[ficlet] interlude
Title: Interlude
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Pairing/characters: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Spoilers: Up to 7.17
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~1300
Summary: He thinks there must be something fundamentally wrong with him that he is like this, because angels are supposed to be cold, glacial figures who strive for nothing, but Castiel burns hot, and he wants.
Notes: Takes place at some indeterminate point in the future when Castiel is out of the asylum. Also, this is part of a much longer fic that I want to write at some point, but don’t have the time to right now. Quick and unbeta-ed, so please do let me know if you spot any mistakes!
Interlude
There’s a moment of quiet before the end of the world.
In ten minutes’ time, they launch their assault on Roman Enterprises. Their army consists of seven hunters, a handful of demons led by Meg, an even smaller gathering of the few angels not intent on killing Castiel on sight. They have no real strategy or plan of attack; this is their last stand, and it’s all-or-nothing. Only they’re up against an indestructible enemy, and they have no hope of success.
There’s no time for a last night on earth this time round, no time to make preparations or say their goodbyes. Instead there is only this: two broken-down soldiers in a darkened motel parking lot, about to march back onto the battlefield for what will inevitably be the last time.
Castiel isn’t sure who initiates it - whether one of them begins to lean a fraction of a second before the other or if it’s an unspoken, unanimous agreement, executed in perfect synchronicity - but suddenly they’re kissing, lips bumping together with fumbling hesitance at first before they find a rhythm, settle into it, and then it’s soft and sweet and easy as anything has ever been.
He remembers kissing Daphne, something that came to be about familiarity and comfort, her lips gentle against his own, the neat and tidy curves of her beneath his hands. He remembers kissing Meg too, all lust and pent-up aggression, a battle of wills that neither could ever hope to win.
Kissing Dean is nothing at all like either of these, and at the same time it’s a halfway house between the two. Dean is yielding and demanding both, passion and fire tempered with something a good deal more tentative, and Castiel is drunk with it, in this moment aware of nothing but the need to be close, closer.
He coaxes Dean’s mouth open with the tip of his tongue and Dean lets him in with a gasp and a sigh that Castiel swallows in turn, and in an instant the kiss turns from a slow, cautious exploration into something that’s needy and desperate and feverish, tongues dueling and teeth clashing, holding each other tighter as though they might fly apart.
Dean’s hands seem to be everywhere all at once, moving over Castiel’s chest, his back, his shoulders, coming up to the back of his head, fingers raking through his hair and gripping the strands possessively, pulling just hard enough to hurt. Castiel thinks he could go an eternity hearing nothing but the noises Dean is making now, the ragged, breathless moans and sighs and whimpers, and he is as certain as he’s ever been of anything that of all the infinite possibilities of the universe, all the places their respective choices and mistakes could have taken them, they were always, always destined to end up here.
He backs Dean against the wall, pushes their bodies together and takes and takes and takes, and it’s goodbye and good luck and I’m sorry and I’ve missed you and I need you, I love you, I love you.
Castiel takes everything that Dean offers and more besides, because he is selfish and greedy and he always has been. He thinks there must be something fundamentally wrong with him that he is like this, some vital component missing upon his construction, because angels are supposed to be cold, glacial figures who strive for nothing, but Castiel burns hot, and he wants. He wants so badly that he consumes everything he touches until there’s nothing left but ashes.
He suspects that such thoughts are blasphemy, but he doesn’t much care. He’s committed worse crimes by far.
He bites at the soft swell of Dean’s lower lip before he pulls away - though he doesn’t go far, the distance between them measurable by a matter of centimeters. They are both breathing heavily, although Castiel has no need for the oxygen; he’s still an angel, even if he is but a shadow of what he used to be. He still sees Lucifer sometimes, and other things besides, but the Devil has no place here, and he is glad that this brief respite extends to his own fractured mind.
Dean smiles wanly, and Castiel reads all too easily the despair etched into the lines of his face, making seem older than his years.
“I should’ve done that years ago,” he mutters, and it might be an attempt at lightening the mood but the bitter note of regret creeping into his voice speaks volumes about what might have been.
“There are a lot of things we should have done a long time ago,” Castiel shrugs. Then, softer, a confession: “I’m glad you did it now.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, shifting a little self-consciously. Silence falls between them for several moments before he speaks again. “Do you still believe in God, Cas?”
Castiel frowns at the non sequitur, uncomprehending. “It’s not a question of belief, Dean; I know God exists. He’s my Father. He created me.”
For some reason, he thinks of Meg: her blind, unflinching faith in Lucifer, her refusal to believe that he never considered demons anything more than a disposable means to an end. Castiel wonders if his own faith isn’t much the same thing; if his Father really is just a kid with an ant farm and a magnifying glass. If God’s apparent refusal to just let him stay dead is in fact borne out of nothing more than a desire to watch him suffer.
Then again, perhaps Castiel deserves to suffer.
Dean looks vaguely sad for a moment, as though Castiel has misunderstood the question, missed the point as he so often does.
“You should know,” Dean begins slowly, as if thinking over the words as he speaks them, “if this is really it, if we’re going to die tonight. You should know that I forgive you.”
“You shouldn’t,” Castiel snaps, and he’s angry; hair-trigger temper igniting sudden and hot because he never asked for Dean’s forgiveness, he doesn’t deserve it, and if Dean is only offering it because they probably won’t be here tomorrow, then he’d rather go without.
“Cas,” Dean takes Castiel’s face in his hands, achingly careful in a way he needn’t be, and all of Castiel’s protestations die on his tongue. “I forgive you.”
Castiel swallows down the lingering urge to argue and finds that there’s really only one thing left for him to say. “Okay.”
Somebody clears their throat; an awkward, apologetic sound. Sam’s hulking frame is shadowed in the motel doorway, and Castiel has no idea how long he’s been standing there. The realization should unsettle him, but he’s long since accepted that his world often narrows to a single point where Dean is concerned.
“Um,” Sam begins haltingly, “are you guys ready? Meg’s rallying the troops. We should be making a move soon.”
He sounds regretful, like he wishes they had more time. Castiel allows himself one last, lingering look at Dean, eyes sweeping over his face, committing every last detail to memory - and then he pulls away, putting some much-needed distance between them.
He’s wearing Jimmy’s - his - old trenchcoat; it’s battered beyond all repair, the fabric torn and bloodstained, but the weight of it about his shoulders is a familiar one, and he draws it around himself like battle armor. He may well be a terrible angel, but he’s an excellent soldier, a finely-honed weapon built to kill, and he would fight to his death for the slightest of possibilities these two humans might live to see another day.
“We’re ready,” he affirms. He feels more full of purpose, of righteousness, than he has since the day he was sent to retrieve Dean’s soul from Hell, even though he’s aware this will likely turn out to be nothing more than a suicide mission.
Maybe this time, God will let him die in peace.
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Pairing/characters: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Spoilers: Up to 7.17
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~1300
Summary: He thinks there must be something fundamentally wrong with him that he is like this, because angels are supposed to be cold, glacial figures who strive for nothing, but Castiel burns hot, and he wants.
Notes: Takes place at some indeterminate point in the future when Castiel is out of the asylum. Also, this is part of a much longer fic that I want to write at some point, but don’t have the time to right now. Quick and unbeta-ed, so please do let me know if you spot any mistakes!
Interlude
There’s a moment of quiet before the end of the world.
In ten minutes’ time, they launch their assault on Roman Enterprises. Their army consists of seven hunters, a handful of demons led by Meg, an even smaller gathering of the few angels not intent on killing Castiel on sight. They have no real strategy or plan of attack; this is their last stand, and it’s all-or-nothing. Only they’re up against an indestructible enemy, and they have no hope of success.
There’s no time for a last night on earth this time round, no time to make preparations or say their goodbyes. Instead there is only this: two broken-down soldiers in a darkened motel parking lot, about to march back onto the battlefield for what will inevitably be the last time.
Castiel isn’t sure who initiates it - whether one of them begins to lean a fraction of a second before the other or if it’s an unspoken, unanimous agreement, executed in perfect synchronicity - but suddenly they’re kissing, lips bumping together with fumbling hesitance at first before they find a rhythm, settle into it, and then it’s soft and sweet and easy as anything has ever been.
He remembers kissing Daphne, something that came to be about familiarity and comfort, her lips gentle against his own, the neat and tidy curves of her beneath his hands. He remembers kissing Meg too, all lust and pent-up aggression, a battle of wills that neither could ever hope to win.
Kissing Dean is nothing at all like either of these, and at the same time it’s a halfway house between the two. Dean is yielding and demanding both, passion and fire tempered with something a good deal more tentative, and Castiel is drunk with it, in this moment aware of nothing but the need to be close, closer.
He coaxes Dean’s mouth open with the tip of his tongue and Dean lets him in with a gasp and a sigh that Castiel swallows in turn, and in an instant the kiss turns from a slow, cautious exploration into something that’s needy and desperate and feverish, tongues dueling and teeth clashing, holding each other tighter as though they might fly apart.
Dean’s hands seem to be everywhere all at once, moving over Castiel’s chest, his back, his shoulders, coming up to the back of his head, fingers raking through his hair and gripping the strands possessively, pulling just hard enough to hurt. Castiel thinks he could go an eternity hearing nothing but the noises Dean is making now, the ragged, breathless moans and sighs and whimpers, and he is as certain as he’s ever been of anything that of all the infinite possibilities of the universe, all the places their respective choices and mistakes could have taken them, they were always, always destined to end up here.
He backs Dean against the wall, pushes their bodies together and takes and takes and takes, and it’s goodbye and good luck and I’m sorry and I’ve missed you and I need you, I love you, I love you.
Castiel takes everything that Dean offers and more besides, because he is selfish and greedy and he always has been. He thinks there must be something fundamentally wrong with him that he is like this, some vital component missing upon his construction, because angels are supposed to be cold, glacial figures who strive for nothing, but Castiel burns hot, and he wants. He wants so badly that he consumes everything he touches until there’s nothing left but ashes.
He suspects that such thoughts are blasphemy, but he doesn’t much care. He’s committed worse crimes by far.
He bites at the soft swell of Dean’s lower lip before he pulls away - though he doesn’t go far, the distance between them measurable by a matter of centimeters. They are both breathing heavily, although Castiel has no need for the oxygen; he’s still an angel, even if he is but a shadow of what he used to be. He still sees Lucifer sometimes, and other things besides, but the Devil has no place here, and he is glad that this brief respite extends to his own fractured mind.
Dean smiles wanly, and Castiel reads all too easily the despair etched into the lines of his face, making seem older than his years.
“I should’ve done that years ago,” he mutters, and it might be an attempt at lightening the mood but the bitter note of regret creeping into his voice speaks volumes about what might have been.
“There are a lot of things we should have done a long time ago,” Castiel shrugs. Then, softer, a confession: “I’m glad you did it now.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, shifting a little self-consciously. Silence falls between them for several moments before he speaks again. “Do you still believe in God, Cas?”
Castiel frowns at the non sequitur, uncomprehending. “It’s not a question of belief, Dean; I know God exists. He’s my Father. He created me.”
For some reason, he thinks of Meg: her blind, unflinching faith in Lucifer, her refusal to believe that he never considered demons anything more than a disposable means to an end. Castiel wonders if his own faith isn’t much the same thing; if his Father really is just a kid with an ant farm and a magnifying glass. If God’s apparent refusal to just let him stay dead is in fact borne out of nothing more than a desire to watch him suffer.
Then again, perhaps Castiel deserves to suffer.
Dean looks vaguely sad for a moment, as though Castiel has misunderstood the question, missed the point as he so often does.
“You should know,” Dean begins slowly, as if thinking over the words as he speaks them, “if this is really it, if we’re going to die tonight. You should know that I forgive you.”
“You shouldn’t,” Castiel snaps, and he’s angry; hair-trigger temper igniting sudden and hot because he never asked for Dean’s forgiveness, he doesn’t deserve it, and if Dean is only offering it because they probably won’t be here tomorrow, then he’d rather go without.
“Cas,” Dean takes Castiel’s face in his hands, achingly careful in a way he needn’t be, and all of Castiel’s protestations die on his tongue. “I forgive you.”
Castiel swallows down the lingering urge to argue and finds that there’s really only one thing left for him to say. “Okay.”
Somebody clears their throat; an awkward, apologetic sound. Sam’s hulking frame is shadowed in the motel doorway, and Castiel has no idea how long he’s been standing there. The realization should unsettle him, but he’s long since accepted that his world often narrows to a single point where Dean is concerned.
“Um,” Sam begins haltingly, “are you guys ready? Meg’s rallying the troops. We should be making a move soon.”
He sounds regretful, like he wishes they had more time. Castiel allows himself one last, lingering look at Dean, eyes sweeping over his face, committing every last detail to memory - and then he pulls away, putting some much-needed distance between them.
He’s wearing Jimmy’s - his - old trenchcoat; it’s battered beyond all repair, the fabric torn and bloodstained, but the weight of it about his shoulders is a familiar one, and he draws it around himself like battle armor. He may well be a terrible angel, but he’s an excellent soldier, a finely-honed weapon built to kill, and he would fight to his death for the slightest of possibilities these two humans might live to see another day.
“We’re ready,” he affirms. He feels more full of purpose, of righteousness, than he has since the day he was sent to retrieve Dean’s soul from Hell, even though he’s aware this will likely turn out to be nothing more than a suicide mission.
Maybe this time, God will let him die in peace.