Fanfic - SPN: Genesis, the Second (R, Slash: Dean/Castiel)

[writingbyebonio]

Title: Genesis, the Second
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean Winchester/Castiel
Prompt: "Supernatural, Castiel/Dean, Lick, Sip, Suck" for downfall35 at comment_fic.
Word Count: ~1,000 words.
Rating: R for sexuality.
Warnings/Spoilers: AU for and spoilers through the S4 finale. Character death (depending on your interpretation)! Angst. Apocalypse. Blood. Knifeplay (brief). Blasphemy. Wings. Power!kink. Slash. Non-graphic m/m sex. Plot. Comment!fic.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Castiel didn't bleed to free Dean; he bled to fortify him.
Beta: dendritejungle poked it a bit, but any remaining quirks are my own.
Author's Notes: Apparently, this was supposed to relate to alcohol, but uhh … yeah … not so much. *headdesk* Sorry. Title and a few other things ganked from and inspired by the ummm *cough*Bible*cough*.

PerfectMatch.com Review

Lick. Sip. Suck.

Dean shuddered as the blood hit his system, spilling down his throat like thick hot coppery wine. Bodies shifted to press his mouth harder against the cut pumping slowly onto his tongue and his lips smeared red across Castiel's pale skin. The color made his mind swim, snatches of worry over Sam meeting echoes of his pleas to get to him, but both drowned in the force flooding into him, commanding calm and strength and soon. Losing himself in the rush, he groaned like that was struggle enough, feeling his shudder mirror its way into the angel-filled man in front of him. Instinct-driven and compelled, Dean's eyes rolled up and closed as Castiel wedged him more insistently against the wall, a thigh between his legs.

Hands.

Dean remembered his own haphazardly, unsure of what to do with them or even if he should do anything. In blinks, everything was awash in red and white and black, the gilded room beyond them slip-tripping down some inhuman rabbit-hole. Frantic yet hesitant, his uncertain hands reached for trench coat seams, fingers curling to grip at folds as the angel pulled back enough to allow him air. The scent of fresh blood tainted his breaths, filling his senses deep enough to infiltrate his brain and hoard every circuit, stealing his thoughts as quickly as the warm liquid on his tongue. His eyes slid closed again and beneath the haze, he murmured in his mind. How long had he stood there, dazed and open-mouthed? How much blood had he drunk? How much was he meant to drink? The only answer he received was the throb, throb, throb of a heartbeat in his system, possibly his own, though frighteningly possibly not.

"Cas?"

His voice sounded even more slurred than his thoughts and he suddenly feared to open his eyes, his body beginning to weigh down with something he couldn't begin to understand. "Cas?!" A hand settled gently over his eyes and light blazed around its edges, making him gasp, but then he could feel the angel's breath against his face and his blood-stained lips were met with clean dry ones. Whispered words began to flow into and around him and he began to breathe them in, burning holy fire into his belly and out to spark the tips of his fingers and toes. His arm was lifted in Castiel's sure grasp until his own hand could replace Castiel's, protecting his eyes against the light. In every other way, though, movement seemed not only impossible but irrelevant now. He felt consumed and powerless, yet wanton for this, craving every scalding stream of power winding through him.

Breathe.

Was he breathing anymore? Did it even matter? The skim of the knife as his clothes were cut away with precision barely fazed him, but the shift from standing to lying to what felt like floating or flying made his too-human mind spin and stutter and he reached to gain purchase on something. His hand met heat and skin more than clothes, but it didn't feel solid in any way that he was used to, as if the pressure pushing back against his hand was something made of will more so than flesh and he shivered despite the warmth around him. It didn't feel wrong so much as unfamiliar, but a part of him knew that things were twisted up here, that some past or future him would accuse him of something, though he couldn't process what that might be just yet.

God!

He knew he yelled as Castiel breached him, though he couldn't hear it, his sin igniting and arms flailing despite the burst of brightness blinding him as he fought or fought to hold onto the presence over him, in him, taking him, joining him. He couldn't tell anymore, didn't understand, his senses, thoughts, and reactions overrunning and overriding each other until all he could do was feel and feel crashed into. In breaking, he knew judgment, tears raining from his eyes as his body, his soul, was ridden, baptized in the embrace of a being born of fire. The pain of Hell met the joys of Heaven in his muscles, in his veins, in his bones, and his yell became a scream as he was punished, purified, and reborn, coming anew like Adam or another, heaving that first breath at the start of the world.

"Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh."

Faintly, Dean could feel the sticky heat of fingers painting bloodied prayers into his skin, but it was the words that struck like chimes inside his ears, forceful, though they were kissed and bled into him by trembling, straining lips. Almost too encompassing to be from only one voice, the whisper-turning-roar pierced and enveloped him regardless. Then the thick and soft of something not-quite-hair shook and tensed under his clinging hands and a star exploded within him. What followed was the sensation of falling and the press of utter darkness as the light was finally burned away.

Life.

The truth exhaled through his soul and out into eternity, but he did not yet understand. It was only upon waking to the feel of unrivaled power thrumming through him that Dean registered the angel's gift and the horror of its consequence. In chilling awe, he blinked green eyes that he knew had flooded white, whispering ever-inadequate words of devotion with a voice his own but glory-fed. Soon, the peace blooming and blanketing within him buffered his emotional humanity, encasing and protecting it, bottling it away. Yet, it could not quell his last lingering searing ache and he shed a sinner's tears under the still unending rain of brittle black feathers. So, at this, the final edge of grace, he leapt beyond the grasp of simple faith, his mission blazing like the knife transformed to sword, and he sped to face his destiny, fierce and loved, unashamed and unafraid.