Title: Delicate
Author: mummyluvr
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Lucifer, mentions of Sam and Castiel
Warnings: Mentions of torture (oh noes! Dean went to Hell!), slash!
Summary: Dean pulled away, stared into bright blue, and bright blue stared back. Like the abyss, dark and hidden in an honest and open gaze.
Notes: I swore to myself that I wouldn't write any more fic until I was done with the book because it tends to get in the way (I'm still doing drabbles and poems for episodes, I've just gotten behind). And then this… this plot bunny attacked me. Viciously. And it's different. So please excuse the weirdness and go about your business. And I'll go back to my cave. Title is, um, Delicate by Damien Rice, which fits the mood of the fic perfectly. Thank you.
The soul under his hands screamed, twisting away from the cutting edge of his knife, and as much as Dean wanted to stop, he couldn't. Not in the dreams. Never in the dreams.
It looked like his father tonight. Or it had, before skilled hands had stripped thin layers of flesh from muscles, shaved away at bone, etching symbols that were supposed to protect and save deep into the marrow.
He'd been blamed, of course. Blamed for being stupid, for going back, for damning himself and the world. For believing lies told in a soothing voice, the look in loving eyes.
No one loved him. No one dared.
And then there were hands on him, slow and soft and careful, sliding from neck to shoulders to waist. Back up to his arms. Traveling down to his hands and staying their motions, making him stop. Warm breath on his neck and slight stubble on his shoulder.
He turned to see kind eyes, so blue in the redblackwhite of the dream, of Hell. Of course he'd come. He always came. Came to help, to stop it, to make it all go away.
"Close your eyes." Lips soft and pliant against his, words smooth and full of promise, and Dean did as he was told. He trusted. Felt the lips quirk into a small smile as the screams and the blood and the death and the pain melted away.
He woke in a motel bed, softer and warmer than it had any right to be, sheets pooled around his hips, and he turned instinctively into the body beside his, burrowing into the heat and life and safety there. Arms wrapped around him, anchored him in the here and now, the aftermath of so many months of sneaking around, of lying, of betrayal, of giving the only thing he truly had left to give for the sake of something so much more important than himself and still losing everything.
It would only be a matter of time before the arms would disappear, before the body beside his own vanished like everyone else he'd ever dared to love. So he buried himself in the feeling of being held, memorized the way the other man's forehead felt against his own, dry from the winter winds that roared outside. He let worn hands trace his arms, let soft breaths whisper lies disguised as promises against his skin.
He didn't think about his brother, about any of it. Fighting and destiny and the inevitability that had lead him to a cold field and a shameful deal all those months ago.
There would be no Apocalypse, but that didn't mean that Dean Winchester would ever have a happily ever after. Because the blue-eyed man in the bed beside him was breathing hard, eating himself away from the inside out, and time was growing short. Always growing shorter. Stolen moments becoming a golden future becoming a stark reality.
Time was short, and Sam was mortified, horrified, terrified. The end was nigh, and someone Dean had seen as a friend had followed him, betrayed him, revealed him. The world hadn't ended, and Dean had made up his mind, had found a little happiness and refused to let go of it, had stumbled upon the only thing in the universe decidedly more fucked by life than himself and willing to stick out eternity with him and he wasn't going to just sit back and watch it fall away.
He rolled lazily and connected his lips with the other man's, moving his body slowly to pin his partner's to the bed. It was so easy, this thing they had. There was no more judgement, no fear, no pressure or pain. Just them.
He pulled away, stared into bright blue, and bright blue stared back. Like the abyss, dark and hidden in an honest and open gaze.
It was understood, that moment, a silent communication passing between them like so many before. They were getting better at it, at understanding each other, at being able to live in each others' gazes.
No, it couldn't be like that. They couldn't be together. One had to go and one had to stay, and it was as simple as that. Humanity wasn't meant for eyes that blue, and Dean understood. Grace burnt brighter than mortal flesh could comprehend, and eventually every vessel would wear out. Eventually, every angel would be dragged home.
The second question, unasked, was guarded. Careful. Scared. So rare and fleeting an emotion that Dean almost didn't catch it. Dangerous. Would he go? Follow? Join?
Dean pulled away, pulled back, closed his eyes and considered. He had nothing left there. Had friends who saw him as a traitor, a brother who hated him in the worst and most damning way. He was about to lose the only thing he had left, and he couldn't. Couldn't take so much pain and destruction and loss all at once. He couldn't and he wouldn't and he finally, finally felt that he truly had a choice.
So he opened his eyes, and he smiled. Blue crinkled at the edges, a good-natured grin. Kindness and hope and love and trust joined in one small expression, the ripping and stretching of skin that would soon be abandoned in favor of light and glory and a kingdom that would belong only to them.
"Yes."
Lucifer smiled in earnest and leaned forward, kissing him again and leaving a taste of salvation behind.