Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
A/N: I've just gotten into Supernatural through the power of Netflix. So these characters might be OOC. I apologize ahead of time, but I REALLY wanted to write a fanfic for this fandom considering I've fallen so hard for it! There MIGHT be a Samifer pairing following this, but I'm not sure yet. Anywho, here we go!
Title: Finding Eden
Summary: You are stone in my arms.
Pairing(s): Destiel
Warning(s): yaoi but this is tame compared to my other stuff, potential OOCness but you guys can be the judge of that
Xxx
Castiel says, "You are stone in my arms."
He speaks softly, without hesitation or human tact, and Dean can feel the gentle caress of Castiel's wings against his cheek (but he must keep his eyes closed because as soon as he opens them, the wings will disappear and the dream will break). Dean nuzzles the feathers, smells flowers, his mother's perfume, apple pie and sweet jubilation.
Dean mumbles:
"What do you mean?"
Castiel's hands move over him like water, gliding over muscles that he has traced a million times in the dark. He kisses Dean's cheek, and his breath is sweet with mint toothpaste.
"You're so warm. . . like summer sun or a spring rain, but you're hard as well . . . and not in that way, Dean."
Dean chuckles against Castiel's neck, and his body molds to Castiel's, the empty spaces in their lounging forms filling with sweat-sticky flesh and bone. Somewhere in the building (are they at Bobby's or a hotel room tonight?) Sam types away at his computer, searching for an answer that may or may not exist.
Castiel's former statement resurfaces in Dean's mind and the feather's on his cheek cradle him better than any pillow.
Dean asks, "Then what do you mean?"
Castiel's ribs expand and contract as his lungs fill with air, and Dean wonders if he can smell their sex, the remnants of Hell on his skin.
"Your muscles, your disposition—you're hard like stone. You can't relax, even when we're making love. Even now, though you're molded to me so tightly, there's tension in your muscles . . . like you're getting ready to run."
Dean laughs but there is no humor behind it, and Castiel's lungs hitche when Dean's alcohol-sour breath tickles his feathers.
"Look at my life, Cas. I have to be on my guard at all times."
"Even when you're with me?"
It's the paranoid part of him that wants to say yes; it's that part of him that wants to say that, even though he feels complete with Castiel's heavy dick buried inside him, he's afraid that Castiel will disappear like a dream always meant to tantalize; it's that part of him that wants to say that he's afraid of waking up one morning (after falling asleep—truly asleep—in Castiel's arms) to find Castiel gone or bloody and cold next to him.
Instead he says:
"It's just how I am."
Castiel doesn't say anything, but instead moves his wings away from Dean and himself to form a shelter of tawny feathers. Dean groans at the loss but quickly settles with resting his head against Castiel's shoulder.
"Sleep," Castiel croons in his husky voice, "I'll watch you."
Dean fights for a few more minutes before the gentle rustling of wings lull him to sleep. Beneath the gentle sound he can hear Castiel repeating over and over like a mantra:
Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby-