Supernatural fic: Fear and Trembling
My second 4x01 coda! I can't even guarantee it'll be my last.
Fear and Trembling [Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, PG-13/mild R, 4x01 coda, 1,251 words. Thanks to the lovely tvm for the speedy beta.]
"What's the matter?" Castiel asks. He's in Dean's space, head tilted curiously, peering up into his face as though he can read Dean's mind. "You don't think you deserve to be saved." Maybe he can.
"Why'd you do it?" Dean wants to look away, wants to run not walk away and never come back. But he has to ask.
"Because God commanded it," Castiel says, staring into him. "Because we have work for you."
"Aha, now we're getting to it. The catch." Dean makes it sound like a mockery. It is.
"Why would you think there's a catch?" Castiel asks. Sad and hurt, as though Dean's disappointing him. Dean feels his hurt, like something physical. He ignores it, stays on track.
"Because there's always a catch. And you, whatever you are, you're no different."
"I'm sad that you think that, Dean." His sadness surrounds Dean.
"So come on. Don't keep me in suspense. What's the price?"
"All will be revealed in its due time," Castiel says, as though he's quoting words said to him. Obedient, but he doesn't have the look of a puppet about him.
Dean laughs. Shakes his head. "Yeah, right. Nice polite way of saying mind your own business. Except, hey, guess what, it is my business."
"You are not ready yet, Dean," Castiel says, and Dean doesn't know when he got even closer, so close his breath is warm on Dean's skin.
Dean takes a step backwards. Takes a deep breath to clear his head. He's not going to let this creature - angel or demon or whatever the hell (or heaven) he is - get to him.
He tries not to show any weakness when he speaks. "Not holy enough for you, is that it? 'Cos I gotta tell you, buddy, I'm not gonna get a whole lot holier than this. This is as good as I get." He grins, makes it huge. "And this body's done a fair bit of sinning. Good times. And I'm planning on having plenty more if I get to hang around long enough."
"Your holiness is not the issue," Castiel says. "This man, this devout man," and he spreads his arms to encompass the body he's wearing, "he serves the Lord. He is a spiritual man. But he has sinned, many times. He wants things, has craved and coveted and taken. He has fornicated. He has let the flesh lead him, not the spirit. But God's mercy is large."
"And if I don't want God's mercy? Because I dig the ways of the flesh. I had these twins once. Curves on them like Jessica Rabbit, unbelievable curves. Except they were all real, the whole package, all real." Dean paints the shape with his hands and licks his lips. "And sweet pussies, so tight. They couldn't get enough of my dick. Man, they were hot. Fornicating is a whole lotta fun, you know. Though maybe you don't. Huh," he says, and looks at Castiel, makes sure he looks pitying. "Guess it could be a bummer being an angel."
"He shows mercy whether you want it or not." Castiel seems unfazed, tone as quiet and reassuring as before, voice working its way inside Dean's head.
"Seems to be coming down to whether I want it or not. You're telling me I've no choice in the matter. No choice in my future because you brought me back and now you what, own me or something?"
"Dean," Castiel says, and his voice is soothing. He puts a hand on Dean's arm. Leaves it there. It doesn't burn, but Dean can feel the weight of it and can't bring himself to lift his arm and shake him off. "Dean, there are always choices. It's how you chose that's important."
Dean stares at the ground. The painted talismans and symbols. They have no effect on Castiel. Salt and silver and a demon-killing knife, and nothing had any effect on him.
Dean has faith, of sorts. He believes in what he can see. It's a smart faith, doesn't lead to disappointment like the blind kind.
He's just can't believe what he's seeing here, and it scares him.
When he and Sam were boys, Caleb gave them scripture lessons. Sam intent, cross-legged and eager, Dean at a distance but reluctantly curious. Dean remembers the story of Abraham and Isaac, and the sacrifice God asked of Abraham. He remembers raging at the horror of it, a father told to kill his own son. It was the last Bible story Caleb ever told him - he wouldn't listen after that, too angry with God for testing a father that way.
"What if every choice is wrong?" he asks. "What if I'm asked to sacrifice Isaac and I can't? If I refuse. What then?" He thinks of Sam, he thinks of the promise his father asked of him, thinks of what God might order him to do and he feels sick, bile rising up his throat as he speaks.
Two hands now, one on each arm, holding him steady. He doesn't resist. Swallows down the bile.
"When you're ready, you will be able to do anything," Castiel says, and the words are full of conviction, full of faith like Dean's never known before, even in his idiot little brother. It feels as though he's pouring strength into Dean, filling him. He wants to hold back, turn his head, refuse to listen to anything more, but instead he's falling forward, falling into Castiel's arms, and the angel is all that's holding him upright.
"I didn't ask for this," Dean says, and he's sobbing the words, face pressed into a raincoat that smells of blood and salt. "Sam and me, we didn't ask for this."
"You're stronger than you think," Castiel promises, and he's lifting Dean's face, holding him, and when Dean looks into his eyes he sees truth. No deception. Castiel presses a kiss to Dean's forehead, a benediction. It's chaste, ridiculously simple and innocent, but it's been so many months. Dean lifts his head and meets Castiel's lips, kisses him back, not chaste. Desperate. For answers, for understanding, for human touch, for the faith he needs to believe in something good.
He closes his eyes. Surrenders of all thoughts of who or what or why. Loses himself in this one kiss, the fierceness and the delicacy of it. And maybe this-this is what the love of God feels like, this all encompassing goodness, and maybe-
The sharp sound of movement across the warehouse brings him to his senses. He pulls away from slightly parted lips, sees Bobby stirring and lets the anger - righteous anger - rise up over everything else and give him strength.
"Stay the fuck away from us," Dean demands. He straightens his shoulders, stands tall, puts all the weight he can into the words, but Castiel shakes his head even as he turns to leave.
"You have work to do," he says, and as he walks away and fades into the dark outside, Dean thinks he sees something horrifying, something magnificent and so terrible that he closes his eyes and sinks to the ground.
When he opens his eyes, the warehouse is lit up again, broken lights restored, roof tiles all in place. Bobby struggling to his feet.
Dean almost believes he imagined it, but he can still feel the imprint of Castiel’s lips on his forehead, the burn of the scar on his shoulder, and when he goes to sheath his knife, there’s blood, wet and thick, on the blade.
//
Notes: Title is from Søren Kierkegaard's work about the testing of Abraham, which title in turn is based on Phillipians 2:12.
Fear and Trembling [Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, PG-13/mild R, 4x01 coda, 1,251 words. Thanks to the lovely tvm for the speedy beta.]
"What's the matter?" Castiel asks. He's in Dean's space, head tilted curiously, peering up into his face as though he can read Dean's mind. "You don't think you deserve to be saved." Maybe he can.
"Why'd you do it?" Dean wants to look away, wants to run not walk away and never come back. But he has to ask.
"Because God commanded it," Castiel says, staring into him. "Because we have work for you."
"Aha, now we're getting to it. The catch." Dean makes it sound like a mockery. It is.
"Why would you think there's a catch?" Castiel asks. Sad and hurt, as though Dean's disappointing him. Dean feels his hurt, like something physical. He ignores it, stays on track.
"Because there's always a catch. And you, whatever you are, you're no different."
"I'm sad that you think that, Dean." His sadness surrounds Dean.
"So come on. Don't keep me in suspense. What's the price?"
"All will be revealed in its due time," Castiel says, as though he's quoting words said to him. Obedient, but he doesn't have the look of a puppet about him.
Dean laughs. Shakes his head. "Yeah, right. Nice polite way of saying mind your own business. Except, hey, guess what, it is my business."
"You are not ready yet, Dean," Castiel says, and Dean doesn't know when he got even closer, so close his breath is warm on Dean's skin.
Dean takes a step backwards. Takes a deep breath to clear his head. He's not going to let this creature - angel or demon or whatever the hell (or heaven) he is - get to him.
He tries not to show any weakness when he speaks. "Not holy enough for you, is that it? 'Cos I gotta tell you, buddy, I'm not gonna get a whole lot holier than this. This is as good as I get." He grins, makes it huge. "And this body's done a fair bit of sinning. Good times. And I'm planning on having plenty more if I get to hang around long enough."
"Your holiness is not the issue," Castiel says. "This man, this devout man," and he spreads his arms to encompass the body he's wearing, "he serves the Lord. He is a spiritual man. But he has sinned, many times. He wants things, has craved and coveted and taken. He has fornicated. He has let the flesh lead him, not the spirit. But God's mercy is large."
"And if I don't want God's mercy? Because I dig the ways of the flesh. I had these twins once. Curves on them like Jessica Rabbit, unbelievable curves. Except they were all real, the whole package, all real." Dean paints the shape with his hands and licks his lips. "And sweet pussies, so tight. They couldn't get enough of my dick. Man, they were hot. Fornicating is a whole lotta fun, you know. Though maybe you don't. Huh," he says, and looks at Castiel, makes sure he looks pitying. "Guess it could be a bummer being an angel."
"He shows mercy whether you want it or not." Castiel seems unfazed, tone as quiet and reassuring as before, voice working its way inside Dean's head.
"Seems to be coming down to whether I want it or not. You're telling me I've no choice in the matter. No choice in my future because you brought me back and now you what, own me or something?"
"Dean," Castiel says, and his voice is soothing. He puts a hand on Dean's arm. Leaves it there. It doesn't burn, but Dean can feel the weight of it and can't bring himself to lift his arm and shake him off. "Dean, there are always choices. It's how you chose that's important."
Dean stares at the ground. The painted talismans and symbols. They have no effect on Castiel. Salt and silver and a demon-killing knife, and nothing had any effect on him.
Dean has faith, of sorts. He believes in what he can see. It's a smart faith, doesn't lead to disappointment like the blind kind.
He's just can't believe what he's seeing here, and it scares him.
When he and Sam were boys, Caleb gave them scripture lessons. Sam intent, cross-legged and eager, Dean at a distance but reluctantly curious. Dean remembers the story of Abraham and Isaac, and the sacrifice God asked of Abraham. He remembers raging at the horror of it, a father told to kill his own son. It was the last Bible story Caleb ever told him - he wouldn't listen after that, too angry with God for testing a father that way.
"What if every choice is wrong?" he asks. "What if I'm asked to sacrifice Isaac and I can't? If I refuse. What then?" He thinks of Sam, he thinks of the promise his father asked of him, thinks of what God might order him to do and he feels sick, bile rising up his throat as he speaks.
Two hands now, one on each arm, holding him steady. He doesn't resist. Swallows down the bile.
"When you're ready, you will be able to do anything," Castiel says, and the words are full of conviction, full of faith like Dean's never known before, even in his idiot little brother. It feels as though he's pouring strength into Dean, filling him. He wants to hold back, turn his head, refuse to listen to anything more, but instead he's falling forward, falling into Castiel's arms, and the angel is all that's holding him upright.
"I didn't ask for this," Dean says, and he's sobbing the words, face pressed into a raincoat that smells of blood and salt. "Sam and me, we didn't ask for this."
"You're stronger than you think," Castiel promises, and he's lifting Dean's face, holding him, and when Dean looks into his eyes he sees truth. No deception. Castiel presses a kiss to Dean's forehead, a benediction. It's chaste, ridiculously simple and innocent, but it's been so many months. Dean lifts his head and meets Castiel's lips, kisses him back, not chaste. Desperate. For answers, for understanding, for human touch, for the faith he needs to believe in something good.
He closes his eyes. Surrenders of all thoughts of who or what or why. Loses himself in this one kiss, the fierceness and the delicacy of it. And maybe this-this is what the love of God feels like, this all encompassing goodness, and maybe-
The sharp sound of movement across the warehouse brings him to his senses. He pulls away from slightly parted lips, sees Bobby stirring and lets the anger - righteous anger - rise up over everything else and give him strength.
"Stay the fuck away from us," Dean demands. He straightens his shoulders, stands tall, puts all the weight he can into the words, but Castiel shakes his head even as he turns to leave.
"You have work to do," he says, and as he walks away and fades into the dark outside, Dean thinks he sees something horrifying, something magnificent and so terrible that he closes his eyes and sinks to the ground.
When he opens his eyes, the warehouse is lit up again, broken lights restored, roof tiles all in place. Bobby struggling to his feet.
Dean almost believes he imagined it, but he can still feel the imprint of Castiel’s lips on his forehead, the burn of the scar on his shoulder, and when he goes to sheath his knife, there’s blood, wet and thick, on the blade.
//
Notes: Title is from Søren Kierkegaard's work about the testing of Abraham, which title in turn is based on Phillipians 2:12.