Fic: Journey's Course (Dean/Castiel, R)
Jun. 11th, 2009 02:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tracy_loo_who*sigh* It's 2 am, I'm supposed to be leaving for the airport in less than four hours, and I haven't even packed yet. fml. I don't know why this suddenly happened tonight but it did, and I can't tell how much I like it since I wrote it while mildly groggy, but I'm posting it anyway because I have no time to edit. *facepalm* Internet time may or may not be scarce over the next week and a half, but I will try to keep up with things as best I can! ♥
Title: Journey's Course
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Word Count: ~2,500
Spoilers: 4x22 - Lucifer Rising
Notes: When I first saw this amazing piece of art I knew I wanted to write something for it, but then life got in the way so I didn't, but then I did, just now. Uhm, as you can see. Dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
timbitsu for obvious reasons. I hope you at least sort of like it, bb! :">
♥♥♥:apocrypha73 translated this fic into Spanish! ♥
Summary: The story of a boy and his angel.
Dean's had a pretty strange life, even by a hunter's standards. Demons, angry spirits, vampires, shapeshifters -- those are normal (with air-quotes). Angels, though, not many people have seen angels, not even when the apocalypse was happening, because they almost always worked in the background. Even fewer people have seen angels who aren't dicks, and now they'll never get a chance to because the apocalypse has come and gone and the angels came and went with it, and who's to say how many thousands of years it will be before any of them return to earth?
Dean is one of the few who have seen angels (both the dicks and the non-dicks), though, and the funny thing is, he thinks, angels who aren't dicks see people all the time. And he really does mean all the time -- every second of every day and every tiny moment in each of those seconds. Dean knew that for the first four years of his life because his mother kept telling him so, but when he was four she stopped being around to tell him that, and Dean convinced himself it wasn't true.
He spared no thoughts for angels for the next twenty-four years, so when he found out, at twenty-eight, that his little brother did believe in the things, he was a little surprised. (And more than a little disdainful.) He ignored the tiny, forgotten, bitter little part of him that wished his mother was still around to make him believe in them.
When Dean was twenty-nine, he went to Hell and forgot even the concept of angels. He forgot a lot of things that year (or those forty years), actually, including himself. But then an angel descended into Hell to find him and give him back to himself, along with a complimentary brand spankin' new body and everything. Dean shot him and stabbed him and thought the angel was a dick. He believed in their existence again, that year, but he didn't believe in them. An angel believed in him, though.
The next year, when Dean was thirty, he still didn't believe in angels, but he believed in one angel, the one who turned his back on Heaven to fight by Dean's side when the world was ending. He believed in his angel, and they always found each other's eyes after hard-won battles, weary but not alone.
When Dean was thirty-one, his angel almost died for him (again). Well, technically it was for Dean's little brother, but they all knew it was really for Dean. Dean sat on the hard cement of the parking lot in the middle of the day and cradled the angel's head in his lap and begged him to wake up. When that didn't work, he cursed and yelled and threatened to kick the angel's lily-white ass if he died. But that didn't work either, and at that moment Dean realized exactly how much his angel had come to mean to him (a whole fucking lot). He didn't know what to do with it, all of a sudden -- with any of it -- so he buried his face in the angel's and kissed him. The angel came to several days later, and Dean was so relieved he gave the angel a hug and wouldn't let go for a very long time, but he was too embarrassed to mention the kiss, and confused as hell to boot.
Dean spent the majority of his thirty-second year being confused, actually. Most of the time he was confused about how it was possible that someone as small and insignificant as him was meant to save the world, but sometimes he thought about the kiss and was confused about that, too. He wasn't attracted to men, wasn't into hard chests or hard dicks, but he was attracted to the angel, and he kept wanting to kiss him again. But Dean didn't know how to broach the subject, and he didn't think the angel would want him to anyway (because, hello, motherfucking angel here), so he kept his mouth shut and to himself. Well, he didn't keep it entirely to himself, because occasionally he put it on women, but that started happening less and less once he realized that there was much more comfort to be found in being folded up in the vast expanse of soft, white wings and held close and kept safe. It was hardest to keep his mouth to himself on the nights when that happened, but Dean didn't want to risk losing his brief haven, so he didn't. In any case, there were more important things to worry about than his mouth and his dick, like the lives of his little brother and six billion other people (or maybe it was five billion, by then).
Dean's angel tried and failed to save a town when Dean was thirty-three, and four thousand innocent people died in less than four seconds. Dean talked with him for a long time that night, trying to coax the angel into forgiving himself, but before the sun rose the next morning, it was the angel who made Dean see why he should forgive himself, for all of the things he'd done in Hell. They sat quietly next to each other for hours and watched the first rays of sunlight fall on the bloody ruins of the town, and Dean stopped trying to not be in love with the angel.
When Dean was thirty-four, he stood before Lucifer with his brother on his right and his angel on his left. There were other angels too, some who weren't dicks anymore and some who were still very much dicks, but Dean paid them no attention because when he finally felled Lucifer, it was still with his brother at his right and his angel at his left. Afterward, when it was all over, the archangels wanted to honor Dean, but he said several rude things to them that both his little brother and his angel found mildly embarrassing.
Some hours later, Dean's angel found him and his brother in a diner, ingesting all manner of unhealthy foods. Dean grinned when he saw the angel and fed him a fry before he could say anything, but at some point while the angel chewed dutifully, Dean's face fell. "You're leaving," he said flatly.
He didn't hear most of what the angel said about God and divine plans and Heaven because he was too busy being angry and hurt, but then the angel took him to some quiet meadow, secluded by trees that hadn't been burnt to the ground and lit only by moonlight, and kissed him fiercely. It was everything he'd wanted for three years and it was being taken away from him already, and Dean made a small noise into his mouth, aching and desperate. There were whispered promises of meeting again in Heaven, but they didn't placate Dean, and he kissed and kissed until the angel moaned softly and his whispered promises broke into pleas that were every bit as aching and desperate as Dean's. And Dean wanted nothing more than to show his angel all the good things he didn't know he was leaving behind, because he might not ever get another chance to experience them, but -- "Jimmy," he breathed, never mind that he was already ravaging the poor guy's mouth.
"Jimmy wants me -- wants us -- to have this," the angel replied, almost feverishly, and the moments after that were filled with fewer words and discarded clothing.
The grass was cool under their heated skin, and Dean pulled his angel into his lap and touched him until he came, trembling and gasping Dean's name against his lips. He didn't let go, though, kept one hand wrapped loosely around the angel's most intimate places and his other arm tight around the borrowed body. When the angel quieted and stilled and went soft against him, Dean pushed him back onto the grass and started over, using his lips and tongue and teeth this time to explore the angel's entire body until it was taut and leaking with need again. This time Dean brought him off with his mouth, and the angel's open cry was swallowed by the stars in the night sky.
Dean curled up behind him, nose pressed into the angel's hair and dick pressed into the angel's cleft, but he breathed in deeply and waited patiently and let the soft breeze cool them. Eventually the angel pressed back into his hard flesh and squirmed, and Dean rubbed himself against him with quiet, breathy moans. Then he rubbed himself into the angel and found him already slick, and when neither of them could stand his slow, rhythmic rocking anymore Dean pushed them off their sides and rolled on top of him so he could thrust deeper, harder, faster. His moans became louder, echoed by the body beneath him every time he slammed into that spot, and the noise his angel made when he pulsed again in Dean's hand was so wrecked and wanton that it milked Dean's orgasm and his breath out of him before he saw it coming.
The last time, some hours later, it was the angel who made Dean come, lying in the grass with Dean still on top of him and thrusting up into his body. Dean couldn't move, trapped as he was by wings all around him and even between his legs, so all he could do was clutch blindly and muffle his whimpers in the damp skin of the angel's neck as his cock twitched in pleasure between them. The angel followed, silent for once as he held and clung to Dean with arms and legs and wings, and even afterward he made no move to let Dean go.
Dean fought to stay awake, really he did, because he couldn't afford to waste their last moments together in slumber, but everything was too soft and too warm and he was too sated, and the angel whispered in his ear, "Rest, Dean."
"But you'll be gone when I wake," he mumbled, and Dean renewed the strength of his grip at the reminder, but it was like holding onto a fistful of sand: the harder he tried, he faster he could feel it slipping through his fingers.
The angel pressed his lips against Dean's temple and said, "I've watched and waited for you your entire life, Dean. I will watch and wait for the rest of it, too."
However reluctantly, Dean believed him. "Then it'll be you 'n' me forever, huh?"
He felt the angel smile gently. "You humans use that word so often, and yet none of you can even begin to comprehend what it means. But I'll show you, when you're ready," he promised.
"When I'm ready," Dean repeated, and his last thought before all thoughts slid away from him was that he could be okay with that, maybe.
Dean was still thirty-four when he woke up, alone and naked (but suspiciously clean) in a sunny meadow, aching and content all at once. The clothes strewn hapazardly about him were all his own, and he pulled them on slowly before he spotted, through a gap in the trees, his beloved Impala waiting for him where he certainly hadn't left it. He squinted up at the clouds and a corner of his lips quirked.
When Dean was thirty-five, he finally got up the courage to look up a man named Jimmy Novak. Dean watched him through the window of his living room, and the lights from the TV flickered across his and Amelia's peaceful features as they sat dozing together on the couch. It didn't hurt Dean as much as he'd thought it would, and he drove off into the evening as quietly as he could. That was the last he ever saw of Jimmy Novak because that was the last he ever needed to see of Jimmy Novak.
Three years later Dean was thirty-eight, and he stood in a church and watched his little brother kiss his new bride. He grinned, and then his eyes slid over to an angel statue keeping silent vigil from its corner. Dean's grin softened into something a tiny bit less lewd, and he thought, I'm not ready yet.
Dean was forty when he looked down at the tiny, helpless pink thing in his arms that was his niece. Her name was Mary, and he told her that an angel was watching over her. Beside him, his little brother hid a smile and pretended not to have heard. Later, when Dean lay in his bed and looked out the window at the night sky, he said quietly, "You look after her, you hear me?" He received no reply, but he was satisfied that he'd been heard, and he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
When he was forty-four, he realized it had been ten whole years and he sighed. "I miss you," he said to the warm summer air. But then Mary squealed in giggly delight as her new puppy licked her face, and Dean laughed with her. Later, she and the puppy curled up beside him on the recliner and she asked him to tell her the story about the angels again, so he talked until she fell asleep and hoped she wouldn't repeat phrases like "feathered fuckers" to her dad the next day. Age hadn't really mellowed out that man's bitchiness much, in Dean's opinion.
Dean retired from hunting when Bobby passed. He was sixty, and there hadn't been any truly exciting hunts for years. The world, as it turned out, had stayed mostly-saved. "Look after him, too, okay?" he said, and a moment later a breeze came and swept away the ashes.
Johnny was born when Dean was sixty-eight, and Dean remarked to his little (old) brother that he found it mildly creepy that Mary-and-John were now mother-and-son. His little (old) brother elbowed him in the ribs. Dean grimaced faintly because his body wasn't what it used to be.
Now Dean is seventy-four, and Johnny's tear-streaked face is buried in his shirt. "Chin up, kiddo," Dean says, and it takes a lot of effort but he tries to smirk. "Chicks don't dig the whole puffy-eyed look, you know." He pauses and glances up at Sam, who's sitting by his bed looking wrinkly and bright-eyed. "Well, except for that one crazy one who liked it best when we cried," he amends. "You remember her, Sammy?"
"Dean," he says, and that's all he says, but it's enough. Everything about Dean's strange life is enough, he realizes.
Dean's vision begins to blur and Sam swims slowly out of focus until Dean can't tell the difference anymore between the white of his hair and the white of something else, something that takes on an achingly familiar shape -- wings, he thinks with a warm rush and a smile, and they're getting closer.
"I'm ready now, Cas," he whispers with his last breath, and Castiel is there to catch it in his mouth.
fin.
Title: Journey's Course
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Word Count: ~2,500
Spoilers: 4x22 - Lucifer Rising
Notes: When I first saw this amazing piece of art I knew I wanted to write something for it, but then life got in the way so I didn't, but then I did, just now. Uhm, as you can see. Dedicated to
timbitsu for obvious reasons. I hope you at least sort of like it, bb! :">♥♥♥:
apocrypha73 translated this fic into Spanish! ♥Summary: The story of a boy and his angel.
Dean's had a pretty strange life, even by a hunter's standards. Demons, angry spirits, vampires, shapeshifters -- those are normal (with air-quotes). Angels, though, not many people have seen angels, not even when the apocalypse was happening, because they almost always worked in the background. Even fewer people have seen angels who aren't dicks, and now they'll never get a chance to because the apocalypse has come and gone and the angels came and went with it, and who's to say how many thousands of years it will be before any of them return to earth?
Dean is one of the few who have seen angels (both the dicks and the non-dicks), though, and the funny thing is, he thinks, angels who aren't dicks see people all the time. And he really does mean all the time -- every second of every day and every tiny moment in each of those seconds. Dean knew that for the first four years of his life because his mother kept telling him so, but when he was four she stopped being around to tell him that, and Dean convinced himself it wasn't true.
He spared no thoughts for angels for the next twenty-four years, so when he found out, at twenty-eight, that his little brother did believe in the things, he was a little surprised. (And more than a little disdainful.) He ignored the tiny, forgotten, bitter little part of him that wished his mother was still around to make him believe in them.
When Dean was twenty-nine, he went to Hell and forgot even the concept of angels. He forgot a lot of things that year (or those forty years), actually, including himself. But then an angel descended into Hell to find him and give him back to himself, along with a complimentary brand spankin' new body and everything. Dean shot him and stabbed him and thought the angel was a dick. He believed in their existence again, that year, but he didn't believe in them. An angel believed in him, though.
The next year, when Dean was thirty, he still didn't believe in angels, but he believed in one angel, the one who turned his back on Heaven to fight by Dean's side when the world was ending. He believed in his angel, and they always found each other's eyes after hard-won battles, weary but not alone.
When Dean was thirty-one, his angel almost died for him (again). Well, technically it was for Dean's little brother, but they all knew it was really for Dean. Dean sat on the hard cement of the parking lot in the middle of the day and cradled the angel's head in his lap and begged him to wake up. When that didn't work, he cursed and yelled and threatened to kick the angel's lily-white ass if he died. But that didn't work either, and at that moment Dean realized exactly how much his angel had come to mean to him (a whole fucking lot). He didn't know what to do with it, all of a sudden -- with any of it -- so he buried his face in the angel's and kissed him. The angel came to several days later, and Dean was so relieved he gave the angel a hug and wouldn't let go for a very long time, but he was too embarrassed to mention the kiss, and confused as hell to boot.
Dean spent the majority of his thirty-second year being confused, actually. Most of the time he was confused about how it was possible that someone as small and insignificant as him was meant to save the world, but sometimes he thought about the kiss and was confused about that, too. He wasn't attracted to men, wasn't into hard chests or hard dicks, but he was attracted to the angel, and he kept wanting to kiss him again. But Dean didn't know how to broach the subject, and he didn't think the angel would want him to anyway (because, hello, motherfucking angel here), so he kept his mouth shut and to himself. Well, he didn't keep it entirely to himself, because occasionally he put it on women, but that started happening less and less once he realized that there was much more comfort to be found in being folded up in the vast expanse of soft, white wings and held close and kept safe. It was hardest to keep his mouth to himself on the nights when that happened, but Dean didn't want to risk losing his brief haven, so he didn't. In any case, there were more important things to worry about than his mouth and his dick, like the lives of his little brother and six billion other people (or maybe it was five billion, by then).
Dean's angel tried and failed to save a town when Dean was thirty-three, and four thousand innocent people died in less than four seconds. Dean talked with him for a long time that night, trying to coax the angel into forgiving himself, but before the sun rose the next morning, it was the angel who made Dean see why he should forgive himself, for all of the things he'd done in Hell. They sat quietly next to each other for hours and watched the first rays of sunlight fall on the bloody ruins of the town, and Dean stopped trying to not be in love with the angel.
When Dean was thirty-four, he stood before Lucifer with his brother on his right and his angel on his left. There were other angels too, some who weren't dicks anymore and some who were still very much dicks, but Dean paid them no attention because when he finally felled Lucifer, it was still with his brother at his right and his angel at his left. Afterward, when it was all over, the archangels wanted to honor Dean, but he said several rude things to them that both his little brother and his angel found mildly embarrassing.
Some hours later, Dean's angel found him and his brother in a diner, ingesting all manner of unhealthy foods. Dean grinned when he saw the angel and fed him a fry before he could say anything, but at some point while the angel chewed dutifully, Dean's face fell. "You're leaving," he said flatly.
He didn't hear most of what the angel said about God and divine plans and Heaven because he was too busy being angry and hurt, but then the angel took him to some quiet meadow, secluded by trees that hadn't been burnt to the ground and lit only by moonlight, and kissed him fiercely. It was everything he'd wanted for three years and it was being taken away from him already, and Dean made a small noise into his mouth, aching and desperate. There were whispered promises of meeting again in Heaven, but they didn't placate Dean, and he kissed and kissed until the angel moaned softly and his whispered promises broke into pleas that were every bit as aching and desperate as Dean's. And Dean wanted nothing more than to show his angel all the good things he didn't know he was leaving behind, because he might not ever get another chance to experience them, but -- "Jimmy," he breathed, never mind that he was already ravaging the poor guy's mouth.
"Jimmy wants me -- wants us -- to have this," the angel replied, almost feverishly, and the moments after that were filled with fewer words and discarded clothing.
The grass was cool under their heated skin, and Dean pulled his angel into his lap and touched him until he came, trembling and gasping Dean's name against his lips. He didn't let go, though, kept one hand wrapped loosely around the angel's most intimate places and his other arm tight around the borrowed body. When the angel quieted and stilled and went soft against him, Dean pushed him back onto the grass and started over, using his lips and tongue and teeth this time to explore the angel's entire body until it was taut and leaking with need again. This time Dean brought him off with his mouth, and the angel's open cry was swallowed by the stars in the night sky.
Dean curled up behind him, nose pressed into the angel's hair and dick pressed into the angel's cleft, but he breathed in deeply and waited patiently and let the soft breeze cool them. Eventually the angel pressed back into his hard flesh and squirmed, and Dean rubbed himself against him with quiet, breathy moans. Then he rubbed himself into the angel and found him already slick, and when neither of them could stand his slow, rhythmic rocking anymore Dean pushed them off their sides and rolled on top of him so he could thrust deeper, harder, faster. His moans became louder, echoed by the body beneath him every time he slammed into that spot, and the noise his angel made when he pulsed again in Dean's hand was so wrecked and wanton that it milked Dean's orgasm and his breath out of him before he saw it coming.
The last time, some hours later, it was the angel who made Dean come, lying in the grass with Dean still on top of him and thrusting up into his body. Dean couldn't move, trapped as he was by wings all around him and even between his legs, so all he could do was clutch blindly and muffle his whimpers in the damp skin of the angel's neck as his cock twitched in pleasure between them. The angel followed, silent for once as he held and clung to Dean with arms and legs and wings, and even afterward he made no move to let Dean go.
Dean fought to stay awake, really he did, because he couldn't afford to waste their last moments together in slumber, but everything was too soft and too warm and he was too sated, and the angel whispered in his ear, "Rest, Dean."
"But you'll be gone when I wake," he mumbled, and Dean renewed the strength of his grip at the reminder, but it was like holding onto a fistful of sand: the harder he tried, he faster he could feel it slipping through his fingers.
The angel pressed his lips against Dean's temple and said, "I've watched and waited for you your entire life, Dean. I will watch and wait for the rest of it, too."
However reluctantly, Dean believed him. "Then it'll be you 'n' me forever, huh?"
He felt the angel smile gently. "You humans use that word so often, and yet none of you can even begin to comprehend what it means. But I'll show you, when you're ready," he promised.
"When I'm ready," Dean repeated, and his last thought before all thoughts slid away from him was that he could be okay with that, maybe.
Dean was still thirty-four when he woke up, alone and naked (but suspiciously clean) in a sunny meadow, aching and content all at once. The clothes strewn hapazardly about him were all his own, and he pulled them on slowly before he spotted, through a gap in the trees, his beloved Impala waiting for him where he certainly hadn't left it. He squinted up at the clouds and a corner of his lips quirked.
When Dean was thirty-five, he finally got up the courage to look up a man named Jimmy Novak. Dean watched him through the window of his living room, and the lights from the TV flickered across his and Amelia's peaceful features as they sat dozing together on the couch. It didn't hurt Dean as much as he'd thought it would, and he drove off into the evening as quietly as he could. That was the last he ever saw of Jimmy Novak because that was the last he ever needed to see of Jimmy Novak.
Three years later Dean was thirty-eight, and he stood in a church and watched his little brother kiss his new bride. He grinned, and then his eyes slid over to an angel statue keeping silent vigil from its corner. Dean's grin softened into something a tiny bit less lewd, and he thought, I'm not ready yet.
Dean was forty when he looked down at the tiny, helpless pink thing in his arms that was his niece. Her name was Mary, and he told her that an angel was watching over her. Beside him, his little brother hid a smile and pretended not to have heard. Later, when Dean lay in his bed and looked out the window at the night sky, he said quietly, "You look after her, you hear me?" He received no reply, but he was satisfied that he'd been heard, and he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
When he was forty-four, he realized it had been ten whole years and he sighed. "I miss you," he said to the warm summer air. But then Mary squealed in giggly delight as her new puppy licked her face, and Dean laughed with her. Later, she and the puppy curled up beside him on the recliner and she asked him to tell her the story about the angels again, so he talked until she fell asleep and hoped she wouldn't repeat phrases like "feathered fuckers" to her dad the next day. Age hadn't really mellowed out that man's bitchiness much, in Dean's opinion.
Dean retired from hunting when Bobby passed. He was sixty, and there hadn't been any truly exciting hunts for years. The world, as it turned out, had stayed mostly-saved. "Look after him, too, okay?" he said, and a moment later a breeze came and swept away the ashes.
Johnny was born when Dean was sixty-eight, and Dean remarked to his little (old) brother that he found it mildly creepy that Mary-and-John were now mother-and-son. His little (old) brother elbowed him in the ribs. Dean grimaced faintly because his body wasn't what it used to be.
Now Dean is seventy-four, and Johnny's tear-streaked face is buried in his shirt. "Chin up, kiddo," Dean says, and it takes a lot of effort but he tries to smirk. "Chicks don't dig the whole puffy-eyed look, you know." He pauses and glances up at Sam, who's sitting by his bed looking wrinkly and bright-eyed. "Well, except for that one crazy one who liked it best when we cried," he amends. "You remember her, Sammy?"
"Dean," he says, and that's all he says, but it's enough. Everything about Dean's strange life is enough, he realizes.
Dean's vision begins to blur and Sam swims slowly out of focus until Dean can't tell the difference anymore between the white of his hair and the white of something else, something that takes on an achingly familiar shape -- wings, he thinks with a warm rush and a smile, and they're getting closer.
"I'm ready now, Cas," he whispers with his last breath, and Castiel is there to catch it in his mouth.
fin.
