The water falls, sprinkling down on Castiel as he stands in the shower. His head is down, letting the water drench his chocolate brown hair and run in rivulets down his scalp. He stares blankly at the pool around his feet, watching the tainted water flow to the drain. Though the filth washes from his beaten body, he doesn't feel clean. He hasn't in a while. Not since he fell.
He shuts his eyes as the steam rises, engulfing the room, isolating the man standing in the cruddy tub. The shower head sputters, temporarily breaking the even rhythm. Castiel doesn't move, letting the droplets fall, waiting for the normal beat to return. And it does, keeping him from the dreadful spectre of silence.
He doesn't know how long he's been in—maybe a minute, maybe ten—but he doesn't want to leave. Not until he feels clean again. Not until he's clean again.
Streams of warm water roll down his back, tracing his scrawny bones, going over the scraps from the recent hunt, the light bruises from where he crashed, and of course the nasty scars. There are two there, mirroring each other, perfectly symmetrical.
His wings were once there, the sign of his angelic might, black masses of the softest feathers displaying the glory and pride of Heaven. Once he sported them with honour, donning a title beyond that of any other. Soldier of Heaven. Warrior of God. Holy Fighter of Light and Virtue. That's what he used to be; light and virtue. He was elite, cream of the crop, upper crust, the best choice. He came here because of that, because he was so good, so loyal, so great.
But then he wavered. He doubted. He disobeyed. He rebelled. And he fell. And when he ripped out his Grace, that streak of purity only angels possessed, he soiled himself. When he discarded what made him so flawless, so perfect, such a masterpiece of God, he granted them permission to swoop down and tear off his wings. When that Light left him, celestial ray of being shrinking down into a condensed human soul, his wings ripped. Not just ripped. They shredded, they scratched, carelessly but purposefully mutilated and mangled by the forces clawing them from his back. And as they were cleaved so violently, Castiel screamed, his final piercing angel cry a plea for penance, for mercy, for atonement. But as the gashes bled and as they sundered his wings, that voice faded, becoming lower, quieter, human. And when he could scream no more, he found himself on the ground, staring down at his hands, staring wide-eyed as they trembled oh-do weakly. Because that was the first time he felt like that, the first time he felt so stripped, so naked, so mortal.
And as he looks back, reminiscing beneath the pouring water, he wonders whether that moment defined him as a victim or a fool. Likely both. And probably more. Because who relinquishes holy omnipotence like that?
A foolish man. That's who. Castiel is now a foolish man, the king of fools in fact. And he sits on a throne of dung and filth, decked in robes of sin and grime, gazing out at his kingdom of disgrace and dirt. He is no better than any other sinner, but he feels he cannot be cleansed. This cheap motel shower cannot baptise him, cannot restore what is lost, cannot wash away what is embedded in him. His sin is a scar, a burn, a mark of insolence and stupidity. And the marks on his back tell the world just how dumb this former angel is, how he so stupidly sacrificed the staple of his being for a few mortals, how his rebellion has been rewarded.
They burn under the water, sizzling the skin, boiling the blood, sending surges of searing pain. Castiel remains indifferent, though, well accustom to this continuous suffering, well adjusted to the price of free will. Nothing he knows of can stop the pain, and those scars will never heal. But these overwhelming voices—ones that emerged from his humanity—whisper otherwise, shreds of devout hope praying that some miracle will end the hurt. They only say those things to lift Castiel up, to make him think he can still fly, to trick him into leaping from a cliff only to plummet deeper into damnation. He already flew too close to the sun; he needs not fall into the clutches of the ocean too.
But maybe that would clean him. Maybe then this dirty feeling would go away. Maybe then he would dissolve and find peace away from aches and marks. Or maybe his mind is just forever tainted by naivety and folly, leaving him to blindly dance in circles until he can spin no longer.
Castiel isn't sure. There's little he is sure about anymore. But he is sure that he's as useless as he is ingenuous. Because he cannot fight well without the power to smite, the fluid motion of Godspeed, the abilities of his former self. He's clumsy with weaponry, slower of foot, and wounds like a virgin peach. It isn't his fault. He didn't need to know of guns as an angel. He didn't need to run as an angel. He didn't need to worry about injuries as an angel. But now so many worries haunt him, and he must stand apathetic to their screams.
Under the water he drowns them out, secluded and cut off from those cries. Here he only thinks of how to purge himself of the ink blackening his soul, and he waits for it to finally slip down the drain and away from him so he can find happiness.
Once the black is gone and the wounds treated, he can be happy. He wants to be happy. He doesn't remember what being happy feels like. And that only fuels the desire more.
Castiel thinks, his mind pushing through droves of cluttered thoughts, too focused on organising the chaos of his human mind to pay anything else any mind.
He only hears the water and only sees his feet. Not the slight creak of the opening door. Not the soft slam of it shutting. Not the flops of clothing scattering on the ground. Not the shadow on the other side of the shower curtain stripping and nearing his aqueous fortress. No, Castiel doesn't notice anything until he hears the harsh screech of the rings and loud flaps of the plastic curtain.
FLAAAAAAAAAP!
Castiel looks up, fogged light cascading into his shaded world. And standing in this burst of bright is Dean, nude and glazed with sweat and dirt. His skin glistens, kissed by the sun itself, capturing all the grandeur of his chiselled, lean body. His left shoulder still sports the brand, the handprint of an angel, Castiel's claim on Dean he made the day he raised him from perdition. He tries not to look at that now. His eyes are warm, the olive green cautiously staring at Castiel, accented with care, with concern, with love.
They're both silent for a moment, staring deeply into one another's eyes. They often exchange more through glances and gazes than words and phrases. Unspoken conversation is what started their mutual fascination and in time their romantic consummation. Because Dean is why Castiel fell, and though he wishes to rejoin the ranks of Heaven, he knows that Dean is a good man. Dean means a lot to him. Dean is the righteous man he saved, the brave man he branded, the tender man he loved.
Castiel finds it curious that he hasn't seen Dean like this for a while. He and Dean had a secretive relationship for some time before the fall, but since he became human Castiel and Dean haven't been as intimate. Because Dean doesn't know if he can help him, if this is what he needs, if he's ruining everything by loving him. He knows it all happened because of him, and he refuses to add to the problem. Dean just wants to help. Help and heal his wayward angel.
"If you keep this up I'm not gonna have any hot water," Dean says, smile teasing at his lips. His tone his light-hearted, but there's a darkness to his eyes, one that hints how worried he is, how the jests are a front. Dean never speaks of his emotions directly—that's not how he rolls—but subtle things send his message across.
Castiel purses his lips, a superficial gleam of hope spotlighted in his eyes of vivid blue.
"I'm sorry," His soft spoken gravelly voice sends a chill down Dean's spine. It's weaker, lacking the vigour it once possessed. The hope is vacant, shown so well in his hollow replies, and so painful for Dean to listen to, "I'll get out so you ca—"
"If you don't want to, you don't have to," Dean interrupts, leaning over. Sprays of moisture caress his face, a few stray drops flying into his head of burnt honey hair, "We can just shower together. Conserving water, you know?"
Castiel blinks, but before he can decide whether to agree or protest, Dean climbs in. Castiel steps forward to make room, allowing a nice space behind him for Dean to stand and bask in the falling water. He keeps his back turned though, overwhelmed enough by Dean's presence. His body heat radiates onto his back, so close in this confined little box, tantalising urges and drives that yearn for affection Dean may not give. Castiel assumed the lack of intimacy had something to do with his new humanity, something to do with Dean loving him less now that he is powerless, something like that. But he won't demand anything from Dean. If Dean doesn't love him anymore, that's okay. It helps when he isn't such a tease though; that's nearly torture.
Dean hums as the water hits his skin, splashing off his chest and onto Castiel's back. With the other so close, he can just reach around and grab him. He can embrace and touch him. He can trace patterns on his torso and toy with his navel. He can pepper the drenched hair with kisses, and suckle on his neck. He can love him again, and they can make love again.
But he resists, because he has a plan. One that he knows will help Castiel. One that will hopefully work in their favour.
Dean reaches over for the bar of soap, lifting it from its little perch on the wall, then bringing it to his arms. He runs the bar along his muscles, still silent. All the while his eyes remain on Castiel, his gaze falling from the back of his head, to his neck, and then to those scars.
Dean hates them. They're blistered and red, wings taken from him the most painful way possible. He doesn't care for the wings, or the Grace; he cares for Castiel. And they hurt him. They hurt him so badly. And they had the balls to leave those behind to make him feel bad every day. To make him miserable. To punish him. He hates it.
He takes the soap from his shoulder blade and, very lightly, strokes Castiel's back with the curved edge of the bar. He watches the other straighten up, slightly alarmed by the sudden swipe of soap. And then two blue eyes stare back at him, curious and confused.
"Relax," Dean laughs, setting down the bar and raising his hands, like a cool criminal to a cop, "I'm just washing your back for you."
Castiel gives him a sceptic look, then turns his head and nods.
With permission granted, Dean places his hands on the Castiel's shoulders, both of them cupping perfectly with his palms. He feels his muscles tense beneath his touch, something he's missed so much. But the tension; there's too much. He must relieve it. Now.
He tenderly rubs Castiel's sore back, massaging the sleek soapy skin, thumbs running gently over the freshly scabbed scarlet scratches and the newly blossoming violet bruises. If he could, he'd heal every wound, mend every gash, paint over every bruise; fix him just as Castiel had done for him so many times in the past. He wishes his mortal hands could do more than just ease the suffering; he wants to just stop it. If he could he would restore Castiel's Grace, just to make him happy again.
Dean keeps himself from laughing at the silly thought, knowing how foolish it is. He can't do that—Castiel's Grace was long gone—and there's no point thinking about something like that. It's childish, like an innocent boy's dream to be a superhero with a bed-sheet cape and underwear over his pyjama pants.
Castiel can't be an angel again, but he has to accept that just because he isn't one doesn't make him useless. He never had to be an angel in the first place, and he'll always mean more to Dean than any mere angel could. He was always more than what he was, the most reliable source he ever needed, the most devoted anyone ever was, the closest pal he ever dreamt of, and the most Dean could ever ask for.
Even now that he's fallen, not that he abides by the laws of the lesser, now that he's human, he still means that and more to Dean. Just because he isn't all-mighty doesn't mean he isn't strong. Just because he can't fly doesn't mean he isn't capable of soaring, and just because he doesn't sport the title 'Warrior of God' doesn't mean he isn't the greatest man Dean's ever known. He just has to show him that, prove that to him, make him know the truth.
Dean lowers his head, crouching down carefully. His hot breath brushes Castiel's neck, tingling his skin, blowing his hair. And the heat intensifies as Dean's face nears his bare skin, nose tickling him, every sense excited.
And then Dean's lips kiss his back, right on the left scar. He presses them gingerly against the burn, a touch that makes Castiel wince. The wounds themselves hurt, but Dean's mouth calms it, eases it, overpowers it. It's a miracle to him, because nothing else ever soothed the pain like that; but Dean's kiss does.
His lips stay there a long time, tip of his tongue tapping and tasting Castiel's rougher skin, generating pain only to quickly relieve it. Like water to a burning coal, extinguishing the fire and letting the scorched rock steam. And the steam is what he breaths, what gives him that whiff of life, ebbing away the suffering and reminding him of the good. It's been so long since he's felt the good; it's invigorating.
Dean kisses the mark again, just a hair lower this time, but with just as much tenderness, just as much compassionate warmth that ushers Castiel's very soul into an embrace. Their bond is still strong, lasting through the fall, able to last through anything. And this makes Dean the only person who can help, the only one who can twist the pain into something enjoyable, something sweet, something nice. The scars cannot burn beneath his lips, not without being doused by an unseen healing force more effective than any cream or drug or even angelic spell. It's truer than that, purer than that.
He repeats the process, planting peck after peck after loving peck until his lips ran over every inch of damaged skin. And all the while, as Dean kisses him, soon doing the same with the second scar, Castiel moans. His eyes shut, his shoulders loll, and his head rolls back. Each kiss contains some sedative, continually alleviating the bad with every additional dose. And Castiel can easily say he's addicted. Dean is addicting. And he doesn't want it to stop.
"Shh," Dean lets it out as a hushing whistle under the drone of falling water, "I'm here, I'm here."
He lifts his hands to touch Castiel's sides, caress his hips, but before he can the other turns around. Dean looks up, immediately meeting the bewildered blue, wondering what broke it. Cass liked it—Dean knows he did—so why did he...?
Castiel doesn't say a word, merely taking a shy hand to Dean's chin. His moist fingers stroke his jaw, tickled by the rough budding stubble Dean hasn't decided to shave off yet. He hasn't touched his face like this in ages, an eternity in his human mind, each day without caressing him another eon of dullness, of cold, of grey. But Dean introduces the colour back into him. He becomes the light, the good, the world. He silences the screams and eases the pain. Back then he raised Dean from perdition, and now it was Dean's turn to raise him, to take the fallen angel and teach him how to fly again. God's favourite child meant for God's special angel. All part of the master plan.
Dean's eyes close and open, still staring at Castiel. Some water sprays him, but Castiel acts as a shield, protecting him from the falling droplets for the most part, leaving him damp and shrouded in the warm vaporous mist. He doesn't move, letting Cass do what Cass wanted to do. If he wants anything, he can initiate it himself; Dean won't risk it. When he decided to give this a shot he told himself that him just going in there was starting it, and Castiel will take it from here, from this point forward, and instruct him on what he has to do to keep his helping hands from hurting.
And so Castiel tilts Dean's head, fingers tapping under his chin as a signal to rise, and then guides him to his face. As Dean stands, Castiel's hands move to cup his cheeks, loving the feel of Dean's moist skin under his palms. He cranes his head down and closes the withering distance between their faces, pressing his lips to Dean's, kissing him again.
He's kissed Dean before as a human, most of them quick, most of them too curt for his liking.
But this one is long, lasting, passionate.
It makes up for their recent lack of affection. Now they can quench and satiate their thirsts for one another, seek that sweet intimacy they've been missing out on, rekindle the dimming flames and warm one another and bask in love's radiant glow. They taste the blaze on their lips, hotter than the balmy steam or refreshing water. It's moist, and hot, and in every sense beautiful, beautiful because they can feel their souls tying tighter, forever intertwined, the ethereal bond between them strong as ever, never letting go, keeping them close, cherished, and so very loved.
They realise just how much they've missed this as they press their bodies together, caving to the craving addiction. Castiel parts his lips as he deepens the kiss, cheeks flushed and florid, fingers tentatively rubbing Dean's face, latently tracing his cheekbones. He shuts his eyes, every muscle in his body relaxing, melting with the rain, the crusted dirt finally washing away, leaving new pink flesh finally seeing the light of day. Dean's arms wrap around Castiel's waist, locking him in a secure, protective hold. His hands curved to the other's hips, perfectly moulding, fitting like long lost puzzle pieces reunited to form the loveliest image. He always fits so well in Dean's arms, like another part of him, the key part of him, the part of him that embraces all he's done and forgives him. Castiel doesn't need wings to be an angel in Dean's eyes; he will always be his guardian.
Castiel's hands slide down Dean's neck, running with the water to the man's slick, sturdy shoulders. He rests one hand over his handprint, the one he gave him when he raised Dean from perdition, the mark he left on Dean's soul that forever binds them. The other hand rests on the opposite shoulder in about the same place, curved around his muscles. Dean's lean, but strong, toned, and with his body coated with crystal water, he shimmers.
Dean draws his head back, licking his lips. He lets out a hot breath as he stares into Castiel's eyes, half-lidded and deep with desire, bright with passion, burning with love. His hair absorbs all of the shower's waterfall, leaving it a dampened mess flattened atop his head, streams running through the roots, drops dripping off the ends of the subtly curling locks. His slender shoulders relax, still bombarded by the shower's rain. All the rebounding drops form a bright aura around him, like a reflective halo of droplets, misty and angelic, ethereal and chilling, too befitting and so perfect. Breathtaking.
His eyes fixating on Castiel's mouth, and then flicker between the parted lips and the blue, blue eyes. He inhales, the air thick with moisture, hints of soap and the smell of Castiel's skin exciting his nostrils. That's not all that's excited though. No, he's been hard since Castiel pulled him over and sealed their lips together. And he's well aware of the other's arousal, feeling it pressed against his thigh.
They've both been waiting and waiting for a moment like this again, and here they are, ready to resume what they started, to patch things up and be in love again. Make love again. The time...the time has to be right. It all has to be right.
"Cass..." The name leaves his lips softly, one word asking everything. Do you want to? Are you sure? You ready now?
"Hmmm," Castiel hums, smiling. He pushes Dean back, not too forcefully; just enough to make Dean stumble back a step. His back presses to the cool tiles, head bowing forward to avoid banging into the towel bar. He looks down as the fallen angel slides his hands across his chest plates, fingers gliding over so delicately, so sensually, so lovingly.
Dean pulls Castiel towards him again, hands running up his back to cover the scars. And as he does that, Castiel leans to claim Dean's lips, catching him in an open mouth kiss. Their tongues slide together, Dean's counting Castiel's lower teeth, Castiel's wiping over Dean's taste-buds.
Dean reclines against the tile as Castiel's tongue slithers out, breaking the kiss, planting wet, neat ones on his jaw. He tilts his head up; letting those moist, rough lips kiss the underside of his chin. His green eyes shut, listening to the shower sputter a moment as the other's hands brush over his stomach, constantly lowering.
Castiel pauses, suckling on Dean's skin, hands so low, so close to touching it. Takes a moment, a moment just devoted to kissing his neck, leaving a few violet marks here and there, careful in placement and number. They don't necessarily have to hide this-their relationship never was much of a secret to start with—but it just looks better, neater, less of a spectacle. Each time his lips press down, they linger, staying longer than they probably should, slightly reluctant in leaving when they finally do. It has been a while, and he wants this to last.
For Dean, though, it's a tease. A nice one, yes, but still a tease. Castiel tends to be one of those when he's in control, something that's not quite a bad thing. Castiel hasn't even touched him yet—he's about to, though, he can feel the heat of his palm right there, hovering, waiting—but he already feels like coming. It's a painful arousal, one with the good kinds of pain, but the undying, screeching urges that beg to be pleased right then and there. Dean wonders whether Castiel knows how much he's torturing him, but dismisses the thoughts as the other sucks his collarbone. A low groan escapes his throat, tensing as Castiel's lips curve into the sweetest smirk. He's not that innocent, not anymore, and he knows what Dean likes, dislikes, heightens the mood, etcetera.
Dean massages the wing marks, prompting a whimper from Castiel. The sting of pain and surge of serenity tingles through Castiel's spine again, overwhelming and arousing. A few more quiet moans leave his lips, muffled by the other's chest, and then he figures it's time to quit teasing. He can touch it.
Even though humanity sank into him a while ago, Castiel retains his angelic touch. The delicacy of a fine feather. The gentleness of a fragile lamb. The tenderness of an amorous lover. Dean missed that touch, missed it a lot, but now here it is again. Thank God.
His head rolls back, hitting the bar, squeezing his closed eyes. Those fingers caressing him again drive him crazy, awakening things he hasn't felt in ages, so sensual and mind-blowing and just damn good. Dean chokes out low moans and murmurs sharp swears, trembling slightly. He embraces Castiel, gripping him tightly, and then pulls him to his chest.
Now there is absolutely no distance between them. Chest to chest. Pelvis to pelvis. Leg to leg. Generating a heavenly appeal. One rippling through them both. Fluid. Strong. A river. A waterfall.
They both groan, Castiel into Dean's chest, Dean to the fogged air. Pleasure. Love. Ecstasy. Coursing through them as they rub against each other. Head to head friction. Pounding humidity.
All to the beat of the water. Grinds in rhythm. Touching to a tune. Kissing with a harmony. Moaning to the melody. Symphonic love making at its finest, composed by the passionate composers who missed playing each other's heart strings. Experts in their fields. Exclusive and practiced.
Castiel's fingers stroke first Dean, then himself. Both tipped with pre-cum. Both nearing it. Both close.
Dean lets out another moan, drowning out the other's softer, lighter one. His hands slide down Castiel's back, one settling above the cheeks, the other moving to mimic the touches.
Castiel takes his other hand and reaches for Dean's. He grips his fingers, squeezing tightly and strongly, yet still so tender and warm. He lifts the hand slowly, plucking it from the side of his body, holding it up to the bar. And once Dean's wrist curves against the metal, Castiel laces his thin, bony fingers with Dean's, holding with gentleness and love. Dean's fingers curl around Castiel's, covering them, shielding them from the cooling rain, keeping them caught in a heated clutch.
The brushes go on, each more pleasing than the last, sensitivities sparking new flames in their minds. Ones that dimmed a little. Ones that needed rekindling. Ones that now flaring and thrived on the blissful fodder and pleasurable kindling presented before them.
Dean looks down, panting, fully aware that it won't take much more before he releases. All he sees is Castiel's hair, dark and drenched. Castiel still nips at his neck, mewling or moaning into every other lingering, longing kiss. The savoury pecks combine with the caring squeezes and the deft rubbing, mixing fire and friction, exploding Dean's senses.
He's just about there, just about in Heaven.
He presses his lips to the crown of Castiel's head, hard and fervent, consumed with lusty love and loving lust. He sucks in the water soaked into the locks, taking some hair in his teeth and tugging.
Bucking, touching, kissing; then climax.
Dean spits out the hair as he rolls his head back, gasping out the other's name. His grip on Castiel's hand tightens, pleasure spiking through him as the white streams out. Some drips on Castiel, some on Dean, and the rest trickles down to be lost in the drain. He tenses, then relaxes, submitting to the missed bliss, savouring the moment.
"Fuck," He smiles, strength of his vice draining as he hovers in the glow. It's been too long.
Castiel glances up, mouth still open in a longing "O", breath thick, eyes wide. A grin teases at the corners of his lips, but just doesn't curve. He can't when he's on the edge. But Dean, yes, Dean's there. He's happier about that. He's happy Dean's happy. He made happy. He can still do that.
Dean brings his head from the bar, gaze meeting Castiel's. The burning, smouldering blue lights up for him, stars shining and twinkling on his command, behind them a soul crafted from Grace, and a man braver and worthier than any other of His creations, angel or human.
He steals another kiss from him, dominating over Castiel as he kisses hard. His free hand sneaks around to rub the other's erection. Dean's more experienced, certain finesse to his touch. Strokes. Brushes. Traces. Like a skilled painter. One who embellishes and cherishes his canvas. Going until he finally coaxes the brilliant milky white onto his pallet and paints the flushed skin.
Castiel melts under him—or it at least feels that way to Dean—trembling, gifted his wings again and flying shakily up to ecstasy. His moan of pleasure goes from his mouth to Dean's, caught between the two of them, never meeting the humid air. Castiel's hand grows limp, slinking from Dean's before the other squeezes his fingers again.
They falter back a step, careful not to slip, keeping the moment alive. The water showers them, washing away everything as they kiss. And for the first time in a long, long time, Castiel feels clean.
Dean breaks the kiss, then runs his hand through some of Castiel's soggy hair, then tucks some behind his ear. Deep olive eyes stay locked with vivid sapphires. Their chests heave in sync, puffing out pants as they intently stare.
"You know..." Castiel starts, breathless still, barely audible, lukewarm streams running from his head, "We're wasting water."
Dean cracks a smile, letting out a few chuckles, wrinkling his face.
"Yeah, and when we get out we'll look like prunes," Dean jokes.
He reaches over to the faucet, switching it from 'H' (which by now, isn't all too hot at all) to 'Off'. The shower sputters, then drips, and the two stand in silence. Dean's the one to pull the curtain open, letting Castiel step out first. He wraps the towel around the both of them, two wet bodies meshing as one between a garb of fuzz.
Castiel rests his head again Dean's chest, their bodies letting the water dribble off of them, making a darkened puddle in the shag shower mat. Then Dean undoes the towel, first drying his hair, then Castiel's. They dress and open the door, steam bursting out and dispersing.
"Come on," Dean says, leading Castiel away from the bathroom, taking him to bed.
They share, both lying side by side, the quiet night over them as an extra blanket. Castiel sleeps on his side, head burrowed in the soft pillow, back to Dean. Dean doesn't fall asleep quiet so fast, keeping his eyes open to watch his fallen angel rest. It's the first time Castiel has really slept peacefully, and it's a site he hopes to see more often.
Dean shifts in the covers, then runs a hand over where the scars hid beneath the cotton. He listens to Castiel make a little noise, not one of pain, but one of relief. Dean's smile widens just before he yawns.
"You still got it, Cass," He whispers, letting his head fall next to Castiel's. Dean's eyes close and he falls asleep.
Next to him, Castiel smiles.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Leave a review :)