Fic: One And The Same (1/1)
Title: One And The Same
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Balthazar/Castiel
Word Count: 529
Summary: So very much has changed. Spoilers through 6.03 - The Third Man.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: toestastegood wanted to be distracted with "When Cas POOFS away at the end of the episode, he's actually going to find Balthazar." I did my best to oblige.
It’s different, this way; the feel of human flesh close and smooth, barriers they can transcend but not erase -- ever-present. When he reaches out to touch, there will always be that weight, that hold.
So much has changed.
When he moans, he knows that Balthazar will see the dimensions, refractions, will sense the depth of Sound. He speaks, and he knows that Balthazar can hear his true Tone, the song of his being beneath the low growl of his vessel’s flat drone; it’s chilling -- riveting -- to be known again, to be remembered as he was, juxtaposed with what he is, will be: world unending, unto Judgement itself.
He hasn’t had the time, the sense to miss this; he never allowed himself the moment to pause, to remember and to grieve -- he only ever mourned an absence, not a gap within himself.
He’s learned, instead, to love the empty places.
And in truth -- in honest revelation beyond reality or need -- Balthazar hasn’t changed. The heart of him is still as it once was, always was: too awed, too caged, too desperate for escape that the first out was like intervention and release until it wasn’t any longer, until it merely led him blind into a new kind of prison: dirt beneath his feet and breeze on his wings without a haven, without the promise of another’s Will placed, attuned, along his own.
And Castiel tries, for a moment or more, but the harmony is fractured -- the stream of his Intent no longer fits the curve of his companion’s, no longer slides without bruising, scarring, without eroding the pieces that don’t quite compare.
He can’t help but to think that it’s better, this feeling they demand now, this incapacity to bleed as one. He can’t help but remember what tears look like and what fear tastes like, what it means to be completely alone.
He can’t help but think that it means more, within the shift -- means something deeper when every time they brush there’s something just a little too off-key; something desolate inside sensation that burns brighter, more sinister in them than it does, than it can, anywhere else.
It’s a whisper to an absent god, a wounded comrade; a brother and a lover and the world and the sky when it’s murmured without words:
“Why?”
Castiel smiles -- beneath and above the simple curl of a mouth -- and drags his lips slow against the globe of Balthazar’s shoulder, digs his teeth into the skin until he can feel blood and Grace and mortal life gather beneath the surface, the tang and the sweet threatening to burst before he draws back and presses a soft kiss, tender and dangerous, just below the rush of divinity, of chaos and control.
Freedom, is what this is. Utter and complete. It’s perfect, and it’s damning, and they’ve both fallen so far that the view no longer seems familiar, no longer makes any sense at all.
He’s more than a weapon, stolen or bought; he’s one and the same, in the end.
“Because I could.”
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Balthazar/Castiel
Word Count: 529
Summary: So very much has changed. Spoilers through 6.03 - The Third Man.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: toestastegood wanted to be distracted with "When Cas POOFS away at the end of the episode, he's actually going to find Balthazar." I did my best to oblige.
It’s different, this way; the feel of human flesh close and smooth, barriers they can transcend but not erase -- ever-present. When he reaches out to touch, there will always be that weight, that hold.
So much has changed.
When he moans, he knows that Balthazar will see the dimensions, refractions, will sense the depth of Sound. He speaks, and he knows that Balthazar can hear his true Tone, the song of his being beneath the low growl of his vessel’s flat drone; it’s chilling -- riveting -- to be known again, to be remembered as he was, juxtaposed with what he is, will be: world unending, unto Judgement itself.
He hasn’t had the time, the sense to miss this; he never allowed himself the moment to pause, to remember and to grieve -- he only ever mourned an absence, not a gap within himself.
He’s learned, instead, to love the empty places.
And in truth -- in honest revelation beyond reality or need -- Balthazar hasn’t changed. The heart of him is still as it once was, always was: too awed, too caged, too desperate for escape that the first out was like intervention and release until it wasn’t any longer, until it merely led him blind into a new kind of prison: dirt beneath his feet and breeze on his wings without a haven, without the promise of another’s Will placed, attuned, along his own.
And Castiel tries, for a moment or more, but the harmony is fractured -- the stream of his Intent no longer fits the curve of his companion’s, no longer slides without bruising, scarring, without eroding the pieces that don’t quite compare.
He can’t help but to think that it’s better, this feeling they demand now, this incapacity to bleed as one. He can’t help but remember what tears look like and what fear tastes like, what it means to be completely alone.
He can’t help but think that it means more, within the shift -- means something deeper when every time they brush there’s something just a little too off-key; something desolate inside sensation that burns brighter, more sinister in them than it does, than it can, anywhere else.
It’s a whisper to an absent god, a wounded comrade; a brother and a lover and the world and the sky when it’s murmured without words:
“Why?”
Castiel smiles -- beneath and above the simple curl of a mouth -- and drags his lips slow against the globe of Balthazar’s shoulder, digs his teeth into the skin until he can feel blood and Grace and mortal life gather beneath the surface, the tang and the sweet threatening to burst before he draws back and presses a soft kiss, tender and dangerous, just below the rush of divinity, of chaos and control.
Freedom, is what this is. Utter and complete. It’s perfect, and it’s damning, and they’ve both fallen so far that the view no longer seems familiar, no longer makes any sense at all.
He’s more than a weapon, stolen or bought; he’s one and the same, in the end.
“Because I could.”