Whispered Promises

I like to watch the mortals. The others often tell me that it isn't good for my health. That when I watch that spinning ball of dirt teeming with pain and war and violence that it takes a part of me with it. A small part each time, leaving me a bit more hollow.
I can't help it, it's all so fascinating; these mortals that are so weak and fragile, like pencil lead that I could snap with a flick of my finger. No matter how meaningless and empty their lives may seem they always manage to fill every one of their actions with passion.
whether it's a young women crying out during orgasm or a mother sobbing over the child she will never have, humanity is filled with it. It's brimming, overflowing at the sides, oozing from every pore.
A man drinking himself to death in an ally, a twelve year old stealing a pack of gum from a convenience store, a women having an affair with one of her students, everything is exploding with it. This raw emotion, this need for acceptance, this PASSION.
It's disgusting, insane, bizarre, beautiful, interesting; and no matter how hard I try I can't stop watching. No matter how many others tell me to. No matter how badly I WANT to.
I do sometimes. I stop for entire weeks. Months even. But it's like this addiction, gnawing and churning and clinging to my skin, begging me to just take one little peak. The longer I wait the harder it gets to breathe, surrounded by suffocating peace and apathy, I crave the chaos like a fish to water. It's like a brick of lead settled in my stomach pulling at me and aching and hollowing me out until I just take one little glance and then it all lifts away.
Down in those streets littered with shining lights and souls, real living souls, loving and betraying and fighting and breeding and drinking and creating. It's all just so overwhelming and impossible; how could anyone be expected not to watch?

I never thought it would get this bad. I never thought I would fall so far.

But you haven't fallen, have you?
A voice whispers into the ear I don't really have.

'No. No I haven't.'

It becomes a cycle. I wander the streets with my eyes, pretending to hear the scuff of my feet on the pavement. The feet that I don't really have.
I watch. I listen.
The cries of pain, the silent prayers to a God not listening, the deep moans of two lovers intertwined, the laughter of a small child as she is pushed on the swing at the playground by her house. She likes to pretend that right at the top, right before the swing hurtles back down towards her father's waiting arms, right when she is almost level with the sky, that she will just fly up, up, up, until she's floating in the clouds with the very angels she's heard about so many times.
Everywhere I look, all I see, is passion.
It all just tastes so bittersweet.

Then comes the next part, when I pull away, I tell myself that it's unhealthy, that it isn't what Father would want. But Father doesn't really want much of anything anymore, does he?
I tell myself it's not what I want.
The lie tastes sour, like milk just past its expiration date on my nonexistent tongue.

I really try. Sometimes only for a few hours, but I do try.

It's only a matter of time until that aching starts again. The suffocation and the pulling and the WANT and I crawl back to them. The delicate impossible mortals beneath us that are more interesting than everything in my endless sight.

It all stops though, on that odd, impossible day. That day when I first see him.
'his eyes are like the forest' Is the first thing I thought.
They're bright and intricate and teeming with life, but the deeper you get the darker they seem, and you find more things hidden within them.

when I saw those eyes I suddenly seemed to forget those paved streets with the shining lights, and the lovers, and the little girl on the swing. When I saw those eyes it was like they were all that was left and all there ever were.
The way they brighten and shine and bring the whole world with them and the way they darken and churn in this abyss that makes them look like they could turn me to stone.
But, my favorite time to look at his eyes, are when he thinks that no one is looking. It's that time of night, when he is sprawled out on the couch and his brother is fast asleep, nothing but the eerie glow of the television flitting across his face. There is a half empty can of beer warm and forgotten on the table beside him and his fingers twitch and rub at the smooth glazed plastic of the remote in his hands.
I always know that it's going to happen when his fingers start twitching like that.
Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes change. His eyebrows scrunch downwards and pull in. His eyes are distant and shining and the images of smiling faces and laugh tracks buzz in my mind like wasps as I watch, entranced.
Worry. His eyes are clouded, swirling with it. Next comes anger, bubbling and all consuming; then, finally, pain. He is wracked with it, drones of it pouring off of him in waves. I can feel tears stinging and burning the eyes I don't really have while his faces remains dry.
Those eyes, those eyes that are more alive than any forest, are hollow and empty. He is so far gone, somewhere so much deeper then I can even imagine. Somewhere buried so far in a hidden crevis of his mind that not even I will ever be able to see it in the light.
And then it's over. His eyebrows lift and the forest comes back, growing and changing and living, and he pulls himself off the couch and he gets another beer. He laughs at the smiling faces on the TV screen and he sings along to the 80's rock music, but I always notice that there is something missing. A tiny part of him that is still left in that dark place. Maybe it's the same with me. Maybe we both need to stop.
But neither of us do.

His eyes aren't the only thing I like about him.
His laugh is beautiful. It's like a hundred wedding bells chiming, warm and welcoming; like an old friend calling your name. When that sound pours from his mouth it's like no other sound ever really mattered. No words or proclamations or orders, all there was, all there is, is that laugh.
I like the way his skin crinkles around his eyes and the way those forests dance with some sort of joke that no one else will ever really get. Not even me.

I like his hands as well. They are rough and calloused from the weapons he is forced to use and stained with the blood he has been forced to shed. Tainted with the lives he carries with him every step he takes.
Despite their size they are able to perform incredibly intricate tasks. Like when he is fiddling with the small machinery under the hood of his precious Impala. Polishing the metal more gently than he treats his own kin. Smiling with ease at the familiarity and feeling of control.

His name is Dean, I realize one day. I can't help but laugh that I've never taken the time to notice until now.
Dean.
It's sounds funny on my imaginary tongue.
It sort of rolls of and hangs in the air like a question; just bobbing around and begging to be answered.
My name is Castiel. That is what my Father named me anyway. Well, everyone's Father really.
Names always seemed a bit pointless to me. Like masks we use to shield ourselves or titles bestowed on us that don't quite fit.
But it's still nice to know for some reason.
Dean.
I think I like his name better than mine.

I could watch him for hours. In fact, I do. I watch him for days, and weeks. Memorizing every twitch of his jaw and the way he bites his bottom lip when he's concentrating and the way he pretends not to know facts sometimes to make other people feel smarter. The way he meticulously packs his bags of salt, like every grain will save a life, which I suppose in some cases, it does. The way he grins cockily at himself in the mirror and the way he hums songs I know only from him singing under his breath. What jokes he laughs at on the TV, and the things that his brother says that make him shift in just a way that I know he's worried.
I watch, I listen, I memorize, until every inch of my being is filled with him. I'm overflowing with him, my senses drowning and breathing in his every movement until it's too overwhelming, but I still keep watching.

I didn't mean for it to get this far. I didn't mean to fall.
But you haven't fallen. H-
'Have I' I finish wordlessly.

I'm not sure when it happened, I'm not even sure when I realize it, but suddenly it's there, and it's real, and there is nothing I can do about it.
This isn't enough anymore.

Those words play in my head over and over, ringing in my ears like some sort of deranged bird screaming its song in the early morning hours.
It's pounding into my mind, pumping through my veins, shattering the walls that I never noticed were constructed of glass until this very moment.
This.
Isn't.
Enough.

It's horrifying and ridiculous and exciting, but impossible, and I can't stop thinking about it. About this undeniable realization that I need more.

And that's when it happened.
That voice. That tiny nagging voice that has been secretly whispering sweet promises into my nonexistent ears for so long, so much longer then I realized, grew louder. It started out as just a whisper and slowly grew into fully spoken words, which turned into a shout then a scream. Ringing in my head and pulling at every hidden thought and desire I'd ever locked away beneath layers of guilt.
And then it stopped.
Slowly, I opened the eyes that I don't really have. There is a man. He looks like a normal man that I would watch down on Earth, although I'm certain that I have never seen him before.
He is short and husky and has on a clean pressed suit and shiny black shoes. It's odd to see something so corporeal in this place. I would almost mistake him for human if it were not for his eyes.
They shine black, darkened and sulfuric with every soul tainted by sin. Their color is so empty deep that I feel like I could fall in. I'm like a small child standing at the edge of a well peering downwards. I know that if I fell in, no one would ever find me. I wouldn't be able to get out. That would be what happened and there would be no other ending to that story. But still, I can't stop staring. Down, down, down, the CERTAINTY of it all is fascinating.

Hello Castiel.

His voice is low and gravely but its smooth and tastes like honey. The calm soothing tone doesn't match his eyes, it's almost startling in comparison.
'What do you want?' I ask.
I'm not stupid. I know who this man is, I know why those eyes are so dark.
So why don't I leave? Why don't I alert the others and stop this and never turn back?
Green forests flash through my mind.

I'm here to make a deal. His mouth curls slightly at the last word almost imperceptibly.
I feel hollow and exposed, suddenly all to aware of my carelessness these past... how long has it been?

'Why would I ever want to make a deal with you?' I spit out, desperate to make my words venomous but they fall flat and hang limply in the air, awaiting his reply.

I think we both know that Cas. Can I call you Cas?

Suddenly an image of a human appears before me. Not just any human, it's Dean.
I almost don't recognize him at first in this clear view. Every feature of his face is obvious and open and I can see all of him, not just his eyes, and wow, he's gorgeous. I realize that this is how humans must see each other. They can see so much less yet so much more and my insides twist and turn and my mind is nothing but wanting. It's nothing but PASSION.
I blink my pretend eyelids to clear away the image and I force myself to look back into the burning charcoals watching me with ease.

'What do you want?' This time it's broken and resigned. It's all over now. There was never anything to fight against, there was never any other option. But he already knew that.
There was no other ending to this story.

Your soul. He's grinning now, eyes seeing all the way through me, making me feel completely naked and transparent.

I watch him, waiting for him to elaborate. He takes his time, obviously relishing in the fact that he's already won.

He slowly approaches me until he's so close that I would be able to feel his breath on my face.

I can make you mortal. I can make you human.

I flinch at the words, like someone has struck me or screamed in my face, even though the words are barely above a whisper.

'What's the catch?' I ask.

He watches me for a long moment, eyes unwavering and trained on mine. I stare back, challenging him, daring him.

I long sly smirk creeps across his face, contorting it until its disgusting and tainted like his eyes. We are clearly over with games now. We are done with whispered promises and wishes, we are at the point I've been building up to for my entire existence.

You get one month. He says, One month to capture his heart, and if you don't, I get your soul.

'How will I know that I've..?'

He pretends to ponder this deeply as he taps one slightly chubby finger against his chin.

How about... 'true love's first kiss'

I stare at him, studying his face to see if he's joking. He can obviously sense my scrutiny because he continues,

Like in all those fairy tales they tell each other about love. About fate. He wriggles his eyebrows at me.

I scowl.

What? Don't think you can do it? Don't think you REALLY love him?

Suddenly the image of Dean appears before me again, smiling and shining, and its so clear and real I feel like I could reach right out and touch him even though I don't have a real hand.

'Fine.' I say, the word burning and sizzling off of my tongue.

What, just like that? He asks, raising his eyebrow in disbelief.

'Yes.' I spit out, desperately trying not to make eye contact with the image of Dean.

He chuckles before asking, So, do we have a deal then?

I nod down at the ground, clenching my teeth and trying to ignore the pounding that has been growing louder and louder in my head. Like someone banging a drum harder and harder until it's all just one loud endless noise.

No, do we have a deal?

I look up to find him holding out a pen to me. It's red and black and engraved with odd markings that I've never seen and there is a bright white piece of paper hovering in the air beside him. His eyes are dark and serious, all humor gone.

I wish I could say that I think about it. That I at least took a moment, a SECOND, to consider the eternally vast consequences this decision could have, but I don't. All reason was lost the moment I saw those forest-green eyes.

I reach out and grasp the pen.

As soon as I make contact with it my hand starts to burn. It feels like something is being ripped, forcibly torn away. But then I see it.
I have a HAND.

It's corporeal and real; there are muscles and tendons and its holding the pen and slowly, slowly, my arm is pealing away into existence.

Sign it. His voice is smooth and soothing again although it's a command.

I reach out and quickly sketch a C onto the paper. As soon as the pen hits the page my other hand begins to burn and tingle but I don't stop, I have to finish this.

A, I grit my teeth as pain shoots up my right leg, peeling and tearing away at my being.

S, Hurry up, hurry up.

T, It's up past my knees now, burning up to my stomach.

I, Tears pour from where I would have eyes, no wait, I think I do have eyes.

E, It's so close now, I can't feel anything but pain, the endless scream of the drum beat.

L, I watch as everything goes black. The man in front of me slowly fading with it until all I'm left with is the eerie white of his smile, and then even that is gone.

Hello! My name is Maddy and this is the first fanfiction I'm publishing on here. I got inspired to write this after watching the Little Mermaid haha. I find the original story and mythology really beautiful and inspiring and I swear I've done a Little Mermaid type fanfic for every fandom I'm in haha. After my sister read this she said it reminded her of the song "The Call" by Regina Spektor and I'm definitely using that song for inspiration for the rest of this story :) There will be two more chapters after this so I would LOVE it if you follow this story and check out the last two chapters :D And of course, I love reviews and comments.