MMoM Day 3: Daylight, Supernatural
May. 3rd, 2009 12:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonlettuceTitle: Daylight
Author: Claire
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG
Summary: No words are spoken
Notes: Kinda future fic. Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
mmom
Although he thinks about it (along with green eyes and a touch that has never danced across his skin), Castiel doesn't fall when it's finally over. When the battlefields are clear and Lucifer is cast back to the Pit, and light of the Host is illuminating the blood across the ground, he stands before Dean.
No words are spoken; there are none to be said. Dean will not ask the question burning in his throat.
Stay.
And Castiel will not give the only answer he can.
Yes.
His brethren are pulling back, called home by their Father, a soft whisper across Castiel's mind until he is the only one left.
"Cas--" Dean's voice is ragged, broken in a way it should never be. "Oh god, Cas--" The rest of the words are cut off, swallowed by Castiel's lips over Dean's.
They haven't done this before. Even when the battles were at their worst and the dawns seemed so far away they still didn't allow themselves each other. Because Castiel knows that if he had reached out and touched Dean then he would never be able to bring himself to leave.
Dean is want and desire and sin and blasphemy pulsing hot in Castiel's hands. He is faithlessness and hope and glorious perfection. He is-- Dean.
Their hands are moving under clothes, over skin; mapping each other by touch alone. His Father is allowing this, is allowing Castiel this need, even as the Host's song burns brighter within him. And he is grateful, prayer of thanks sent Heavenward for his Father's ears alone.
He's grateful because, as much as Castiel needs this, Dean needs it more. He needs to know that the reason Castiel didn't touch was never that Dean wasn't good enough.
Castiel knows Dean will use this to see him through the nights. Knows Dean will lay in a thousand beds in a thousand motels in a thousand towns and think of Castiel's hands on him. He will lie back and close his eyes and imagine Castiel's touch instead of his own.
And Castiel will feel it, want and need and Dean echoing through him. His hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around Dean's shoulder, fitting perfectly to the mark already there, solid and real and branding Castiel's name into Dean's body. He will feel it because Dean is his, Castiel's grace coupled to Dean's soul in a way that even Heaven cannot, will not, tear asunder.
And as Castiel leaves earth, he leaves Dean with four words whispering across his skin. They're a prayer and a promise, a vow to carry them both through the coming years.
I will be waiting.
Author: Claire
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG
Summary: No words are spoken
Notes: Kinda future fic. Written for
mmomAlthough he thinks about it (along with green eyes and a touch that has never danced across his skin), Castiel doesn't fall when it's finally over. When the battlefields are clear and Lucifer is cast back to the Pit, and light of the Host is illuminating the blood across the ground, he stands before Dean.
No words are spoken; there are none to be said. Dean will not ask the question burning in his throat.
Stay.
And Castiel will not give the only answer he can.
Yes.
His brethren are pulling back, called home by their Father, a soft whisper across Castiel's mind until he is the only one left.
"Cas--" Dean's voice is ragged, broken in a way it should never be. "Oh god, Cas--" The rest of the words are cut off, swallowed by Castiel's lips over Dean's.
They haven't done this before. Even when the battles were at their worst and the dawns seemed so far away they still didn't allow themselves each other. Because Castiel knows that if he had reached out and touched Dean then he would never be able to bring himself to leave.
Dean is want and desire and sin and blasphemy pulsing hot in Castiel's hands. He is faithlessness and hope and glorious perfection. He is-- Dean.
Their hands are moving under clothes, over skin; mapping each other by touch alone. His Father is allowing this, is allowing Castiel this need, even as the Host's song burns brighter within him. And he is grateful, prayer of thanks sent Heavenward for his Father's ears alone.
He's grateful because, as much as Castiel needs this, Dean needs it more. He needs to know that the reason Castiel didn't touch was never that Dean wasn't good enough.
Castiel knows Dean will use this to see him through the nights. Knows Dean will lay in a thousand beds in a thousand motels in a thousand towns and think of Castiel's hands on him. He will lie back and close his eyes and imagine Castiel's touch instead of his own.
And Castiel will feel it, want and need and Dean echoing through him. His hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around Dean's shoulder, fitting perfectly to the mark already there, solid and real and branding Castiel's name into Dean's body. He will feel it because Dean is his, Castiel's grace coupled to Dean's soul in a way that even Heaven cannot, will not, tear asunder.
And as Castiel leaves earth, he leaves Dean with four words whispering across his skin. They're a prayer and a promise, a vow to carry them both through the coming years.
I will be waiting.
