Shut Me Out (of Heaven)

-Part 1. No Pain so Great or Guilt

Rating: T or, for conservatives, M. There is really no actual sex. I don't even describe the foreplay. What kind of woman AM I??
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Warning: Not happy.

Story Note: This is a little ficlet written with my twenty-word table prompt. The word was Guilt and I decided that the deflowering of Castiel was always a bit too easy. Would the assholes that now run heaven really let him get away with that? I highly doubt it. Anyway, I hope to write more. It has the potential to be a series in its own right but for inspiration I'm RPing it out on Elliquiy.

A/N: This is the first story that I have posted or even written in over a year. And what I posted then was something written for class. I'm underpracticed and still not sure if I've got my mojo back but here's to hoping.

He knows when it happens and it isn't like he ever would have expected. After his recent history of defying the words of his Father, after blatantly rebelling, killing his own kind, and distancing himself further from heaven than he has ever been in all of his existence, this breaking point is both unexpected and yet inevitable.

The day had passed like any other in recent months. Joining the brothers in a one of their small and inconsequential battles to save a family that in all honesty will probably die soon from forces greater than a shape shifter, the only thing that marks this day as any different is that Castiel underestimates the enemy. Still not used to his diminished power, he approached the monster as he would have done for centuries and in one moment he is going in for the kill where in the next he finds himself pinned to the floor, his human body ripping under the pain and the violence reeking from the mouth of the creature. He tries to shout but chokes on a mouthful of blood. Just as another slice of excruciating pain digs into his easily-damaged flesh, a shout that is not his own echoes on the walls of the mausoleum and suddenly the pressure holding him down is gone, replaced by gentle hands and anguished moans.

Dean carries him back to the motel where Sam quietly gets his own room, giving up his old bed for the damaged angel. Under the flickering lights in the motel, Castiel writhes and moans as the healing hands that have always been inside him struggle harder than they have ever had to. As he stitches himself up from the inside out, Dean sits, holding his hand and muttering clumsy words of encouragement.

It takes a few hours but Castiel is finally able to sit up, struggling to bring himself to a semi-vertical position. He looks at the hunter that is still clutching his hand, averting his eyes in a way that suggests he is embarrassed about the obvious signs of distress that he had been unable to hide. A pang of something hits the angel and he takes his free hand, extending it to run through Dean's hair, twisting in the strands filthy from the day's work.

"Dean," he whispers, tugging very gently at his handful of the man. Dean looks up, tears he had been trying to hide falling at the sudden movement. The sight of it makes the something spread from the center of Castiel's chest to his fingers and toes and before he knows what he's doing, he is pulling the hunter closer, his blue eyes fixed on the muddy green ones. He sees a glint, a moment of acknowledgement that encourages him to pull just a little more until dry, chapped lips meet his own, clumsily pressing here then there until, with a grunt of deepening desire, Dean traps Castiel's face with his hands and holds it steady, leaving him free to properly ravage his mouth.

The events that immediately followed are as ancient as humankind. The whispered words of affection, removal of clothing and the positioning of bodies after proper exploration are the oldest song and dance known to man but somehow this is marked as different and every moment that Castiel is raised higher in his euphoria, an intensifying glow begins to seep through his pores. With every cry that escapes his lips, Dean finds himself just a little closer to hearing the singing hosts of heaven. He knows that this is special; a new moment for the world. Who else, he questions, has ever had the pleasure of taking an angel in a way that is so decidedly human? As he breathes his question into Castiel's mouth, the angel in question grunts and wings spread free from beneath him. Sighed chuckles greet this development as they shift positions to give allowances for the unexpected manifestation.

Neither remembers Anna and even if they did, it wouldn't change the impact of this purely unique union.

The change comes just as Dean is gently removing his fingers, positioning Castiel gently over himself and muttering words of encouragement. 'It will hurt a little,' he admits, his fingers making small circles on the angel's hips. 'Just breathe; relax. And if you want to stop, all you have to do is say something.' Worry is seeping into Dean's eyes as he stares up at the being that is so perfectly angelic and pure. A hint of guilt at his determination to give into carnality at the price of godliness threatens even in the sex-tinged air.

But Cas just looks at him and cocks his head to the side. 'I trust you, Dean.'

It's just that simple and with a breath to contain the joyful ache in his heart that is painfully akin to love, Dean pulls downward on the hips, beginning to sheathe himself in the angel.

The cry of agony that rips through the still tranquility of the room startles him as he pulls back, terrified that he's done something wrong, new to this as he is. Apologizing, he insists that there are other ways. Not all gay couples have sex anally. They can just—

But he is cut off as Castiel throws himself away from the bed, his hands ripping at his head and crying as he bangs into a wall like a bug hitting a light bulb. Terrified, Dean follows, holding his arms out protectively as the angel bangs himself again and again against the wall as if trying to escape the room.

It's at that moment that Dean realizes something.

The glow is gone.

The wings are gone.

A new kind of fear makes him go cold as he lunges for the crying Castiel, pulling him with all his might to his chest and bringing them to the floor where, after long minutes of struggling and screaming, Cas lays weeping. His arms that pushed so pathetically against Dean's grasp fall down, shaking with a fatigue that the being has never in his existence known before. His legs beg him to run but, not finding the strength in himself, instead curl against himself, tucking in between the two bodies as toes that have not known the cold since the angel's inhabitance seek warmth.

Through all this, Dean doesn't need to hear Castiel to know what has happened. His whole body has gone rigid. He is sick with shock and realization and…guilt. They sit in silence for hours, daylight peeking into the motel room as if mocking Cas for his newly-found impotence and Dean for his hand in it. They sit and wait, fear coloring the world as the anticipation for something unknowable and indefinable holds them immobile.

In the end, it isn't Cas who finds the words to put a name to the feelings coursing through the both of them.

"They left you." It isn't a question and specification isn't needed. Castiel simply nods a head that aches from tears and moans.

Nothing else is exchanged. They merely sit, holding each other as if by doing so they can reverse what has happened.

Sam finds them a few hours later, throws a blanket over them as he frantically tries to pry information from their lips, quickly assuming that they received a visitor in the night while he'd slipped out in search of his own company. They're in shock, he knows, and he laboriously peels them apart, dresses them like overlarge dolls, and pushes them into the back seat of the Impala with the stolen blanket at which point he speeds all the way to Bobby's house, all the while insisting that they'll be okay.

But they won't be.

It's weeks later and Castiel still hasn't left the room that Bobby lent him. At night, Sam, Dean and Bobby sit at the kitchen table and listen to the angel-turned-man's screams as centuries of nightmares introduce themselves to him.

Bobby shakes his head. It's just a cryin' shame to lose one of their best assets, he sighs.

Sam speculated for a while but now he just shrugs. Dude knew the risks when he got into it, he reasons.

Only Dean is silent, slowly drowning himself in heavy booze. Once, when Sam and Bobby went their separate directions, he wanders outside. Staring up at the heavens, he curses God, Zachariah, and any other damned creature that will listen as, for the second time in his life, he trashes the Impala.

Nobody answers and the cancerous guilt spreads.