the past of this world diverged - and even then, he knew the djinn would be limited to only his view of events, not Dean's or Sam's or any other angel's, even Lucifer's.

When he found it, Castiel felt sick to his stomach in a way he hadn't since he returned from the dead to find Dean had been too late - worse, didn't acknowledge the gravity of his being too late, not really, and didn't acknowledge what Castiel had sacrificed to give him that chance. It was one burden too many, and he would not take it on his back.

In this world, Castiel had made his sacrifice early. He had taken the risk and told Dean the angels' plans while Dean dreamt; he had died in that warehouse, never betrayed Anna or turned his back to the Winchesters. He still did not know who had brought him back or why, but suspected that in this world at least it was for the convenience of the djinn's narrative, and not the work of his Father.

In this world, Dean admitted to caring that Castiel had died.

They still hunted, appeared to have no intentions of giving hunting up, but they were still far from relaxed and content. Sam had left Ruby after her intentions regarding Lilith became clear, but he showed no signs of withdrawal, none of the violent side effects of letting go of the placebo he had used to control his powers. It bothered Castiel in the same way Chuck's disappearance did - the inability to tell what was a response to his decision, and what was of the djinn's own making. Preparing a false reality for a human was entirely different from preparing a false reality for an angel, showed in the basics of the world, the narrowed and diminished perception, never mind the terrifying blackness when Castiel took flight.

In reality, the world was a blur of colour and sound when he broke out of its barriers, let himself fly on the truth hidden behind physics. But the djinn knew only reality and dreams, could not substitute for a part of the world it did not know.

This reality's Dean was tailored to make the djinn's life easier, not Castiel's, and did not question when Castiel decided he would rather stay grounded than attempt to overcome his instinctive fear of something so wrong in this false world; but for all that he was fake, he was not muted - he was the closest to something perfect the djinn had created within this world.

This Dean loved pie, but not lemon meringue or key lime pie, and he was quick to complain if the pastry was soggy. He bit his tongue and got on with the job after receiving a slash to the thigh or bullet to the shoulder, but demanded immediate attention and sympathy if he got a splinter stuck under his fingernail. He still remembered Hell, and still fought every day to forget it.

Castiel knew how to kill a djinn, but not how to escape one; found the lore books of this world dead to his touch and blurred to his eyes. Being trapped forced observation, taking time to look when he had spent every waking hour of his true life torn between protecting the Winchesters, minimising the damage of the apocalypse where he could, and searching for his Father.

With only one task left to him, Castiel found himself watching Sam and Dean much as he had when they were young and nothing more than a distant thought, two of a hundred thousand dangers. He had watched them then with little more thought or concern than a human watching a spider building a web. He could not enjoy that same detachment now because he did not just know of them, he knew them, knew the ache of Sam's squandered potential and cruelly broken faith, knew the depths of Dean's endurance and bravery.

He knew also that this Dean had options he could not see for his own, and that hurt; the thought he could have the discussion with this Dean he never had with his own - of what being possessed by Michael would have meant.

He could not say to his Dean, "No." He could not say to his Dean that he did not wish for Dean to consider, even for a second, saying "Yes" to Michael. He could only suggest, showing him Raphael's vessel after possession and hope to feed Dean's distaste for the idea.

This Dean he could tell the truth to; he could tell him what would have happened if the apocalypse went ahead. That Dean rang the Harvelles not long after to an earful of abuse followed by an invitation for drinks was of small surprise.

Sam was still an anomaly, a change in this world that didn't quite fit and seemed to know it. On the surface he was a Sam Winchester they were familiar with, the boy before the addiction, but the more Castiel paid attention, the more obvious it became that Sam was as unprecedented as Castiel's ability to fly; that pushing Sam's side of the story meant finding another blackness in the world.

Or worse; while Castiel waited with Sam for Dean to meet up with them after a successful salting and burning, Castiel tried to ask what had happened to Ruby after the split, how he had weaned himself off her blood, but the more Castiel asked, the less Sam answered until, finally, he woke.

The dream world was still there, but a distant thing and swiftly coming closer; this world stank, stale and coppery, and there was a strong sense of dizziness; heat from the still-burning circle, and visions of plastic and wiring. Logic dictated that they wouldn't hear him - worse yet, that if anyone did, it would be one of his brothers or sisters - but he screamed regardless, let his true voice lend it strength and shake the windows, scream until the world dimmed and Dean floored him, clamping a hand over his mouth.

The djinn knew better than to have Dean disregard Castiel's knowledge that this was a dream, but it didn't change the way he treated Castiel as thought he was insane; couldn't see why this would be the world an angel would create for himself. Much like his own, this Dean had no true sense of his worth; still carried the scars of Hell, of Sam's death and his father's, a thousand failures both real and imagined.

The difference between how this Dean handled him in comparison with his own, hands-on and affectionate but still distant was puzzling too, as if something had happened between them or was about to, but there was a barrier of some sort in the way; something invisible that Dean, at least, had no intention of bringing up.

Time passed and the djinn's illusion held fast in visuals, but began to slip elsewhere; in the night Dean's snore would fade out to the sound of wind rustling old paper and newer plastic; in the day he'd feel worsening dizziness and aches in his muscles that did not belong.

When he collapsed, it was no shock; it had only been a matter of time.

"Cas? Cas! No, no no no, wake up buddy, come on. Snap out of it."

"If we pull the needle -"

"No! Not just - we have to wake him up or he'll go into shock. Cas? Come on, I know you're in there, lend us a hand -"

Castiel woke to Dean's weight pressing him into the softness of a motel bed, hand stroking through his hair. "Goddamnit, Cas," Dean said. "Stop scaring us like that."

He knew full well the dream was there as a distraction, that djinn's did not grant wishes; knew this Dean only looked at him the way he did because it was what Castiel had begun to wish for himself, not knowing in truth what wishing meant. It didn't change that there was a small sense of fear in knowing that if he was to wake, he would lose this.

Castiel threaded a hand through Dean's hair in turn and pulled him down, frowned when Dean froze up with a ramble of "Cas, we can't. Jimmy -"

"I am alone in this body," Castiel interrupted, near stuttering in his haste to get the words out.

To the unfamiliar ear it would have sounded spontaneous, ill-considered. But those words had been sitting on Castiel's tongue for months; ever since Raphael tore him apart and cast Jimmy aside. Ever since he woke up weakened and missing his strength and his company he had wanted to tell Dean over and over to stop looking at him as if he was seeing a shadow through clouded glass; had wanted to tell him that even if his true form was still blinding, these eyes, this mouth, this skin was his own now.

Dean looked tense, and not for the first time Castiel found himself wishing rather ironically that Jimmy was present; calling up Jimmy's memories and experiences, those he did not already know inside-out, had been a comfort more than once when the subtleties of human interaction escaped him. "What, your vessel just upped and left?"

Castiel did not know all of his story in this world, did not know if it was an archangel who destroyed him at the warehouse or if he had been set upon by a group of his superiors as before, but he knew enough to answer. "When I died, I woke empty."

Dean stared at him in open-mouthed disbelief for a moment before running a hand down Castiel's chest and slipping it up under his shirt, stroking the rough pads of his fingers over the skin of Castiel's stomach. "It's just you in there?"

Castiel nodded.

"Say it."

"I am alone in here," Castiel said with a sharp intake of breath as Dean brought a knee up between his legs.

"God," Dean said, and Castiel narrowed his eyes at the blasphemy instinctively. "You've no idea how long I've wanted this."

Castiel reached up, allowed himself to stroke Dean's neck, wishing with all his being that he could smell Dean's sweat, his breath - wishing with all his being this was real. The mark on Dean's shoulder was a perfect match for Jimmy's palm, but Jimmy's was not the hand to pull him out of Hell, another slip in the djinn's attention to detail. "I can imagine."

Dean's tongue was warm and wet, tasteless when Castiel caught it between his lips. His skin firm, dry, salty but not sweat-salt. Little mistakes here and there, little omissions. It did not change how Dean's hands were every bit as gentle and insistent as he had imagined, how opening up under the pressure of fingers and lube had been discomforting, how the press of Dean's cock into him had been painful and strange and then addictive. It did not change how Dean's hand on his erection had known him all too well, as if this wasn't their first time.

Dean had fucked him as if he wasn't a virgin, as if they had known each other for years, and it was fake; perfect and fake.

When Dean pulled out after orgasm and lay down at Castiel's side, still gripping him, when Castiel came apart on the rough strokes of Dean's hand, it was to a constant murmur of "It's okay, it's okay, I've gotcha," soft and insistent against his ear; and when he fell into sleep afterwards Dean's murmurs sounded like a lullaby.

"Sam!"

When Castiel woke the world was colder still and colour was all but absent, faded and washed away.

This was not his reality either; and as he struggled to get up, straps cutting into his wrists when he attempted to move, he realised with dawning horror it was not any reality he would have dreamed up for himself. This was a punishment, a warning; a promise he would not escape so easily.

Alastair's smile was serene, almost benevolent as he leant over Castiel, stroking a hand down his cheek. "Your friends are trying to save you by pulling the plug," Alastair said. "It doesn't work that way." He let his hand trail down Castiel's jaw, neck, chest, settling over the softness of abdomen. "We know you're not afraid to die. Not really -" His second hand came up from under the table, hand clutching something wrapped in cloth, unseen, and he let the light weight press against Castiel's stomach, smile widening when Castiel shivered in response. "Afraid of pain, maybe, but not enough to wake up."

"You always were such a disappointment Castiel," Zachariah sighed from the foot of the table. "Of course, sometimes even the slow kid in class catches a break. You raised the righteous man from perdition! Too late, of course, but that's incompetence for you. How's the apocalypse coming?"

"You're not real," Castiel said, closing his eyes and praying, trying to block out the voices around him, block out this reality, to go anywhere but here. Alastair was dead, and even if he had by some force still been alive, Zachariah would have spat blood rather than work alongside a demon.

There was a warm, dark laugh from off to the side, just out of reach, but Castiel knew well enough whose voice it was. And the apology, the sorry to a brother he missed who had been right to turn on their superiors and wrong to turn to Lucifer, died for a scream as the pressure on his chest increased until the skin split apart neatly on the edge of a blade.

"Cas, Castiel, wake up, come on, you can't -"

Castiel looked around to a room still cold, still blurry, Dean's face above his and his hands working on fastenings he could see but could not feel; it was still wrong, and Alastair's corpse on the floor no more believable than his being rescued so perfectly. Sam wasn't there, even if he was the only person capable of taking Alastair out with relative ease; and the bitter tang of blood trickling down the back of his throat was only a faint, distant thing.

Castiel waited for Dean to free him and lift him, wrapped an arm around Dean's neck. The sense of vertigo at being carried was only an illusion, he knew it; the fear of falling a reaction to something as false as this world.

And as terrifying as it felt to do it, Castiel knew better than to trust only his weakened senses; knew full well his tie to this world was not to be found in his own body. He lifted his free hand to Dean's neck, trusted in the force of his arm, and wrenched it into breaking.

The first breath was agony on a throat too dry to draw in air comfortably, but breathing was optional now the body was his alone and he fought the reflex action down as swiftly as he could. This world was colder still than the last, the pain a reality and not dull and distant, but Castiel recognised the dual warmths pressed up against him - the scents - and he had not known he could miss something so intensely in so short a time. Dean's hands busied themselves easing out tubes as Sam supported him, the djinn's corpse at their feet with Lucifer nowhere to be seen, and Castiel flushed in embarrassment as much as anything else at Dean's constant repetition of "It's okay, it's okay, I've gotcha."

Letting them carry him to the Impala was no less embarrassing but his body was weak, bled out and starved for energy of any sort; he needed the rest even if a developing, unnecessary sense of pride made him feel guilt for seeking it. But the need for sleep had passed, and Sam, a Sam Winchester he could look at without feeling a spiralling sense of displacement, helped ease him into lying down comfortably on the back seat, kept making sure he was okay given Dean had little choice but to keep his eyes on the road.

It did not escape Castiel's notice that Dean would take a quick look back, say a quick word whenever the traffic ground to a halt, but it was enough to know that he was as close to being safe as he could come in this world.

"You okay to walk?" Dean asked when they pulled over, offering a hand as Sam offered his own, and Castiel used the strength of both to help him up; the dizziness was still too strong for him to walk unassisted, and as much as Dean flinched when Castiel seized his shoulder for support, he accepted it.

"I'll heal quickly," Castiel promised, knowing that even without the bulk of his powers this much was still true, but Dean did not protest at being used as a guide; was quick to help him across the car park to the bench outside the motel, waiting with him as Sam paid for their room. The puncture wounds were healed on the surface already, albeit still knitting together underneath, but Castiel's main concern was for the blood still spattered across his clothing; he could will it away with a thought, but it required concentration beyond what he was capable of through this dizziness; it was easier to simply generalise, to think himself invisible and trust that others would glance over him rather than have their attention drawn to the bloodied stranger on the bench.

"Hey," Dean said after a moment, shaking Castiel by the shoulder. "Stay awake, alright?"

"I do not sleep," Castiel said, and Dean snorted a little, sounding less than convinced; near wrenched Castiel up when Sam returned with their room's key card, though it was something of a relief to be able to walk a little steadier alongside Dean rather than being near dragged to their room.

"I'll take the sofa -" chorused the Winchesters before glaring at each other, guilt complexes battling for the right to martyrdom, and Castiel watched, bemused, when they agreed to settle the debate with a quick game, the winner to take the sofa. Sam looked outright startled when Dean announced "paper beats rock", but insisted if he was taking the bed, then he at least had to set up the spare pillows and blanket for Dean.

It was an uneasy compromise, but it seemed to do, Sam setting about opening the motel's cupboards and wardrobes until he found what he was after, Dean easing Castiel through to the bedroom and guiding him to sit on the bed. "Sam'll take care of you," he said, adding shortly after, "But you don't need him anyway, right?"

Castiel saw Dean's need for reassurance; nodded before raising a hand to his forehead and pressing hard, trying to steady himself. The dizziness had yet to fully pass, his body healing but still not recovered. "I will be fine," Castiel replied, before looking up atDean. It felt dishonest, but he knew - knew this could be his one and only chance to say it, under the excuse of being still too disoriented to think straight. "Dean," Castiel said, catching his attention before he left the room. "I am alone in this body."

Dean looked back at him sharply, almost as if stung, and Castiel nodded; would not ask any more directly, lay back down against the bed to allow his body time to recuperate. It was Sam who eased him out of shoes and socks, and Sam who pulled the blanket across him, but even as he watched the younger Winchester lie down to sleep, it was still Dean who preyed on his mind.

"Don't sleep, huh?"

Castiel opened his eyes and blinked slowly, adjusting to the light coming in from the window; natural light this time, at once brighter and softer than neon. It was strange to stir from genuine sleep, muscles waking up one by one as he stretched; wholly unfamiliar, and a little frightening. "I did not know I could," Castiel replied, lifting his hand and looking at his fingers as he flexed them, sensation returning in strange waves.

"Right," Dean said, not quite scoffing, more distrusting than anything, leaning against the doorframe. Castiel did not ask where Sam was; if it had been of concern, Dean would have told him already. Still, Dean looked far from pleased; dark stubble and dark circles under his eyes making him appear weary.

"You did not sleep last night," Castiel said.

"No," Dean said, still stood at the door as if hesitant to approach. "Funny, that."

Castiel climbed out of the bed, finding his shoes and socks and pulling them back on, frowning at the tangle of laces before concentrating and allowing them to be as they had been before, neatly tied and knotted. "I would not know."

Dean stared back at him before walking over, bringing Castiel's trenchcoat with him and handing it over, helping Castiel into the sleeves even as he finished cleaning the last of his blood from material that would have stained for any other creature. "You know why I didn't sleep, right?" Castiel looked up, Dean's expression hard to read; tired and hurt and closed, always, always hiding. "What happened to Jimmy?"

"Raphael took him."

"To Heaven?"

"I hope so," Castiel replied, willing that not to be a hope, willing it to be knowledge. Jimmy had been a good man - an achingly good, generous, kind man who loved his family and loved his God, and Castiel dared not consider any other possibility. "I hope he is at peace."

"Why'd you tell me that, Cas? Why do I need to know?" All his questions probing and general, and Castiel could not read him; could not see his thoughts clear as day, could not sink into his dreams and find the answers. Human conversation; blinkered and held through only voice and body.

"I wanted you to understand -"

"Understand what? What did you want?" Dean interrupted, and he was so close; it would be so easy to just act on this urge he should have been no more able to feel than he should have been able to sleep, find out if they were hiding from the same subject.

"You haven't asked what I dreamt about. What the djinn made me dream," Castiel replied, both of them dodging each other's questions, and it made his stomach twist uncomfortably because if he said the truth outright, if he was the first to bring it up directly, he would be the one seeking rejection.

But Dean already carried too many burdens.

Castiel took an unnecessary breath and leaned in. "I dreamt of you."

Dean didn't duck away from the kiss, simply froze up until Castiel pulled back enough to let him speak. "I don't do this with guys," Dean said, and Castiel wondered if it would help to explain that while his vessel might be male, he was genderless outside of it. He doubted it.

"I do not want you to change," Castiel said in turn, heated embarrassment curling out from his gut because if he'd been wrong, if it was not just the thought that intimacy with a man would mean fitting a stereotype but the thought of intimacy with a man at all that had turned Dean away from him, he had crossed a line of their friendship for naught.

When Dean kissed him back, something slid into place he hadn't known was missing; and when Dean touched him, one hand firm at his waist and the other gripping his hair tight, there was a moment when both of them took quick, sharp breaths, and where it ought to have been tense it felt ridiculous. Far more ridiculous than it should have; and Dean pulled away to bite at his own lip, shoulders shaking, but it was Castiel who laughed first - dry and unfamiliar but there it was, and he understood why humans enjoyed the sensation. His own laugh seemed to grant Dean permission to laugh in return and when Dean's lips returned to his own, Dean's fingers massaging Castiel's scalp lightly instead of gripping for dear life, it no longer felt like something terrifying and huge, a first step or an adventure, it felt like something that just made sense.

Kissing Dean, opening up for him and learning how the slip and slide of tongues felt, was indescribable - not because it was world-shattering or life-changing, but because it felt like one more thing in this world that just belonged there, as natural as breathing or eating or sleeping, something unnecessary for an angel but somehow vital. It didn't feel as though he'd been missing out; only that he'd taken a very, very long time to learn of something that was always there.

The djinn's reality, for all the undeniable pleasure sleeping with its Dean had provided, had not been able to mimic anything close to this because the djinn could only provide for dreams; it did not know how Dean would smell, what his freckles looked like up close, how the faint scratch of stubble would feel. It did not know Dean, only the idea of him - and when Castiel finally pulled back with a slight, strange ache in his jaw he couldn't claim to mind, he found himself dazed in a way the all too smooth and perfect dream experience hadn't allowed for; a way that brief moment in the brothel when Chastity pressed her lips to his certainly hadn't brought on.

"This could, uh," Dean said, dropping his hand down from Castiel's scalp to rub small circles into the back of his neck instead. "This could work."

Words for this were still a little beyond Castiel's reach, but he nodded regardless before slipping back into flight; he still had work of his own to do, and the Winchesters needed their privacy. The creak of the motel's kitchen door followed by Sam's greeting of "Knew it," didn't escape his ears.

Dean would not mention what had happened for several hours yet, and when he did, it would be with a demand for pancakes and a decree that Castiel was a useless angel when he refused to return purely to provide them. When they met up later in the evening his hair would carry a faint greasy shine from skipping his morning shower and the circles under his eyes would be even more pronounced than they had been when Castiel last saw him, caffeine no real substitute for sleep. Castiel would not kiss him in front of Sam, nor provide any indication he recalled the events of the morning until after Dean's shower, and Dean would object to Castiel kissing him in a trenchcoat and suit while he wore only a towel. He would not mean the objection.

It would be messy; it would be imperfect; and Castiel would know then and there that there was nothing he could dream - not even an end to the apocalypse - for which he would give the real world up.

The End