Brilliant Light of Morning

4-20: The Rapture


Dean breathed in the scent of warm honeysuckle, a light breeze coming off the lake, brushing across his face. He glanced around at the gold-tinged water, wondering why he was alone.

And then, quite suddenly, he wasn't alone. Castiel stood next to his chair on the dock. "I'm dreaming, aren't I?" Dean asked.

"Yes," Castiel replied.

If you asked Dean later, he would tell you that he had no idea where the urge had come from; but it came on him so suddenly that it drove everything else from his head. "Good." He stood, gripped Castiel by the front of his coat, and tossed him backwards onto the bed that was suddenly behind him, thanking the stars for his dream walking experience. They were in a hotel room now, a bland one, but the bed was all Dean really needed.

He'd waited long enough for this. Wallpaper wasn't really a factor.

Castiel seemed surprised, but only for a moment. It flickered across his face like the light off the water that still lay outside the window. It was replaced then by something darker, richer, and decidedly un-angelic. Which Dean took for what it was - encouragement. He took a moment to admire the way the angel looked - half-laying on the bed, propped on his elbows, his coat and hair mussed, face open, dark, legs splayed in casual debauchery. Dean took a moment - but only a moment. It was all he could stand.

Dean placed his hands on either side of the angel's face, and kissed him, his urgency evident in the swipe of his tongue, the press of his lips. Castiel answered in kind, his hands gripping Dean by the shirt, pulling him forward. They tumbled back onto the bed, which was much nicer than any real hotel mattress, legs entwining, hips meeting, tongues dancing, and Dean was shaking as hard as he did during his first time on that dirty couch with Cindy Marie Hanscom when he was fifteen. His skin felt hot and tight, and he’d lost all control of his breathing. And this was still only a dream.

Castiel moaned up into Dean’s mouth then, and the sound sent bolts of lust right through him. He’d never heard anything so needy, so hot, and it made him want to move things along.

And the simple thought was apparently enough, because the next moment they were both nude, and the sudden feel of soft, silky skin all around him was so shocking that Dean bucked his hips a few times before gaining control. He was pretty sure he hadn’t removed their clothes, and the thought that Castiel had done that made him bite the angel on his full lower lip, and give a moan of his own.

The thought occurred to him then that maybe he should take this slow; that his first time with Castiel, even if it was in a dream, should be long, and careful, and gentle. But then Castiel’s lips were at his ear, and the angel groaned, “Dean, ” and his long fingers brushed the handprint on Dean’s arm, and all thoughts of being careful were gone. He gripped Castiel’s surprisingly strong thighs, wrapping them around his waist, then wrapped an arm around the angel’s back, the other hand tangling in the short, feather-soft hair on the back of his head. Dean’s eyes met Castiel’s blue gaze, and his breath hitched at the unadulterated lust he saw there. He rolled his hips, knowing as he did so that it would not work like this in the real world, where they would need lube and preparation, and slow inching in careful thrusts, but this was not the real world and Dean wanted, needed, to be inside Castiel now.

So his hips rolled, and he slid inside, and it was so hot it edged on painful, and tighter than even a normal virgin, and so sweet he tasted it on his tongue, and none of it compared to the sound the angel had made, the whimper that had escaped when Castiel had been breached, the widening of his blue eyes as he discovered what it meant to really be with someone, and Dean hoped to God (and wasn’t that a fucked up idea right there) that Castiel, wherever he was, could feel this as he did.

Castiel’s hands gripped at Dean’s shoulders, his breath coming in pants. Dean rocked his hips, delicious friction where in the real world there would be the slick of lube, or the barrier of latex. Without that, there was just silky, hot skin, that fluttered against Dean’s arousal with every thrust. “Nghnnn,” Castiel’s voice was thick and hoarse, “Dean it’s... I... it’s so...”

“I know,” Dean replied, cradling the angel’s head, staring into his eyes. He lowered his mouth, hips stuttering for a moment on the change of angle, and caught the angel’s lips. Castiel moaned into the kiss, hips canting up to meet Dean’s. He must have hit that golden place inside Castiel then, because he cried out against Dean’s mouth, sound muffled, that lovely tight heat clamping down around him. He tried to hold back, then desperate for this to last, but the change in angle had caused him to press deeper, and as Castiel writhed, obviously nearing his peak, his hand clamped down onto Dean’s scar. His fingernails bit into the burned skin, and that was it. The world went white as Dean came, his back arching, Castiel spasming around him, his own orgasm making him sob.

And when the world came back, Dean was clothed again, sitting int he chair on the dock, panting and sweating, while a thoroughly unruffled Castiel stood beside him. “Dean,” Castiel began, and Dean could hear the lust in his voice, knew the angel had really been there with him, “we need to talk. Not here; somewhere more private.”

“More private?” Dean gasped out. “We’re inside my head!”

“Exactly. Someone could be listening.”

Dean went cold at that particular revelation. “So someone... someone saw that.”

Castiel’s eyes met his, and they held a strange darkness that Dean didn’t understand. “I hope so,” the angel replied, and his voice was low and rough. “Here.” he continued, handing Dean a slip of paper. “Meet me here. Now.”

And Dean was awake, in his bed, in the motel room, tangled in sweaty, sticky, sheets, his mouth flooded with the taste of being inside Castiel.

He was so going back to Hell.

*************
Castiel was being punished. Or “re-educated”, as the specialists liked to call it. Whatever it was, it was dark, and cold, and painful, like icicles stabbed through his body, and it was being forgotten, being shamed, being unloved, being alone. He heard their whispers through a thick red haze of pain, whispers about sin and loyalty, and lovely green eyes. And he could hear Zachariah’s voice, mocking him. “What is it about this human, hmm? What is it about Dean Winchester that could make one of my best and brightest lay on his back and thrash about like a common whore? You should have seen yourself, Castiel, walking Dean’s dreams. You left your body in some filthy motel room as it writhed and moaned, as it thrust into the empty air, as it spasmed and orgasmed, and all for what? Precious few moments of bliss, followed by the inevitable broken heart as he leaves you for the next hot thing? And if your vessel had been less attractive, no pretty blue eyes, or pornographic lips, or twinky little body, would he have looked twice? How can letting that human use you, turn you into a filthy slut, possibly compare to the Grace of our Almighty God?

“Our Father is a jealous one, Castiel, and giving yourself to this human in such a degrading way has made him angry. You will be made to forget; to forget everything. To forget Dean, to forget this night, to forget the Winchesters ever even existed. Dean will be given a new angel, and you will return home.”

Home. Castiel could barely think through the pain. Home, home, where was that? That was where... where there were green... green eyes, and full lips... and a burned handprint in freckled flesh...and Dean. “No,” he said, angelic voice cracking under the strain. “Please, no... I don’t want to forget...”

“It’s better this way,” came Zachariah’s voice again. “You were about to give away the big secret; the endgame. It’s no fun if you tell.”

“I w-won’t tell, I promise, I...”

“Why do you want him so badly, Castiel?”

Why? There was no why. Because he was Dean, because he was strong and fragile and beautiful and flawed and everything. “He’s... home.” Castiel cried out as fire ripped through him, lava coursing through his being, the edges of his Grace crisping like flesh in hot oil.

“NO!!! This is your home! We are your home!!”

Chains clenched around his wings, and through the fog, Castiel managed to think about Dean, and wish Dean had thought to include them in their little dream-walk. He wished Dean had run his hands over the feathers, through them, under them, because Castiel was sure he’d have come from the first touch of Dean’s fingers to his trembling wings.

A slap across the face, and Zachariah’s voice rang out, louder than ever. “Have you learned nothing? Even after all this, you still allow your mind to wallow in sin, your thoughts to linger on his flesh?!”

He had to get back to Dean. Nothing mattered now except that. And Castiel wondered if this was his first step down, if this selfish need for a human being was his first brick in the bridge to the Fall.

“You want to go back?” drawled Zachariah.

“More than... anything.”

“Fine, Castiel. You can go back. You can even keep your wings. But if you tell him, tell him anything, if you so much as think about touching him... we will remove you from him. And remove the memory of him from you.”

As Castiel sank back to Earth, he wondered if maybe he should have just taken his Fall. For this, surely, was Hell.

*************
Dean was numb. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what he’d seen, around Sam... God, the thought made his stomach roil, hot and sick, and his skin burn with shame, shame that he hadn’t known. Looking back, he saw the signs. The withdrawals, the mood swings, the odd eating habits. But it hurt to think about for too long, and Dean wasn’t sure how much more he could take. How much more pain, loss, grief, how much more life.

When Castiel returned to Jimmy’s body (and oh, poor Jimmy, Dean barely had enough room to think about it, but what that poor man who was not Cas went through, how awful), Dean thought maybe he’d see a little peace, a little reassurance. Castiel would tell him what he was supposed to tell him, they would go back to a hotel, they would make love (and Dean couldn’t even bring himself to feel ashamed for thinking of it that way), and then they would help Sam. And everything would be okay.

Only Castiel wasn’t looking at him. He was walking away without a word. And when Dean called to him, the angel’s jaw clenched, and Dean shook as he asked what it had been, what he’d needed to tell him.

“I learned my lesson while I was away, Dean.” Those eyes were so cold, and they hurt to look at, but Dean couldn’t look anywhere else, even as he felt himself dying a little. “I serve Heaven, I don’t serve Man. And I certainly don’t serve you.” And with a swish of his coat, and a turn of his back, Castiel had pulled the last of Dean’s hope away, had left him sick, and empty, and too tired to feel the shards of his heart as they scattered through his body.

But there was still work to be done. Still a battle, still a biblical ball-game.

And for the first time, Dean seriously considered throwing the game.

*************