Day 3: The Word [SPN]
Dec. 3rd, 2008 10:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iliaHoly crap! It's late because I've been working on my paper (due tomorrow). This really got away from me. I only meant to write a little thing because I have a paper to write (and now I have 12 hours to write 7+ pages, oh man.) but I couldn't stop. And I don't even know if it addresses the prompt! *Wails*
Title: The Word
Author: Lady Yueh
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not my property and no infringement is intended.
Character(s): Dean Winchester. Castiel
Date: December 03
Author’s Notes: In response to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
zephyrian's prompt about bringing out how alien Castiel is. I really hope you like it. For this year's Advent Calender (spots still open). And look at my new tag to warn the unsuspecting about pre-slash/slashiness. Also, unbetaed and I won't look at it again until tomorrow because: PAPER! *goes crazy*
--------
“I do not understand.” Castiel’s words were accompanied by that slight tilt of the head, the one that was meant to express curiosity but just looked really eerie when coupled with his really intense expression.
Dean arched an eyebrow in question, though he had the uncomfortable feeling--the one that he always got--that Castiel didn’t need any physical or vocal cues to respond to him. It stemmed from that first moment, when Castiel looked at him, inside him; you don’t think you deserve to be saved, he’d said.
“You declare a holiday to revere the Lord yet do not honor it. Your concerns are shallow and profane. There is so little joy, even you do not feel it.”
Dean doesn’t argue. He doesn’t have enough ammo, and he keeps that private Christmas close--him and Sammy, the chick toys and the talisman he still wore, even after his stint in hell--a slightly tarnished memory among so many burnt and salted alternatives.
“Different strokes for different folks, Cas. Still, at least there’s eggnog.”
“If you could but feel--” Castiel doesn’t finish the thought. It’s one of the most human actions Dean has seen him perform--trailing off, leaving words unspoken.
“Feel what? The holiday spirit?” Dean couldn’t help but mock.
“The Holy Spirit. God’s Love and Glory in all it’s splendor. It would make you weep.”
“No way! No weeping or wailing for me,” Dean argued with his usual bravado.
The look on Castiel’s face--the vessel’s, Dean reminded himself--expressed a healthy amount of skepticism mixed with a whole lotta pity.
“Would you like to?” Castiel asked, earnest and low.
And just how the hell did that sound so suggestive? Dean knew he had a dirty mind but Castiel was a friggin’ angel!
“Yeah,” Dean said with a slightly dry mouth, cursing the impulse a moment later when sanity came back from its short vacation.
Blue eyes shone bright, they twinkled--fucking twinkled--like Castiel knew the kinds of idiot Dean was cursing himself. He probably did know.
Castiel stepped closer.
“Wait,” Dean stalled. “This isn’t going to be freaky or kinky or really embarrassing, is it?”
Castiel shook his head. Something Dean might call a smile if he squinted lurked at the corner of chapped lips. (And seriously? Did angels not know about the existence of chapstick?)
He took another step and that was it, he was firmly entrenched in Dean’s very personal space. Not that it took him much to get there, it seemed that angels had no such concept.
“Close your eyes,” Castiel said, voice no higher than a whisper but no less compelling because of it.
Warm breath skittered across Dean’s lips, blue filled his vision, and the scent underneath the usual smell of humanity--sweat, salt, and musk--was heady and rich. Alluring.
Dean’s lids fell closed. He didn’t even complain.
He regretted that for a moment before the warm touch of Castiel’s hand made him tense. For all that Castiel invaded his personal space he didn’t touch much and when he did it was usually accompanied by some angel whammy.
The broad palm, the length of fingers, like extending branches against his shirt, made his pulse jump. Adrenaline pumped through his system as his body tried to analyze what was happening, why there was someone so close who was neither foe nor willing body to be bedded.
“Peace.” The word was murmured. Dean imagined he would feel the touch of lips if he moved even a centimeter closer. He didn’t move.
“Trust me.”
And the truly wondrous thing was that Dean wanted to. There was that loud clamoring that screamed at him, that warned him not to. But now there was also a small part of him, so tinny it would be so easy to ignore, that wanted to give Castiel the benefit of a doubt, wanted to give him the chance to earn his trust.
Dean exhaled shakily, wondering wildly whether Castiel could smell the onions he’d had for lunch, and relaxed. Slightly.
“Do not open your eyes. For anything. Understand?”
That sounded ominous. Dean wanted nothing more to back out, but he’d given his agreement which was just as good as his word and he couldn’t withdraw now that he’d come so far.
So he answered. “Yes.” In a voice as hushed as Castiel’s.
And then a word was spoken--low and soft, so soft--in a language he’d never heard and he gasped at the sound of it as warmth suffused his entire body, spreading from his chest where Castiel’s hand lay over his heart. And though he couldn’t say what the word meant or even repeat it, something inside him recognized it, knew it was beautiful and sacred and holy and his knees buckled at the power of it, of what it inspired within him but Castiel was there--supporting him, shouldering his weight--and Dean clutched at him, trusted Castiel not to let him fall.
“You can open your eyes.” The words, though whispered, broke the silence. They were grating and awkward in the wake of what Dean had just experienced.
But now that the words had been spoken Dean needed to open his eyes. He blinked away the blur, staring at Castiel who was gazing back serenely, perfectly contained within a body of flesh and bone; looking so normal.
“You weep,” Castiel said as careful fingers rose to Dean’s face and captured a stray tear.
Title: The Word
Author: Lady Yueh
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not my property and no infringement is intended.
Character(s): Dean Winchester. Castiel
Date: December 03
Author’s Notes: In response to
zephyrian's prompt about bringing out how alien Castiel is. I really hope you like it. For this year's Advent Calender (spots still open). And look at my new tag to warn the unsuspecting about pre-slash/slashiness. Also, unbetaed and I won't look at it again until tomorrow because: PAPER! *goes crazy*--------
“I do not understand.” Castiel’s words were accompanied by that slight tilt of the head, the one that was meant to express curiosity but just looked really eerie when coupled with his really intense expression.
Dean arched an eyebrow in question, though he had the uncomfortable feeling--the one that he always got--that Castiel didn’t need any physical or vocal cues to respond to him. It stemmed from that first moment, when Castiel looked at him, inside him; you don’t think you deserve to be saved, he’d said.
“You declare a holiday to revere the Lord yet do not honor it. Your concerns are shallow and profane. There is so little joy, even you do not feel it.”
Dean doesn’t argue. He doesn’t have enough ammo, and he keeps that private Christmas close--him and Sammy, the chick toys and the talisman he still wore, even after his stint in hell--a slightly tarnished memory among so many burnt and salted alternatives.
“Different strokes for different folks, Cas. Still, at least there’s eggnog.”
“If you could but feel--” Castiel doesn’t finish the thought. It’s one of the most human actions Dean has seen him perform--trailing off, leaving words unspoken.
“Feel what? The holiday spirit?” Dean couldn’t help but mock.
“The Holy Spirit. God’s Love and Glory in all it’s splendor. It would make you weep.”
“No way! No weeping or wailing for me,” Dean argued with his usual bravado.
The look on Castiel’s face--the vessel’s, Dean reminded himself--expressed a healthy amount of skepticism mixed with a whole lotta pity.
“Would you like to?” Castiel asked, earnest and low.
And just how the hell did that sound so suggestive? Dean knew he had a dirty mind but Castiel was a friggin’ angel!
“Yeah,” Dean said with a slightly dry mouth, cursing the impulse a moment later when sanity came back from its short vacation.
Blue eyes shone bright, they twinkled--fucking twinkled--like Castiel knew the kinds of idiot Dean was cursing himself. He probably did know.
Castiel stepped closer.
“Wait,” Dean stalled. “This isn’t going to be freaky or kinky or really embarrassing, is it?”
Castiel shook his head. Something Dean might call a smile if he squinted lurked at the corner of chapped lips. (And seriously? Did angels not know about the existence of chapstick?)
He took another step and that was it, he was firmly entrenched in Dean’s very personal space. Not that it took him much to get there, it seemed that angels had no such concept.
“Close your eyes,” Castiel said, voice no higher than a whisper but no less compelling because of it.
Warm breath skittered across Dean’s lips, blue filled his vision, and the scent underneath the usual smell of humanity--sweat, salt, and musk--was heady and rich. Alluring.
Dean’s lids fell closed. He didn’t even complain.
He regretted that for a moment before the warm touch of Castiel’s hand made him tense. For all that Castiel invaded his personal space he didn’t touch much and when he did it was usually accompanied by some angel whammy.
The broad palm, the length of fingers, like extending branches against his shirt, made his pulse jump. Adrenaline pumped through his system as his body tried to analyze what was happening, why there was someone so close who was neither foe nor willing body to be bedded.
“Peace.” The word was murmured. Dean imagined he would feel the touch of lips if he moved even a centimeter closer. He didn’t move.
“Trust me.”
And the truly wondrous thing was that Dean wanted to. There was that loud clamoring that screamed at him, that warned him not to. But now there was also a small part of him, so tinny it would be so easy to ignore, that wanted to give Castiel the benefit of a doubt, wanted to give him the chance to earn his trust.
Dean exhaled shakily, wondering wildly whether Castiel could smell the onions he’d had for lunch, and relaxed. Slightly.
“Do not open your eyes. For anything. Understand?”
That sounded ominous. Dean wanted nothing more to back out, but he’d given his agreement which was just as good as his word and he couldn’t withdraw now that he’d come so far.
So he answered. “Yes.” In a voice as hushed as Castiel’s.
And then a word was spoken--low and soft, so soft--in a language he’d never heard and he gasped at the sound of it as warmth suffused his entire body, spreading from his chest where Castiel’s hand lay over his heart. And though he couldn’t say what the word meant or even repeat it, something inside him recognized it, knew it was beautiful and sacred and holy and his knees buckled at the power of it, of what it inspired within him but Castiel was there--supporting him, shouldering his weight--and Dean clutched at him, trusted Castiel not to let him fall.
“You can open your eyes.” The words, though whispered, broke the silence. They were grating and awkward in the wake of what Dean had just experienced.
But now that the words had been spoken Dean needed to open his eyes. He blinked away the blur, staring at Castiel who was gazing back serenely, perfectly contained within a body of flesh and bone; looking so normal.
“You weep,” Castiel said as careful fingers rose to Dean’s face and captured a stray tear.
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Date: 2008-12-05 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-05 03:09 am (UTC)