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emerald_embersTitle: God Broke the Mold When He Made You
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: One-sided Castiel/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 1183
Warnings: Stalking, some gore, themes of self-harm and suicide, body horror, extremely creepy Castiel.
Summary: After finally fighting off Leviathan, Castiel chose to claim his reward.
Author's Notes: Happy Halloween! All my love to13chapters whose fabulous If You Run was as much responsible for this as Harlan Ellison.
It was calm now. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean and held him close, enjoying the warmth of him, the comfort of Dean's skin against his vessel's. His brothers and sisters in Heaven had let him be, afraid of what powers he might have left and squabbling over their own roles in the new order. Crowley seemed content to run Hell without interference or further bargaining over souls, so long as Castiel left him well alone.
Castiel settled into the warmth and the silence. He had fought Leviathan long enough to earn a rest, and few other people were as deserving of peace as Dean.
Castiel left Sam in Heaven, of course. Bobby too - and Rufus, Ellen, and Jo. They had all been fierce warriors in their time, and all of them deserved to enjoy their individual slices of joy without disturbance. Besides, it seemed tidier to leave them to enjoy it.
Castiel could have left Dean to his death, but Dean hadn't deserved to die the way he did. Moreover, Castiel deserved a better reward for his trials in finally overcoming Leviathan than loneliness both on Earth and in the Heaven he no longer wished to rule.
Dean had been understandably upset at first. Two hundred years was a very long time to be dead, and his last living memory had involved being torn to shreds. He wasn't helped by his refusal to fit into the new world, avoiding modern transport due to fear of crashing the new vehicles or emerging half-formed from a malfunctioning teleporter; Leviathan had taught Castiel enough about human culture through its hive mind to give Dean's complaints about turning into "The Fly" context.
With his knowledge of Dean's childhood, the moving from school to school and state to state, Castiel had expected Dean to be prepared for change. Perhaps if the time difference had been a matter of decades rather than centuries, he would have coped better - but many of Dean's opinions were now seen as outright barbaric, even taken as a joke when mentioned out loud, and his use of language was seen as archaic. Few believed Dean had been born in America.
"You don't have to speak," Castiel pointed out, trying to find a way to soothe Dean's wounded ego after his fifth attempt to find a partner for the night ended in disaster. Some things hadn't changed - there were still bars, and people hoping to be flirted with in them, but Dean's particular approach no longer went down as well as it once had.
"Words are kind of important, Cas," Dean snarled, hurt and angry and uninterested in hiding it. Castiel frowned and pressed a finger to Dean's lips, before letting that finger slide down to Dean's chin and along his jaw.
"What the fuck was that?" Dean asked, frozen in place.
"I love you," Castiel replied.
Dean swallowed the medicine cabinet's contents that night. It took the better part of the next morning to prepare Dean's body for receiving his soul again - healing organs, clearing away toxins, and ensuring Dean would not make the same mistake twice.
"It's okay," Castiel said, accepting Dean's punches as he pointed to his throat and mouthed words he would no longer be able to speak.
"You don't need to eat. I've taken care of everything."
Castiel let Dean pack his bags and run, knew Dean would be back when the hunger pains grew too severe. If Dean made his way to a backwater town he might find a hospital with an I.V. drip, but it wasn't the sort of nutrition he would want to live off. Dean would return and Castiel would press one hand on his mouth, the other on his stomach, and let Dean taste whatever he liked best while Castiel filled him with what he actually needed.
Castiel was partially right in his assumptions. Dean did not want to survive on an I.V. once the hunger pains kicked in, but he did not have to leave the city to find a bath for opening his veins in.
The idea of toughening Dean's skin should have come to mind when Castiel first pulled Dean's scattered ashes out of the earth and rebuilt him; it certainly would have been an easier job to do if he had been putting him back together from scratch all over again.
"I thought about you," Castiel said, resting his head in Dean's lap. The chair he had tied Dean to moved little with their combined weight holding it in place, regardless of how much Dean fidgeted. "I swore I would make things right between us, no matter how much you hated me."
Castiel let his fingers stroke Dean's wrist where it strained against the shackles holding it down. Flesh stretched and pulled but did not break or bleed against the metal. Castiel would not let Dean cut into himself again. "They told me all the ways they had hurt you. They told me what they were going to make this body do to yours."
Castiel lifted his head and looked up. "Trust me, Dean. I will never make you bleed."
"Jesus," Crowley said, looking from the circle he had been summoned to down at the mess of Dean's blood and bone. It was a little hard in places to tell which parts were Dean and which parts belonged to the shattered window or splintered chair scattered just as haphazardly across the sidewalk.
"I can only pardon three suicides. Give him back," Castiel said, fingers and grace working to reassemble what had been undone by a sixty foot drop. For the most part, he was giving it the right shape. He should not have left Dean alone, even if he had not predicted Dean would manage to roll himself and the chair over their bedroom's balcony.
"For a small favour," Crowley replied, turning away from Castiel's work as much as the small summoning circle allowed.
"What price this time?"
"That you leave me and Hell out of this in future."
"He won't be dying again," Castiel promised.
Castiel was an angel. Form and the function of form held little meaning for him. He knew what Dean was - more than a face, more than a body, more than a human.
Castiel let bones settle wherever they chose to, took away nerves meant for conveying warnings of pain and took away everything else unnecessary. Dean could live and think and see. That was enough; his continued warmth was a happy accident as far as side-effects went.
Castiel lifted what was left of Dean onto the bed and curled around him, settled himself comfortably in place and idly stroked Dean's skin. Dean couldn't feel his touch anymore, but it was pleasant enough for Castiel to touch something solid and real. Leviathan had played games with his borrowed nerves while they shared Jimmy's vessel, and after long enough possessing them had almost lost its appeal.
"It's okay Dean," Castiel said, knowing it was now. Dean had no need and no means to escape. "I'll stay with you forever."
The End
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: One-sided Castiel/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 1183
Warnings: Stalking, some gore, themes of self-harm and suicide, body horror, extremely creepy Castiel.
Summary: After finally fighting off Leviathan, Castiel chose to claim his reward.
Author's Notes: Happy Halloween! All my love to
13chapters whose fabulous If You Run was as much responsible for this as Harlan Ellison.It was calm now. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean and held him close, enjoying the warmth of him, the comfort of Dean's skin against his vessel's. His brothers and sisters in Heaven had let him be, afraid of what powers he might have left and squabbling over their own roles in the new order. Crowley seemed content to run Hell without interference or further bargaining over souls, so long as Castiel left him well alone.
Castiel settled into the warmth and the silence. He had fought Leviathan long enough to earn a rest, and few other people were as deserving of peace as Dean.
Castiel left Sam in Heaven, of course. Bobby too - and Rufus, Ellen, and Jo. They had all been fierce warriors in their time, and all of them deserved to enjoy their individual slices of joy without disturbance. Besides, it seemed tidier to leave them to enjoy it.
Castiel could have left Dean to his death, but Dean hadn't deserved to die the way he did. Moreover, Castiel deserved a better reward for his trials in finally overcoming Leviathan than loneliness both on Earth and in the Heaven he no longer wished to rule.
Dean had been understandably upset at first. Two hundred years was a very long time to be dead, and his last living memory had involved being torn to shreds. He wasn't helped by his refusal to fit into the new world, avoiding modern transport due to fear of crashing the new vehicles or emerging half-formed from a malfunctioning teleporter; Leviathan had taught Castiel enough about human culture through its hive mind to give Dean's complaints about turning into "The Fly" context.
With his knowledge of Dean's childhood, the moving from school to school and state to state, Castiel had expected Dean to be prepared for change. Perhaps if the time difference had been a matter of decades rather than centuries, he would have coped better - but many of Dean's opinions were now seen as outright barbaric, even taken as a joke when mentioned out loud, and his use of language was seen as archaic. Few believed Dean had been born in America.
"You don't have to speak," Castiel pointed out, trying to find a way to soothe Dean's wounded ego after his fifth attempt to find a partner for the night ended in disaster. Some things hadn't changed - there were still bars, and people hoping to be flirted with in them, but Dean's particular approach no longer went down as well as it once had.
"Words are kind of important, Cas," Dean snarled, hurt and angry and uninterested in hiding it. Castiel frowned and pressed a finger to Dean's lips, before letting that finger slide down to Dean's chin and along his jaw.
"What the fuck was that?" Dean asked, frozen in place.
"I love you," Castiel replied.
Dean swallowed the medicine cabinet's contents that night. It took the better part of the next morning to prepare Dean's body for receiving his soul again - healing organs, clearing away toxins, and ensuring Dean would not make the same mistake twice.
"It's okay," Castiel said, accepting Dean's punches as he pointed to his throat and mouthed words he would no longer be able to speak.
"You don't need to eat. I've taken care of everything."
Castiel let Dean pack his bags and run, knew Dean would be back when the hunger pains grew too severe. If Dean made his way to a backwater town he might find a hospital with an I.V. drip, but it wasn't the sort of nutrition he would want to live off. Dean would return and Castiel would press one hand on his mouth, the other on his stomach, and let Dean taste whatever he liked best while Castiel filled him with what he actually needed.
Castiel was partially right in his assumptions. Dean did not want to survive on an I.V. once the hunger pains kicked in, but he did not have to leave the city to find a bath for opening his veins in.
The idea of toughening Dean's skin should have come to mind when Castiel first pulled Dean's scattered ashes out of the earth and rebuilt him; it certainly would have been an easier job to do if he had been putting him back together from scratch all over again.
"I thought about you," Castiel said, resting his head in Dean's lap. The chair he had tied Dean to moved little with their combined weight holding it in place, regardless of how much Dean fidgeted. "I swore I would make things right between us, no matter how much you hated me."
Castiel let his fingers stroke Dean's wrist where it strained against the shackles holding it down. Flesh stretched and pulled but did not break or bleed against the metal. Castiel would not let Dean cut into himself again. "They told me all the ways they had hurt you. They told me what they were going to make this body do to yours."
Castiel lifted his head and looked up. "Trust me, Dean. I will never make you bleed."
"Jesus," Crowley said, looking from the circle he had been summoned to down at the mess of Dean's blood and bone. It was a little hard in places to tell which parts were Dean and which parts belonged to the shattered window or splintered chair scattered just as haphazardly across the sidewalk.
"I can only pardon three suicides. Give him back," Castiel said, fingers and grace working to reassemble what had been undone by a sixty foot drop. For the most part, he was giving it the right shape. He should not have left Dean alone, even if he had not predicted Dean would manage to roll himself and the chair over their bedroom's balcony.
"For a small favour," Crowley replied, turning away from Castiel's work as much as the small summoning circle allowed.
"What price this time?"
"That you leave me and Hell out of this in future."
"He won't be dying again," Castiel promised.
Castiel was an angel. Form and the function of form held little meaning for him. He knew what Dean was - more than a face, more than a body, more than a human.
Castiel let bones settle wherever they chose to, took away nerves meant for conveying warnings of pain and took away everything else unnecessary. Dean could live and think and see. That was enough; his continued warmth was a happy accident as far as side-effects went.
Castiel lifted what was left of Dean onto the bed and curled around him, settled himself comfortably in place and idly stroked Dean's skin. Dean couldn't feel his touch anymore, but it was pleasant enough for Castiel to touch something solid and real. Leviathan had played games with his borrowed nerves while they shared Jimmy's vessel, and after long enough possessing them had almost lost its appeal.
"It's okay Dean," Castiel said, knowing it was now. Dean had no need and no means to escape. "I'll stay with you forever."
The End
