Rating: R (language/sex)
Genre and/or Pairing: 50 sentence ficlets - Dean/Cas
Spoilers: Some references to S4/S5. S6/S7 events are drawn upon but aren't explicitly referred to.
Warnings: References to canon and non-canon character deaths (but ultimately a happy ending, I promise!)
Word Count: 1,817
Notes: Fifty sentences - headings/prompts chosen at random by me! This was way harder to write than I expected and took ages... it felt less like writing a fic and more like writing fifty very short drabbles XD It's a mixture of heartbreaking, happy, sweet and porny :)
Summary: A series of snapshots of Castiel's life (or, at least, the years that matter most).
"I gave you life, Dean Winchester," Castiel rages at him, thinking of Hell and also of Dean lying bloody and wounded at his feet leaking life onto half-dead grass; he thinks, but does not say, and everything of mine as well.
Castiel throws his head back and arches off the sheets as the universe narrows to the perfect cupid's bow of Dean's mouth and the place where the soft swell of his lips turns hidden and slick.
"Thanks, man, this is why I like you the best," Dean jokes as Castiel passes him his half-finished slice of apple pie, ignoring Sam's scowl of indignation.
It doesn't take long for Castiel to become adept at using a computer, and he can proudly say that the Wikipedia pages on Heaven and angel lore have never been so accurate nor up-to-date; his joy is short-lived, however, as two days later his changes are reversed by the site administrators (apparently 'I am an Angel of the Lord' does not count as an adequate citation).
Castiel finds that he has a natural talent for writing poetry, his gift for languages and his need to articulate his now very human emotions his influence; he writes hundreds of poems for Dean, to Dean, and burns every one of them before he will ever get the chance to read them (he knows him too well).
He dips his fingers into the clear water of the stream and looks out across the lush viridian landscape, admiring the beauty of the world created by the one he was once proud to call 'Father'.
"Delicious, right?" Dean asks him over ice cream; Castiel nods in agreement but recalls the hot, intense flavour of Dean's mouth and thinks I have tasted better.
"You know, sometimes I wish I could fucking hate you just so I wouldn't have to put up with you," Dean spits; Castiel drags him to the floor and kisses him harshly because there are times where drowning in one another is all they have.
Never, in all his existence, has Castiel had so much and so few worth fighting for.
Sometimes, lying side by side in bed, he will feel tears beading Dean's lashes, dampening his shoulder or his arm where they touch; they don't talk about it (but then, Castiel has noticed that there are many things they don't talk about).
"When you were gone, it really broke him up inside," Sam tells him with an aching sadness, but they both know that Dean was broken long before his absence, and there is only so much further that you can fracture shattered glass.
Dean's eyes glint in the fire's glow like light off a blade, but the anger Castiel sees in them cuts him far deeper than any knife could.
In those rare moments when Dean goes gruff and quiet, fumbling over his words in embarrassment and struggling to convey his feelings through lack of practice and intent, Castiel smiles because these are the things that mean the most.
He trembles, overcome, as Dean traces the shape of his body with fingertips Castiel remade himself.
Grasping the beautiful, tattered soul of the righteous man and pulling it from the horrors of Hell, Castiel can feel the frayed edges and deep rooted agony and wishes with every fibre of his being that he could have saved Dean sooner.
He stands at the shoreline, listening to the rhythmic roll of the waves over the sand, and thinks of the sea as it was thousands of years ago; some things never change.
"Dean, what is a 'sext message', and do I need one?" Castiel asks him over the magazine he is reading; he doesn't know why Dean finds his query so amusing but his laughter is always a wonderful thing to hear.
He has heard Dean and Sam described as many things, but the most fitting of all is 'soul mates'.
Dean has sorrow woven into his very skin, a being built with layer upon layer of pain and horror; Castiel wants to unravel him and fix him up like patchwork, taking memories of loss and stitching pieces of light and hope in their place wherever he can.
"I serve Heaven and Heaven alone, and our Father's word is absolute," Castiel says, avoiding the gaze of his brothers and sisters; he never was very good at lying.
There is a promise held in the lush curve of Dean's smile; Castiel does not know what he is offering but he does know that he would very much like to find out.
"I see," Castiel says serenely as he hurtles them down the road at nearly seventy miles per hour, Dean's knuckles turning even whiter when he continues with "and which one is the brake again?"
They have achieved more in the last twenty four hours than they have managed in the previous two weeks, feeling high and happy after a job well done; the highlight of Castiel's day, however, has to be a very drunk Dean curiously asking him if "multidimensional wave-thingies of celestial intent can get boners," and other pressing questions.
Dean sits behind him, pressed together as though they are one, stroking and teasing Castiel's body as if it were his own and whispering things that should be obscene but instead are perfect.
"There was once a time that you did not have faith in my existence, you did not believe," Castiel murmurs, and Dean simply strokes reverent fingers over his jaw and his lips and looks at Castiel as though sometimes he still cannot.
Dean bandages Castiel's wounds with hands streaked in blood that is not his, destruction and restoration both.
He remembers slamming Dean into the alleyway wall hard enough to rattle bone and all the things he saw in his eyes but could not then understand.
"You'll be there, on the other side?" Dean asks him one day; Castiel says yes and spends the rest of his life ensuring that this will be the case.
Once, many centuries ago, Anna told him that she believed he had great potential; he thinks of her wings burnt black and beautiful onto the ground, betrayal charred into their dark outline, and wonders if he has by now achieved whatever it was that she had hoped for him.
Held captive in Heaven, pain escalating and at the mercy of those who call themselves 'good', he wishes he had a mouth with which to scream.
He has made many mistakes but regrets none of them, for at least he had the freedom with which to make them.
"You ain't leaving me too, are you?" Dean asks him, eyes painted glossy with grief and neat whiskey, and Castiel says "I won't," but really means I can't.
The rain is heavy and sustained and Dean complains about it constantly, but to Castiel it feels cleansing and pure, as though the whole world is starting anew.
Mapping every part of Dean's body intimately over and over and over, he wonders if he will ever tire of learning the splendour and intricacies of the human anatomy (he doesn't).
Dean's fingers rub absent-mindedly up and down the dripping neck of his beer bottle and Castiel flushes hot, remembering; when Dean catches his eye and smirks at him he realises that his actions aren't so accidental after all.
Castiel tilts his head back to look at the night sky and smiles at the brilliance of the stars studded like sharp-cut diamonds across the dark canvas; he wonders at what point he stopped turning his eyes heavenwards and thinking home.
He places his head on Dean's chest and listens to the steady beat of his heart counting down the seconds, minutes, hours remaining until the war to end all wars begins.
"Sam, I am honoured to be your friend and to fight alongside you," Castiel tells him with gentle sincerity whilst Dean rolls his eyes and pretends to gag to hide his smile.
"Do you trust me?" Dean yells over the whipping of the wind all around them and Castiel says "Yes", closing his mouth before far more than I should slips out unbidden.
The first time Dean asks to be penetrated Castiel comes before he can even get inside, Dean's voice, the brush of his thigh and the very idea of it enough; Dean laughs and laughs, body quaking around two fingers, until Castiel finds exactly where to stroke to render him submissive and speechless.
Before he met Dean, Castiel was unaware that it was possible to torment someone using only your tongue, gentle fingers and the steady passing of time.
Castiel's breath catches in his throat as Dean sinks into his body inch by exquisite inch, and he cannot help but wonder if humans ever forget how to breathe.
"Someone may see us," Castiel whispers against Dean's neck, but Dean simply presses him deeper into the backseat of the Impala and smirks, saying "Why, you gonna let 'em?"
"And what about you, Castiel; have you allowed your beloved Dean to sodomise you like the human whore you so clearly wish to become?" Zachariah sneers at him, and Castiel takes great pleasure in responding with "Yes, I enjoyed it immensely," and watching the other angel's vessel flush crimson with rage.
There are fingerprint bruises on Castiel's hips where Dean has held him, and fucked him, and loved him, but he doesn't heal them, choosing instead to wear them as a brand (shadows of what has gone before).
On the first of January Dean puts every pill, every painkiller he has in his possession, in the trash; Castiel isn't entirely sure where this sudden no-drugs rule has come from, but perhaps it is some sort of New Year's resolution for 2014?
Sometimes the three of them (Castiel, Dean, Sam) sit by the Impala in comfortable silence, drinking beer and soaking in the sun's warm rays; here Castiel thinks he finally understands the meaning of the word 'content'.
"You know that you're, like, everything, right?" Dean says softly to him, given courage in the dark.
They leave this life together and on a Thursday, and isn't that just fitting?
As the years stretch into millennia and the passing of time is enveloped by eternity, one thing remains certain: he did it (all of it) for Dean.