Fic: Hunger Pangs (1/1)
Title: Hunger Pangs
Rating: R
Pairing: Dean/Sam/Castiel
Word Count: 1,307
Summary: Whatever the circumstances, no matter the cost: they cannot leave one another; they will not. For janie_tangerine, who requested “Dean/Sam/Castiel” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Episode Coda; Spoilers through 5.14 - My Bloody Valentine.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I’ve been aching to write a coda for 5.14 since I saw it, and I haven’t managed to until now; so thank you, for prompting this :D I hope you enjoy it!
Hunger Pangs
He finds Dean, follows the reverberations of the ache in his heart, the way his being radiates the worst pieces, the deepest condemnations of Hell.
You cannot leave him, Castiel says; an observation, not a command.
Dean looks up, eyes glazed with memories betrayed and a break at the core of him, a crack; a fissure at the center that leaves him unearthed, unfounded -- Castiel grips tight against his own palms and steels for the onslaught: slowly, he marvels at mortal life -- it is a miracle, the way they carry the burdens of such feeling, such tumultuous sensation.
I don’t, Dean tells him, gasps, brushes at his face as if Castiel cannot reach out and feel the way his heart throbs, swollen and sore and wretched, wrenched wide against his ribs; they way he burns and the hate he holds inside his chest, virulent -- his failures, real and imagined; as if Castiel does not know them all, does not suffer them inside his own Self like splinters beneath the skin.
Dean stares at him, and the tatters of the soul in those eyes make Castiel wonder, make him doubt his own power, his own resolve: he wonders if drawing a soul from hellfire and damnation is enough, could ever be; he whimpers, wounded: I can’t.
And neither can Castiel; neither can he stand and allow for this ache, this torment, he cannot, because he’s seen it before, brothers ripped at the seams, and it shakes him, wrenches within the very center of his Being, and perhaps it’s blasphemy, perhaps it’s profane: but Lucifer and Michael merely fought and killed for each other; they never dreamt to die for one another, too.
They cannot hope to compare to the hearts inside these men; of that much he is certain.
And Castiel will not stand idly and watch Sam and Dean Winchester suffer this torment, this midnight of the soul -- it cuts him too deeply; pains him too much.
He breathes, is next to Dean in an instant; a finger hooked beneath his chin, raising Dean’s eyes to meet the glint of possibility, of will and deliverance in his own: There is a way.
__________________
The exertion, the physical contact; it will expedite the process, cleanse him more quickly, Castiel tells Dean as they stand outside, staring through the bars in the panic room door; and Sam may never know it, but they feel his pain tenfold, ache with him as he writhes against his bonds, cries against the blood in his veins and the blackness steeped in his soul.
It will not ease the pain.
Dean’s already wrenched open the door, before Castiel can warn him, can convince him either way.
They breathe -- one air, one Light -- and step inside; Castiel seals the door from within.
Either all will leave, or no one will.
__________________
It is a battle of duals: frenzy and agony, and it’s almost too much; he almost second-guesses his discretion, his resolve.
Sam’s eyes, when he seeks them out, when he battles, overcomes the demons of his own mind in order to see them, to know them, to feel Dean’s touch and Castiel’s Gaze; Sam is a war in himself: vile wrath, hatred and self-preservation searing shrill against guilt and fear, self-loathing and love, and that’s what saves them -- what keeps Castiel near them and trapped inside this web of them, this violent chaos that they breed; what sets their souls apart and grants them pardon, their own kind of Grace: they love in ways that even angels marvel at.
They take him in turns: when Sam rages, Castiel takes his place and presses with the power of the Cosmos to rein him, hold him; feels the throb of Sam’s heart through the skin beyond mortal norms and bounds and calls to him, calls to the bright shine of the man he is beneath this poison, this curse and presses their mouths together, drinks what devils he can from Sam’s lips and burns them inside his own Divinity, lets them disintegrate within his Light.
When Sam crumbles in upon himself, breathless, Dean pulls him close and covers his frame, wraps around him with purpose as Sam clings, blindly and without shame, without any comprehension of sin or absolution; he seeks Dean’s lips and Dean gives of himself, freely -- an offering, an endless sacrifice to the altar of a devotion that does not know death, cannot die: merely sinks slowly, grows deeper at its roots and drains them slowly, gives them life.
When Sam gains himself, his mind anew, he shivers, and the tears never cease down his cheeks, and Dean’s, and he lets himself be held: whispers the same words, apologies and affections -- the only things left -- an endless loop of feeling, guilt and grace, the Devil and God. In the quiet moments, when they break apart, their lips swollen from sharing tears between them; in the quiet moments they pull Castiel close, and he feels the things he’s feared, the things that drive him to lengths and means beyond his ken. He shares in the story of Them, weaves his own strands inside the bonds that breaks and tie, and Sam is warm, fragile and fearless, and Dean is the rock upon which every piece of Sam stands; Dean is shattered and unbreakable, unyielding, and when Castiel watches his own reflection against their colors and their shades, he sees himself anew: timid and tired, brighter than the stars.
When Dean kisses down his neck and Sam laves, sucks upon his tongue, Castiel feels Nirvana and Damnation in the same single space: knows what it means to be human.
It continues, without pause or relent, beyond the grasping of time: its passage or loss, its conception or forgiveness, its mastery. It continues on, and it nearly destroys them.
And Castiel knows that it would have, it would have broken them; he knows he would not have survived, had they not encased each other, and held close between their very souls.
__________________
Castiel does not recognize the world at first, when he looks upon it anew, at the end.
It is finished, he breathes, finally, and Sam slumps, boneless against his Dean’s chest; whimpers, aimless, as he seeks his brother’s heart, his brother’s warmth: Castiel observes for a moment, swallows hard around things he was never meant to know, as he regains his footing and turns from the scene before him, from Dean’s lips on Sam’s temple and his hand heavy on Sam’s pulse.
Wait, he hears it, breathless and hoarse, choked and worn and soft, drained, and Castiel turns red-rimmed eyes on Dean -- takes in a gaze that’s more alive than it’s ever been, than Castiel has ever seen it, blinding and brilliant and everything God asked the Host to love within humanity -- his children, like Them.
He pauses, and Dean holds his gaze, even as Castiel looks away, up to the growing light, the rising sun through the opening above them, shining down in shafts, halos and soft strands from Heaven in the morn. He takes a step, and then another, unbidden: he is next to Dean, and he kneels, intrudes -- takes the rightful place he’s earned here, beside them.
Dean breathes easier, and Sam seeks his hand, blind.
This, he thinks, is the Word of a new era; the Light of a world turned warm.
Rating: R
Pairing: Dean/Sam/Castiel
Word Count: 1,307
Summary: Whatever the circumstances, no matter the cost: they cannot leave one another; they will not. For janie_tangerine, who requested “Dean/Sam/Castiel” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Episode Coda; Spoilers through 5.14 - My Bloody Valentine.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I’ve been aching to write a coda for 5.14 since I saw it, and I haven’t managed to until now; so thank you, for prompting this :D I hope you enjoy it!
Hunger Pangs
He finds Dean, follows the reverberations of the ache in his heart, the way his being radiates the worst pieces, the deepest condemnations of Hell.
You cannot leave him, Castiel says; an observation, not a command.
Dean looks up, eyes glazed with memories betrayed and a break at the core of him, a crack; a fissure at the center that leaves him unearthed, unfounded -- Castiel grips tight against his own palms and steels for the onslaught: slowly, he marvels at mortal life -- it is a miracle, the way they carry the burdens of such feeling, such tumultuous sensation.
I don’t, Dean tells him, gasps, brushes at his face as if Castiel cannot reach out and feel the way his heart throbs, swollen and sore and wretched, wrenched wide against his ribs; they way he burns and the hate he holds inside his chest, virulent -- his failures, real and imagined; as if Castiel does not know them all, does not suffer them inside his own Self like splinters beneath the skin.
Dean stares at him, and the tatters of the soul in those eyes make Castiel wonder, make him doubt his own power, his own resolve: he wonders if drawing a soul from hellfire and damnation is enough, could ever be; he whimpers, wounded: I can’t.
And neither can Castiel; neither can he stand and allow for this ache, this torment, he cannot, because he’s seen it before, brothers ripped at the seams, and it shakes him, wrenches within the very center of his Being, and perhaps it’s blasphemy, perhaps it’s profane: but Lucifer and Michael merely fought and killed for each other; they never dreamt to die for one another, too.
They cannot hope to compare to the hearts inside these men; of that much he is certain.
And Castiel will not stand idly and watch Sam and Dean Winchester suffer this torment, this midnight of the soul -- it cuts him too deeply; pains him too much.
He breathes, is next to Dean in an instant; a finger hooked beneath his chin, raising Dean’s eyes to meet the glint of possibility, of will and deliverance in his own: There is a way.
__________________
The exertion, the physical contact; it will expedite the process, cleanse him more quickly, Castiel tells Dean as they stand outside, staring through the bars in the panic room door; and Sam may never know it, but they feel his pain tenfold, ache with him as he writhes against his bonds, cries against the blood in his veins and the blackness steeped in his soul.
It will not ease the pain.
Dean’s already wrenched open the door, before Castiel can warn him, can convince him either way.
They breathe -- one air, one Light -- and step inside; Castiel seals the door from within.
Either all will leave, or no one will.
__________________
It is a battle of duals: frenzy and agony, and it’s almost too much; he almost second-guesses his discretion, his resolve.
Sam’s eyes, when he seeks them out, when he battles, overcomes the demons of his own mind in order to see them, to know them, to feel Dean’s touch and Castiel’s Gaze; Sam is a war in himself: vile wrath, hatred and self-preservation searing shrill against guilt and fear, self-loathing and love, and that’s what saves them -- what keeps Castiel near them and trapped inside this web of them, this violent chaos that they breed; what sets their souls apart and grants them pardon, their own kind of Grace: they love in ways that even angels marvel at.
They take him in turns: when Sam rages, Castiel takes his place and presses with the power of the Cosmos to rein him, hold him; feels the throb of Sam’s heart through the skin beyond mortal norms and bounds and calls to him, calls to the bright shine of the man he is beneath this poison, this curse and presses their mouths together, drinks what devils he can from Sam’s lips and burns them inside his own Divinity, lets them disintegrate within his Light.
When Sam crumbles in upon himself, breathless, Dean pulls him close and covers his frame, wraps around him with purpose as Sam clings, blindly and without shame, without any comprehension of sin or absolution; he seeks Dean’s lips and Dean gives of himself, freely -- an offering, an endless sacrifice to the altar of a devotion that does not know death, cannot die: merely sinks slowly, grows deeper at its roots and drains them slowly, gives them life.
When Sam gains himself, his mind anew, he shivers, and the tears never cease down his cheeks, and Dean’s, and he lets himself be held: whispers the same words, apologies and affections -- the only things left -- an endless loop of feeling, guilt and grace, the Devil and God. In the quiet moments, when they break apart, their lips swollen from sharing tears between them; in the quiet moments they pull Castiel close, and he feels the things he’s feared, the things that drive him to lengths and means beyond his ken. He shares in the story of Them, weaves his own strands inside the bonds that breaks and tie, and Sam is warm, fragile and fearless, and Dean is the rock upon which every piece of Sam stands; Dean is shattered and unbreakable, unyielding, and when Castiel watches his own reflection against their colors and their shades, he sees himself anew: timid and tired, brighter than the stars.
When Dean kisses down his neck and Sam laves, sucks upon his tongue, Castiel feels Nirvana and Damnation in the same single space: knows what it means to be human.
It continues, without pause or relent, beyond the grasping of time: its passage or loss, its conception or forgiveness, its mastery. It continues on, and it nearly destroys them.
And Castiel knows that it would have, it would have broken them; he knows he would not have survived, had they not encased each other, and held close between their very souls.
__________________
Castiel does not recognize the world at first, when he looks upon it anew, at the end.
It is finished, he breathes, finally, and Sam slumps, boneless against his Dean’s chest; whimpers, aimless, as he seeks his brother’s heart, his brother’s warmth: Castiel observes for a moment, swallows hard around things he was never meant to know, as he regains his footing and turns from the scene before him, from Dean’s lips on Sam’s temple and his hand heavy on Sam’s pulse.
Wait, he hears it, breathless and hoarse, choked and worn and soft, drained, and Castiel turns red-rimmed eyes on Dean -- takes in a gaze that’s more alive than it’s ever been, than Castiel has ever seen it, blinding and brilliant and everything God asked the Host to love within humanity -- his children, like Them.
He pauses, and Dean holds his gaze, even as Castiel looks away, up to the growing light, the rising sun through the opening above them, shining down in shafts, halos and soft strands from Heaven in the morn. He takes a step, and then another, unbidden: he is next to Dean, and he kneels, intrudes -- takes the rightful place he’s earned here, beside them.
Dean breathes easier, and Sam seeks his hand, blind.
This, he thinks, is the Word of a new era; the Light of a world turned warm.