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I've had a bad couple of days, and that usually makes me want to write something depressing, or mildly horrifying, or both. In the old days, that'd usually be Joker-fic. These days, it seems to be 'The End' fic. *shrugs helplessly*
Title: Dreams
Rating: R
Fandom: Supernatural
Continuity: Set just after 5x04
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas, involving their past and future selves in slightly complicated ways
Summary: Zachariah had a back-up plan, after 5x04
Wordcount: 1714
Warnings: Marking, claiming. Implied violence. Consent issues
Disclaimer: Not mine (perhaps thankfully)
Title: Dreams
Rating: R
Fandom: Supernatural
Continuity: Set just after 5x04
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas, involving their past and future selves in slightly complicated ways
Summary: Zachariah had a back-up plan, after 5x04
Wordcount: 1714
Warnings: Marking, claiming. Implied violence. Consent issues
Disclaimer: Not mine (perhaps thankfully)
Dreams
And all at night the Devil dreams
To touch inside you shattered things
To touch where once a hope had been
And tear it gently at the seams
Except it wasn't the devil. It wasn't the devil in Dean's dreams. You couldn't be blamed for thinking it, maybe, but the face the devil wore for that these days wasn't his. Wrong brother. The devil wore a more innocent face than his, a face that had never looked lovingly on an act of torture, and sometimes in those dreams Lucifer smiled through that face like he loved the irony of it. Sometimes the devil smiled.
But the devil dreaming now of shattered things wasn't Lucifer. The demon touching quivering limbs in the darkness, drinking their pain, wasn't Satan. The devil stroking cheeks beneath dazed, shattered blue eyes wasn't the creature wearing Sam's face.
It was the creature wearing Dean's. It was the creature he'd become.
Cas moved beneath him, suddenly. Not Castiel, not anymore, not this one. Only Cas. Shattered Cas. A human bearing an angel's name, who'd died because Dean said so, and no-one to save them both from Hell. Not this time. Not ever again. No-one left, and Cas moved beneath him, stretching against the ache of what they'd done, of what Dean had done to him. If only Cas would realise it.
"Dean?" he whispered softly, curling wasted limbs around the devil in his arms. A strange gesture, until Dean saw his face. Until he saw the blue eyes flash with something, a pale remnant of what had once lived there, of depth and glory and searing pity. The creature inside Dean snarled at it, at that memory of something beautiful, at that flare of something inimical. At something that should no longer exist. Cas blinked, and laughed, the gulping of a white throat beneath Dean's teeth.
"Don't," Dean growled, savage and harsh, despairing. Don't be that thing again. We both know what happened to him. Don't watch me with his eyes. "Don't, Cas."
The once-angel moved, curved his spine upwards to brush lean, wasted flesh against Dean's stomach in dizzying offer, hands reaching to wrap around Dean's arms while he was distracted. His shoulders, and Dean knew a second too late where they were going, what Cas was doing, and then the ex-angel's palm had slipped silently onto the old mark, the handprint seared into his flesh, the only reminder left of what they'd once been, both of them. Before he could stop it, before he could do anything but muffle his roar in the white flesh of Cas' throat. Before he could do anything but scream, and bite down. Cas put his hand where it was never meant to go again, and smiled savagely.
"Too late, Dean," he whispered, his throat moving wetly between Dean's teeth, a flash in his eyes beneath the haze of drugs and pain. An angel, floating beneath the wasting, still watching Dean with that old, searing stare and the whisper of hope.
You don't think you deserve to be saved.
"I killed you," Dean snarled silently, tasting Cas' blood on his lips, remembering what it felt like to see the hopeless acceptance in this creature's eyes, remembering what it felt like to die knowing he'd sent the angel first. "I killed you," he whispered to the angel, to the thing behind Cas' eyes. To Castiel. "I killed you, you son of a bitch, stop haunting me. Leave me alone!" And then, quieter, feeling the shaking in human limbs, feeling the quiver of a human body pressed beneath him. "Leave us alone."
Cas laughed, at that. Shifting his torn neck away from Dean's mouth, tangling long, graceful fingers in Dean's hair. Only one hand. Only one. The other hadn't moved, had wrapped itself around the mark on Dean's shoulder with a strength Cas didn't have anymore, with a strength the wasted human had never had. Cas laughed.
"He can't, Dean," the ex-angel whispered wetly, leaning up to take Dean's mouth in a breathless kiss, to lick at his own blood like it was nectar, something sweet and dazzling. "He can't," he whispered in Dean's ear. "He's not dead. You didn't kill him well enough." A curve of bruised lips, while Dean shuddered. "He's watching you, Dean. He's watching us. Right now. Angels can see you when you dream, remember?"
Dean flinched back, juddering away from the tangle of arms and the throat painted red, while the creature inside him howled. While the demon shaped in Hell screamed at him, at the angel, at the sweet, wasted thing it had pinned beneath it and used. Dean flinched back, and caught himself in Cas' eyes. Caught himself on the thing behind them, the depthless, ancient thing, full of pity and completely without mercy. The thing that had seized him in Hell, the thing that had seen him, known him, and pulled him free anyway. The thing that had seared its mark into his flesh, and claimed him for its own.
I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.
Come back, Dean. Wake up.
"I killed you," he whispered again, knowing he was dreaming. Almost understanding it. The broken Cas smiled at him, the flash of something bitter and knowing and sweet. A dream, now. If he'd ever been anything else. A dream of the future, while the devil touched inside him shattered things.
"Not without my consent," the phantom whispered, laughing blackly, almost gently. "Not without my choice, fearless leader. Even in dreams, you don't get to take my choice."
Are you coming? Of course.
Dean, wake up!
"I still killed you," he said, but it wasn't him. Not quite him. The creature inside him, the devil wearing his face, reached out with a snarl and the cold lash of memory. The demon Alastair had shaped, the thing that had stood beside the rack and lashed out at the glory that came to call it home. The thing he'd seen in a future Dean's eyes. The thing he had seen watching a once-angel, a pale and wasted thing, and ... and it had been pity, in Cas' eyes, when he'd seen it too. An ancient, merciless pity.
Are you coming? Of course.
You don't get to take my choice.
"You can't," Cas said, simply. "You can't kill me, Dean. Not alone. Not without my consent." His eyes, soft and merciless in a wasted face. His eyes, and the angel behind them was more than just a memory. "I am not your creature, Dean. I am not your pet, nor Heaven's, nor Hell's. I am not your tool, nor Zachariah's, for all his games. You do not get to use me. You do not get to take my choice. You do not get to kill me!"
The dream leaned forward, leaned up, and it was shining. It was searing, light and Grace on Dean's face that he barely remembered, that had faded so much now, but it was still enough. It was still enough. A spike of agony flared in Dean's shoulder, dug beneath his flesh, and the thing behind Cas' eyes growled in savage satisfaction.
I brought you from Hell, Dean Winchester. I raised you from Perdition. I have seen the demon beneath your flesh, and I deny him! I have seen the devil that haunts your dreams, and I refuse him! I took you from Hell, and it cannot have you back! I stole you from Heaven, and they cannot use you!
"Cas?" he whimpered, flinching down as his shoulder screamed in pain, as the devil that wore his face screamed in fury. "Cas!" he cried, and there were hands on his face, hands that shook and jittered with drugs and nerves, hands that had died five years in the future. A dream laid hands on his face, and the thing behind its eyes had a hand on his shoulder, and no force in Heaven or Hell could convince it to let go.
"I am not your choice, Dean," the angel growled. "You cannot kill me, or hurt me, or send me to my death, human. You cannot use me. I am not yours. And you ... are not theirs!"
Something snapped, sheared, a hold on him that hadn't been Cas, or the creature inside him, Alastair's creation. A hold that had been foreign and greasy and cold, a hold inside his mind that felt, for one fleeting second, like Zachariah's smug smile had looked. That hold sheered away, torn loose by the savagery of Castiel's claim, and the things it had raised, the shattered things, the monstrous things, fell back. While his shoulder screamed one last time in agony, while the mark in his flesh seared him, the devil that wore his face fell away, and the once-angel he had killed with him. They fell away, and only the angel remained, hand still firm on Dean's shoulder.
I am not your choice, Dean Winchester, Castiel whispered, with vicious satisfaction. I am not your choice. You ... are mine.
And they don't get to take what's mine.
His eyes flared open, snapped free from dreams by the voice inside his head and the agony in his shoulder, and there was nothing in the darkness. No future bathed in blood, no ex-angel withered in despair, no devil wearing either his brother's face or his own. No Zachariah, come to gloat. Nothing. Nothing at all.
Except a pair of blue eyes with some ancient, possessive thing behind them, and a hand firm and sure on his shoulder.
"You should be careful of dreams, Dean," Cas commented softly above him. "They are the tools of devils and angels. All too often, they lie."
He blinked up at him, at the angel above him. At Castiel, his angel, however faded. He blinked up at him, and smiled. Slow and pained and richly, savagely victorious.
"Yeah," he rasped, hearing his brother shift in his sleep across the room, but looking only at Cas. Only at his angel. "They do. Cas?"
The angel tilted his head, curious, smiling distantly. Dean grinned around the shadow of Hell, and leaned up to take that mouth in a breathless kiss. Leaned up to taste his possession in an angel's mouth, to let the ancient thing beneath it touch inside him shattered things, and tear them gently at the seams. Leaned up to touch his angel.
"You're mine too," he whispered. "Dreams lie, Cas. You're mine too."
And the ancient thing smiled.
And all at night the Devil dreams
To touch inside you shattered things
To touch where once a hope had been
And tear it gently at the seams
Except it wasn't the devil. It wasn't the devil in Dean's dreams. You couldn't be blamed for thinking it, maybe, but the face the devil wore for that these days wasn't his. Wrong brother. The devil wore a more innocent face than his, a face that had never looked lovingly on an act of torture, and sometimes in those dreams Lucifer smiled through that face like he loved the irony of it. Sometimes the devil smiled.
But the devil dreaming now of shattered things wasn't Lucifer. The demon touching quivering limbs in the darkness, drinking their pain, wasn't Satan. The devil stroking cheeks beneath dazed, shattered blue eyes wasn't the creature wearing Sam's face.
It was the creature wearing Dean's. It was the creature he'd become.
Cas moved beneath him, suddenly. Not Castiel, not anymore, not this one. Only Cas. Shattered Cas. A human bearing an angel's name, who'd died because Dean said so, and no-one to save them both from Hell. Not this time. Not ever again. No-one left, and Cas moved beneath him, stretching against the ache of what they'd done, of what Dean had done to him. If only Cas would realise it.
"Dean?" he whispered softly, curling wasted limbs around the devil in his arms. A strange gesture, until Dean saw his face. Until he saw the blue eyes flash with something, a pale remnant of what had once lived there, of depth and glory and searing pity. The creature inside Dean snarled at it, at that memory of something beautiful, at that flare of something inimical. At something that should no longer exist. Cas blinked, and laughed, the gulping of a white throat beneath Dean's teeth.
"Don't," Dean growled, savage and harsh, despairing. Don't be that thing again. We both know what happened to him. Don't watch me with his eyes. "Don't, Cas."
The once-angel moved, curved his spine upwards to brush lean, wasted flesh against Dean's stomach in dizzying offer, hands reaching to wrap around Dean's arms while he was distracted. His shoulders, and Dean knew a second too late where they were going, what Cas was doing, and then the ex-angel's palm had slipped silently onto the old mark, the handprint seared into his flesh, the only reminder left of what they'd once been, both of them. Before he could stop it, before he could do anything but muffle his roar in the white flesh of Cas' throat. Before he could do anything but scream, and bite down. Cas put his hand where it was never meant to go again, and smiled savagely.
"Too late, Dean," he whispered, his throat moving wetly between Dean's teeth, a flash in his eyes beneath the haze of drugs and pain. An angel, floating beneath the wasting, still watching Dean with that old, searing stare and the whisper of hope.
You don't think you deserve to be saved.
"I killed you," Dean snarled silently, tasting Cas' blood on his lips, remembering what it felt like to see the hopeless acceptance in this creature's eyes, remembering what it felt like to die knowing he'd sent the angel first. "I killed you," he whispered to the angel, to the thing behind Cas' eyes. To Castiel. "I killed you, you son of a bitch, stop haunting me. Leave me alone!" And then, quieter, feeling the shaking in human limbs, feeling the quiver of a human body pressed beneath him. "Leave us alone."
Cas laughed, at that. Shifting his torn neck away from Dean's mouth, tangling long, graceful fingers in Dean's hair. Only one hand. Only one. The other hadn't moved, had wrapped itself around the mark on Dean's shoulder with a strength Cas didn't have anymore, with a strength the wasted human had never had. Cas laughed.
"He can't, Dean," the ex-angel whispered wetly, leaning up to take Dean's mouth in a breathless kiss, to lick at his own blood like it was nectar, something sweet and dazzling. "He can't," he whispered in Dean's ear. "He's not dead. You didn't kill him well enough." A curve of bruised lips, while Dean shuddered. "He's watching you, Dean. He's watching us. Right now. Angels can see you when you dream, remember?"
Dean flinched back, juddering away from the tangle of arms and the throat painted red, while the creature inside him howled. While the demon shaped in Hell screamed at him, at the angel, at the sweet, wasted thing it had pinned beneath it and used. Dean flinched back, and caught himself in Cas' eyes. Caught himself on the thing behind them, the depthless, ancient thing, full of pity and completely without mercy. The thing that had seized him in Hell, the thing that had seen him, known him, and pulled him free anyway. The thing that had seared its mark into his flesh, and claimed him for its own.
I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.
Come back, Dean. Wake up.
"I killed you," he whispered again, knowing he was dreaming. Almost understanding it. The broken Cas smiled at him, the flash of something bitter and knowing and sweet. A dream, now. If he'd ever been anything else. A dream of the future, while the devil touched inside him shattered things.
"Not without my consent," the phantom whispered, laughing blackly, almost gently. "Not without my choice, fearless leader. Even in dreams, you don't get to take my choice."
Are you coming? Of course.
Dean, wake up!
"I still killed you," he said, but it wasn't him. Not quite him. The creature inside him, the devil wearing his face, reached out with a snarl and the cold lash of memory. The demon Alastair had shaped, the thing that had stood beside the rack and lashed out at the glory that came to call it home. The thing he'd seen in a future Dean's eyes. The thing he had seen watching a once-angel, a pale and wasted thing, and ... and it had been pity, in Cas' eyes, when he'd seen it too. An ancient, merciless pity.
Are you coming? Of course.
You don't get to take my choice.
"You can't," Cas said, simply. "You can't kill me, Dean. Not alone. Not without my consent." His eyes, soft and merciless in a wasted face. His eyes, and the angel behind them was more than just a memory. "I am not your creature, Dean. I am not your pet, nor Heaven's, nor Hell's. I am not your tool, nor Zachariah's, for all his games. You do not get to use me. You do not get to take my choice. You do not get to kill me!"
The dream leaned forward, leaned up, and it was shining. It was searing, light and Grace on Dean's face that he barely remembered, that had faded so much now, but it was still enough. It was still enough. A spike of agony flared in Dean's shoulder, dug beneath his flesh, and the thing behind Cas' eyes growled in savage satisfaction.
I brought you from Hell, Dean Winchester. I raised you from Perdition. I have seen the demon beneath your flesh, and I deny him! I have seen the devil that haunts your dreams, and I refuse him! I took you from Hell, and it cannot have you back! I stole you from Heaven, and they cannot use you!
"Cas?" he whimpered, flinching down as his shoulder screamed in pain, as the devil that wore his face screamed in fury. "Cas!" he cried, and there were hands on his face, hands that shook and jittered with drugs and nerves, hands that had died five years in the future. A dream laid hands on his face, and the thing behind its eyes had a hand on his shoulder, and no force in Heaven or Hell could convince it to let go.
"I am not your choice, Dean," the angel growled. "You cannot kill me, or hurt me, or send me to my death, human. You cannot use me. I am not yours. And you ... are not theirs!"
Something snapped, sheared, a hold on him that hadn't been Cas, or the creature inside him, Alastair's creation. A hold that had been foreign and greasy and cold, a hold inside his mind that felt, for one fleeting second, like Zachariah's smug smile had looked. That hold sheered away, torn loose by the savagery of Castiel's claim, and the things it had raised, the shattered things, the monstrous things, fell back. While his shoulder screamed one last time in agony, while the mark in his flesh seared him, the devil that wore his face fell away, and the once-angel he had killed with him. They fell away, and only the angel remained, hand still firm on Dean's shoulder.
I am not your choice, Dean Winchester, Castiel whispered, with vicious satisfaction. I am not your choice. You ... are mine.
And they don't get to take what's mine.
His eyes flared open, snapped free from dreams by the voice inside his head and the agony in his shoulder, and there was nothing in the darkness. No future bathed in blood, no ex-angel withered in despair, no devil wearing either his brother's face or his own. No Zachariah, come to gloat. Nothing. Nothing at all.
Except a pair of blue eyes with some ancient, possessive thing behind them, and a hand firm and sure on his shoulder.
"You should be careful of dreams, Dean," Cas commented softly above him. "They are the tools of devils and angels. All too often, they lie."
He blinked up at him, at the angel above him. At Castiel, his angel, however faded. He blinked up at him, and smiled. Slow and pained and richly, savagely victorious.
"Yeah," he rasped, hearing his brother shift in his sleep across the room, but looking only at Cas. Only at his angel. "They do. Cas?"
The angel tilted his head, curious, smiling distantly. Dean grinned around the shadow of Hell, and leaned up to take that mouth in a breathless kiss. Leaned up to taste his possession in an angel's mouth, to let the ancient thing beneath it touch inside him shattered things, and tear them gently at the seams. Leaned up to touch his angel.
"You're mine too," he whispered. "Dreams lie, Cas. You're mine too."
And the ancient thing smiled.
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