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emeraldembersTitle: Adaptation
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Michael/Castiel, one-sided Dean/Castiel references
Rating: NC17
Warnings: References to character death, mild violent references, and explicit slash.
Spoilers: Written prior to 5x13, so no spoilers for 5x13 or later.
Summary: Making decisions and learning to compromise; being human isn't easy.
Author's notes: This started life as a fill for the prompt "Supernatural, Castiel/Michael, promise, patience, light" on Porn Battle IX, and kind of grew. It'll probably get Jossed to death within a few episodes but never mind!
Until Dean Winchester, Castiel had never asked anything for himself. He had relayed orders, and he had obeyed them, but he had never wanted or needed anything more than to know he had satisfied his Father – or at least those he assumed to work on his Father's behalf.
Dean telling him that his orders were wrong, making demands that conflicted with those given by his superiors, that had changed him; having more than one option to choose between, having to make decisions, had given him power of his own. It had terrified him to become something other than a soldier for Heaven's cause, more than a cog in an eternal machine, but Dean had claimed to know perfectly well how hard it was to stop doing what you were told and follow your own path, with or without support.
But even with Dean, he still had orders to choose from; he wasn't left to his own devices, not entirely. If Dean wanted him to follow a demon, he'd track them to the ends of the Earth; if Dean wanted him to wait, he would wait.
He sometimes lost patience with Dean's requests, but he was quick to obey when he could. He'd been obedient for an eternity and it was hardly an easy habit to break; instead of seeking his absent Father's approval, he'd sought Dean's.
After all Dean had taught him about making your own decisions he knew he should have respected the one Dean made, but the moment he saw Michael he had fallen to his knees, cursed Dean, cursed Heaven, and begged.
He could not change allegiances again. He had died once already in acting against Heaven and he had bled for Dean over and over. It was enough to endure the first time and he would not survive a repeat.
He knew the stories of Michael just as thoroughly as he knew the stories of his Father, wondered as he begged for death if it would be as swift as the moment Raphael tore him apart, and wept at the hand on his shoulder.
"No," Michael said, gaze sympathetic but cold, and left.
The morning of Lucifer's death was remarkable in how something so obvious could pass by humans unnoticed. There was a brief story about scientists being baffled by the overnight appearance of a crater near Reno, the size of which ought to have caused an earthquake or left some marker other than a gaping hole in the desert with no apparent cause, but after three minutes the story was over and human sports, human finances took their share of attention instead.
Castiel sat in his motel room, idly going over the poorly translated bible left in his room by a previous occupant with a pencil and correcting it as best as he could given the miniscule print. He knew his quiet bothered the motel owner but as long as Castiel paid his rent on time and allowed the cleaners in his silence went by without comment.
Castiel did not need to look to recognise Michael's presence when he appeared behind him; said nothing to greet his superior. He would not ask for death again, and would not fight it if it had finally come. There was no point in trying to change an archangel's mind, and without either Winchester left to support him, his words were of no importance.
"Dean did not give himself over freely," Michael said, sitting down on the bed and staring until Castiel turned to him. Michael's radiance could not be entirely withheld by any vessel, blond roots beginning to show through what had been Dean's hair, once-green irises now gold and his skin turning pale. With enough time the change would be complete as Michael's glory took over completely.
It threw the dull of his own form into sharp relief, but he had never meant to take this vessel permanently; did not wish to shape it into anything other than the human it once belonged to.
"He asked the demon, Crowley, about contracts. He would not say 'yes' unless I agreed to meet certain conditions. His loved ones have entered Heaven, or been promised entrance. The Impala has been given to -"
"Why are you here?" Castiel interrupted, the details of whatever last will and testament Dean had crafted feeling irrelevant and trite when the fact remained that Dean was still possessed.
"He asked that he be given back to you whole, or that I should look after you as he wished." Michael raised a hand, gestured to himself as if to demonstrate his possession of Dean's form. "I cannot give him back."
"I asked you to kill me," Castiel reminded. "You refused."
"That is not what he wished." Michael settled his hands in his lap and tilted his head. "I cannot give all that he asked, and I cannot promise he will know you in Heaven when we return, but I will fulfil the contract to the best of my ability."
"When will we go back?"
"Dean did not say," Michael admitted. "But Crowley suggested a year."
Two weeks passed before Castiel realised Michael meant to keep the promise Dean held him to despite being uncertain exactly what the contract's terms entailed, or how Dean had wished to treat him. It was strange to have both of them playing at being human, though Michael's decision to share the motel room with him at night had settled the motel owner's nerves and made him more respectful of their requests for privacy; the fact they both paid rent and both left the room tidy made them ideal guests, even if he didn't necessarily approve of two men living together.
Michael fit into the world with an ease Castiel hadn't expected. His vessel's strength was visible enough no one questioned it, and his mannerisms struck others as foreign in a way they accepted and brushed off; humans seemed to recognise, at least on an instinctive level, that Michael was something both different and powerful, and he could move amongst them with little question.
It didn't change the fact Castiel knew him as something other than what he presented, knew that going through the motions of eating and drinking in public because it was what humans were supposed to do was nonsensical, and the silence between them in private did not change in public. He had nothing to say to Michael - the thought of other angels as his family had not changed, but his love for them felt distant; a detached thing like his love for humanity.
Sometimes he had to wonder if what he felt for them could even be fairly called love anymore.
Three weeks in the motel and Castiel felt trapped by duty; that Dean had damned him to life with his contract, and correcting the room's bible offered no comfort or distraction as Michael showered. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at nine o'clock, seven minutes on Mondays and Fridays, ten on Wednesdays.
When Michael emerged he seemed outright puzzled at Castiel, as if they had not been repeating this pattern day-in, day-out since he had told Castiel what he was to do for the next year, and it was only when Michael walked over and brushed a thumb across his cheek that Castiel realised he had wept, too tired to really notice.
"You are this unhappy," Michael said, sounding thoughtful. "Because of my presence."
"You had no choice," Castiel replied, bitter at the thought. "Lucifer's escape demanded it."
Michael was quiet another moment before dropping his hand to Castiel's shoulder. "Sleep at my side tonight if it will comfort you."
Michael climbed under the sheets in boxers and a t-shirt as he had for the past three weeks, closed his eyes, and fell asleep at quarter to ten.
Castiel did not join him, but his own bed felt strangely empty.
Before the month was out, the pattern broke. Castiel read through a local newspaper and found himself distracted by a segment attached to one of the main headlines; it wasn't unheard of for humans to follow in one another's footsteps when it came to death, but twelve deaths in the same hotel room, even across three decades, seemed more than mimicking a pattern.
He did not need to take an interest; all lost souls eventually found their way to Heaven or Hell, with or without guidance. But it was at least something to do; he had seen every movie the local cinema currently showed, and found nothing of interest in any of them. Humans saw the appeal in escapism for obvious reasons, but the disadvantage of being an angel was knowing the universal truths humans tried to discover or avoid.
Michael made no complaint at the suggestion they investigate the room, although their motel's owner seemed a little angry when they advised him of their departure for the other hotel, anger switching to confusion when they explained it would only be for one night and paid their rent regardless.
Michael seemed frustrated when the room in question turned out to be a single, but given the recent nature of the suicide it was not to be rented out regardless; and though the receptionist rolled her eyes at their inquiries, she calmed down when they requested a double for themselves, offered to slip a brochure about nightlife in the neighbouring city in amongst their other papers.
Castiel folded his hands on his stomach as he looked up at the ceiling, waiting for Michael to finish his shower so that they might start their investigation. It was strange that two rooms serving the same purpose could be so different; the hotel's walls had elaborately patterned wallpaper and a white bordered ceiling, the furniture all chosen to compliment the colours of the dominant wallpaper. Technically it was a larger room, but it felt smaller; and as small a detail as it was, he thought it slightly odd that this room had a refrigerator filled with small bottles of alcohol where their motel room had a set for making tea or coffee.
He remembered helping Sam into a motel after a bad hunt, Dean taking care of opening and closing doors when he realised how easily Castiel could bear Sam's weight, and Sam grimacing on seeing the room, announcing "That wallpaper is hideous. One or the other of us has to go".
Dean hadn't caught the reference and yelled at Sam that he really wasn't funny, but Castiel had smiled, hoping Sam would win the duel that the quote's composer had lost. And he did, that time.
Michael dressed in clean jeans and a shirt after the shower, opened the door for Castiel to go out into the hall. There was a small clatter when the cleaner on this floor fell asleep, but it was for his own safety; better that no one should see them or anything that came out of the room if it was haunted. The security cameras were easier still; it had taken Castiel a while to understand how they worked, but creating a temporary loop in the feed was a simple measure.
The spirit lay quiet when Castiel entered the room, but recognised Michael in an instant for what he was; too long dead to ask with words, but everything left in its presence asking for forgiveness. Michael's touch worked instantaneously, sending the spirit on its way, and Castiel felt a cruel twist of self loathing the second he realised he'd almost asked Michael to say no. Not because he wanted the spirit to suffer, but because he'd wanted to find the reason for it being trapped; to track down whatever it had tied itself to and salt and burn the remains.
"Other abominations will come," Michael said, walking over to the bedroom window and running his fingers over the jagged edges of the glass, smashed by its previous occupant's rapid exit. It didn't matter that other humans might pass by the hotel; he did not wish to be seen by them and might as well have been invisible on account. "Death begets death."
Castiel nodded, knew full well that a room already tainted like this would be the perfect breeding ground for a poltergeist or similar creatures of its ilk; knelt to pick up one of the bloodied shards on the floor. "You don't see the point."
"I see what you are trying to do, but not why it matters. There is no bigger picture here."
Castiel rubbed the small sliver of glass between thumb and finger, sloughing off reddish-brown flakes. Dean had turned his eyes from the bigger picture; found more love and interest in the details around him than in the thought of the world as a whole. Castiel could scarce blame him; Dean had been asked to bear the weight of six billion lives, and Michael was the end result. "Starfish," Castiel said quietly.
Michael did not meet his eyes as he crouched to join Castiel, taking the glass from him and staring at that instead. "It would have mattered to that one," Michael said after a moment, seeming thoughtful as he threw the shard back amongst the others, something cold and beautiful in the sound of glass meeting glass.
Castiel was not sure how long they sat there in silence, if minutes had passed or only seconds, but it felt at once inevitable and impulsive when he wrapped his hand around the back of Michael's neck and leant in, pressing a kiss to Michael's cheek.
"If you wish to hunt, I have no objections," Michael said, gaze distant, something strange in his tone Castiel couldn't easily place.
When he did, the lingering twist of guilt in his stomach changed into something altogether different, if still unsettling. "I did not mean that as a bribe," he said, hesitant to speak so bluntly but uncertain how else to proceed.
Michael's gaze remained distant, his ignorance deliberate. "Then your affection lies with this body."
"It lies with you," Castiel said. "I didn't realise you were willing to learn." And as much as there had been something inevitable about that first kiss, there was nothing commanding him this time as he raised his free hand to Michael's face, tilting it towards his own. "I'm sorry," he said, leaning forward.
"Don't," Michael said.
"I want to," Castiel said. "I'm not doing this out of pity."
"That is not what worries me," Michael replied, sliding a hand into Castiel's hair. "I fear how much I want you to."
"I don't," Castiel said, closing the space between them and pressing his lips to Michael's.
He was not sure if it should have felt invasive when Michael kissed him back, whether he should have been frightened by the way Michael held tight to him, but all he could do, all he wanted to do, was hold tight in return, parting his lips with a gasp when Michael licked across them and sighing at the feel of Michael's tongue against his.
'Meant to' was meaningless here; he craved, even needed, anything to break the silence, anything to feel something other than stuck.
"Not here," Castiel said when Michael slid a hand up under his shirt, ignorant of the glass and blood scattered across the floor. "The motel."
It didn't matter that the beds there were smaller than the one in their hotel room; they hadn't lived in the hotel, and it was as much a stranger to them as any of its occupants.
Michael didn't answer or let go, pausing only to wrap his wings around them both. Archangels didn't need to concentrate to fly.
It was a learning curve for both of them, despite their grace and aeons of watching humans do the same; Castiel pausing uneasily when he remembered who the lubricant in Michael's bag had previously belonged to; Michael similarly uneasy when he noticed the time. It wasn't easy to break out of patterns of comfort, Castiel out of ignorance and Michael out of habit, but the temptation of learning each other's skin, the pattern of each other's breath remained motivation enough.
Michael did not demand, but Castiel offered freely, slicking Michael's fingers up and guiding them, gritting his teeth against the expected pain and surprised at how it felt more strange than sore to be pushed into. He couldn't have said if Michael's lips on his own had relaxed him enough to remove any hurt, if it was a side effect of his own strength, or if the sharp ache of his erection had been distraction enough, but it gave him the confidence to ask what Michael would not ask for.
It hurt this time; a burn not only in the stretch but in his lungs when they sought air he didn't technically need but wanted to draw, and when Michael stilled above him, both of them joined at the hip, it was a relief given he did not have the breath to ask that Michael wait.
They weren't in sync yet but Michael seemed to know him regardless, wiped his hands clean on the sheets before bracing one against the bed and taking Castiel's with the other, seeming little better for breath than Castiel did until a few moments had passed, both of them relaxing into this as best as possible under the strangeness of their circumstances.
"You," Michael began, skin flushed when neither of them should have felt the exertion of this, voice shuddering and uncertain. "I can't -"
Castiel knew a little of how this worked and rolled his hips, felt the slip and slide that asked to become a rhythm, wondered at the desperate gasp it wrung out of his brother. "Please," he repeated, gripping the hand Michael had pressed to his own tight and gasping in turn when he took his erection in the other.
He could feel everything, had not felt so alive in an age; the pressure of Michael above and inside him, the rising heat in his veins, and above everything else the brief sounds Michael seemed incapable of holding back. In this as in all else Michael was a man of few words; but each gasp, each involuntary groan, carried weight enough, the increasing frequency and ragged nature of the breaths Michael took giving Castiel all the information he needed.
And again, "Please," because it was not enough to simply lie there and take; he wanted more and the slow, careful rocking of Michael's hips could only provide so much. He didn't ask for faster, he didn't ask for harder, but he received and let go of Michael's hand to grasp his shoulder, feeling the tension coiled under his brother's skin.
"I cannot wait," Michael said before long but Castiel nodded his consent, almost relieved that Michael needed release while he still had some of his wits about him, felt the faint tremble in Michael's hands when they settled on his hip and his waist for leverage.
He didn't expect the sudden shock of something he hadn't known about, the almost agonising jolt of arousal brought on by the slight change of angle leading Michael to push against something that had Castiel digging his nails into Michael's shoulder, stroking his own erection rapidly because he would only get to feel this as long as Michael stayed inside him.
The frustration when Michael came was far, far outweighed by getting to watch; that expression would have meant the same thing on Heaven as on Earth. And if Castiel took pride in watching someone fall apart on account of him, watching Michael cling to him as if to do otherwise would mean death, listening to an incoherent cry wrought by his hands and his body, it wasn't as if he hadn't sinned before.
When organised thought became a realistic possibility again some time later, Castiel found one of his arms around Michael's back, the other slung loose across his shoulder so he could run his fingers absently through the sweat-damp hair at the nape of Michael's neck. Everything new in Michael, everything he had made his own felt perfect; radiance escaping wherever it could. The bland scent of hotel soap was strangely out of place and clean amongst everything else, but there was something in it Castiel could not entirely resist. Something that marked Michael as different.
"I love you," Michael said, voice quiet as he lay stretched across Castiel, neither of them needing to move, their strength rendering the idea of discomfort from weight meaningless. It was no sweet nothing. Michael did not lie or exaggerate; he meant everything.
Castiel shut his eyes and continued to stroke through Michael's hair, marvelled at how something this basic, this human could ease the ache of being trapped in this world. He understood now why Dean had placed so much importance on sex.
Castiel could not give Michael the words he wanted in turn, would not dishonour him with a lie, but he could offer something.
"I want to."
The End
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Michael/Castiel, one-sided Dean/Castiel references
Rating: NC17
Warnings: References to character death, mild violent references, and explicit slash.
Spoilers: Written prior to 5x13, so no spoilers for 5x13 or later.
Summary: Making decisions and learning to compromise; being human isn't easy.
Author's notes: This started life as a fill for the prompt "Supernatural, Castiel/Michael, promise, patience, light" on Porn Battle IX, and kind of grew. It'll probably get Jossed to death within a few episodes but never mind!
Until Dean Winchester, Castiel had never asked anything for himself. He had relayed orders, and he had obeyed them, but he had never wanted or needed anything more than to know he had satisfied his Father – or at least those he assumed to work on his Father's behalf.
Dean telling him that his orders were wrong, making demands that conflicted with those given by his superiors, that had changed him; having more than one option to choose between, having to make decisions, had given him power of his own. It had terrified him to become something other than a soldier for Heaven's cause, more than a cog in an eternal machine, but Dean had claimed to know perfectly well how hard it was to stop doing what you were told and follow your own path, with or without support.
But even with Dean, he still had orders to choose from; he wasn't left to his own devices, not entirely. If Dean wanted him to follow a demon, he'd track them to the ends of the Earth; if Dean wanted him to wait, he would wait.
He sometimes lost patience with Dean's requests, but he was quick to obey when he could. He'd been obedient for an eternity and it was hardly an easy habit to break; instead of seeking his absent Father's approval, he'd sought Dean's.
After all Dean had taught him about making your own decisions he knew he should have respected the one Dean made, but the moment he saw Michael he had fallen to his knees, cursed Dean, cursed Heaven, and begged.
He could not change allegiances again. He had died once already in acting against Heaven and he had bled for Dean over and over. It was enough to endure the first time and he would not survive a repeat.
He knew the stories of Michael just as thoroughly as he knew the stories of his Father, wondered as he begged for death if it would be as swift as the moment Raphael tore him apart, and wept at the hand on his shoulder.
"No," Michael said, gaze sympathetic but cold, and left.
The morning of Lucifer's death was remarkable in how something so obvious could pass by humans unnoticed. There was a brief story about scientists being baffled by the overnight appearance of a crater near Reno, the size of which ought to have caused an earthquake or left some marker other than a gaping hole in the desert with no apparent cause, but after three minutes the story was over and human sports, human finances took their share of attention instead.
Castiel sat in his motel room, idly going over the poorly translated bible left in his room by a previous occupant with a pencil and correcting it as best as he could given the miniscule print. He knew his quiet bothered the motel owner but as long as Castiel paid his rent on time and allowed the cleaners in his silence went by without comment.
Castiel did not need to look to recognise Michael's presence when he appeared behind him; said nothing to greet his superior. He would not ask for death again, and would not fight it if it had finally come. There was no point in trying to change an archangel's mind, and without either Winchester left to support him, his words were of no importance.
"Dean did not give himself over freely," Michael said, sitting down on the bed and staring until Castiel turned to him. Michael's radiance could not be entirely withheld by any vessel, blond roots beginning to show through what had been Dean's hair, once-green irises now gold and his skin turning pale. With enough time the change would be complete as Michael's glory took over completely.
It threw the dull of his own form into sharp relief, but he had never meant to take this vessel permanently; did not wish to shape it into anything other than the human it once belonged to.
"He asked the demon, Crowley, about contracts. He would not say 'yes' unless I agreed to meet certain conditions. His loved ones have entered Heaven, or been promised entrance. The Impala has been given to -"
"Why are you here?" Castiel interrupted, the details of whatever last will and testament Dean had crafted feeling irrelevant and trite when the fact remained that Dean was still possessed.
"He asked that he be given back to you whole, or that I should look after you as he wished." Michael raised a hand, gestured to himself as if to demonstrate his possession of Dean's form. "I cannot give him back."
"I asked you to kill me," Castiel reminded. "You refused."
"That is not what he wished." Michael settled his hands in his lap and tilted his head. "I cannot give all that he asked, and I cannot promise he will know you in Heaven when we return, but I will fulfil the contract to the best of my ability."
"When will we go back?"
"Dean did not say," Michael admitted. "But Crowley suggested a year."
Two weeks passed before Castiel realised Michael meant to keep the promise Dean held him to despite being uncertain exactly what the contract's terms entailed, or how Dean had wished to treat him. It was strange to have both of them playing at being human, though Michael's decision to share the motel room with him at night had settled the motel owner's nerves and made him more respectful of their requests for privacy; the fact they both paid rent and both left the room tidy made them ideal guests, even if he didn't necessarily approve of two men living together.
Michael fit into the world with an ease Castiel hadn't expected. His vessel's strength was visible enough no one questioned it, and his mannerisms struck others as foreign in a way they accepted and brushed off; humans seemed to recognise, at least on an instinctive level, that Michael was something both different and powerful, and he could move amongst them with little question.
It didn't change the fact Castiel knew him as something other than what he presented, knew that going through the motions of eating and drinking in public because it was what humans were supposed to do was nonsensical, and the silence between them in private did not change in public. He had nothing to say to Michael - the thought of other angels as his family had not changed, but his love for them felt distant; a detached thing like his love for humanity.
Sometimes he had to wonder if what he felt for them could even be fairly called love anymore.
Three weeks in the motel and Castiel felt trapped by duty; that Dean had damned him to life with his contract, and correcting the room's bible offered no comfort or distraction as Michael showered. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at nine o'clock, seven minutes on Mondays and Fridays, ten on Wednesdays.
When Michael emerged he seemed outright puzzled at Castiel, as if they had not been repeating this pattern day-in, day-out since he had told Castiel what he was to do for the next year, and it was only when Michael walked over and brushed a thumb across his cheek that Castiel realised he had wept, too tired to really notice.
"You are this unhappy," Michael said, sounding thoughtful. "Because of my presence."
"You had no choice," Castiel replied, bitter at the thought. "Lucifer's escape demanded it."
Michael was quiet another moment before dropping his hand to Castiel's shoulder. "Sleep at my side tonight if it will comfort you."
Michael climbed under the sheets in boxers and a t-shirt as he had for the past three weeks, closed his eyes, and fell asleep at quarter to ten.
Castiel did not join him, but his own bed felt strangely empty.
Before the month was out, the pattern broke. Castiel read through a local newspaper and found himself distracted by a segment attached to one of the main headlines; it wasn't unheard of for humans to follow in one another's footsteps when it came to death, but twelve deaths in the same hotel room, even across three decades, seemed more than mimicking a pattern.
He did not need to take an interest; all lost souls eventually found their way to Heaven or Hell, with or without guidance. But it was at least something to do; he had seen every movie the local cinema currently showed, and found nothing of interest in any of them. Humans saw the appeal in escapism for obvious reasons, but the disadvantage of being an angel was knowing the universal truths humans tried to discover or avoid.
Michael made no complaint at the suggestion they investigate the room, although their motel's owner seemed a little angry when they advised him of their departure for the other hotel, anger switching to confusion when they explained it would only be for one night and paid their rent regardless.
Michael seemed frustrated when the room in question turned out to be a single, but given the recent nature of the suicide it was not to be rented out regardless; and though the receptionist rolled her eyes at their inquiries, she calmed down when they requested a double for themselves, offered to slip a brochure about nightlife in the neighbouring city in amongst their other papers.
Castiel folded his hands on his stomach as he looked up at the ceiling, waiting for Michael to finish his shower so that they might start their investigation. It was strange that two rooms serving the same purpose could be so different; the hotel's walls had elaborately patterned wallpaper and a white bordered ceiling, the furniture all chosen to compliment the colours of the dominant wallpaper. Technically it was a larger room, but it felt smaller; and as small a detail as it was, he thought it slightly odd that this room had a refrigerator filled with small bottles of alcohol where their motel room had a set for making tea or coffee.
He remembered helping Sam into a motel after a bad hunt, Dean taking care of opening and closing doors when he realised how easily Castiel could bear Sam's weight, and Sam grimacing on seeing the room, announcing "That wallpaper is hideous. One or the other of us has to go".
Dean hadn't caught the reference and yelled at Sam that he really wasn't funny, but Castiel had smiled, hoping Sam would win the duel that the quote's composer had lost. And he did, that time.
Michael dressed in clean jeans and a shirt after the shower, opened the door for Castiel to go out into the hall. There was a small clatter when the cleaner on this floor fell asleep, but it was for his own safety; better that no one should see them or anything that came out of the room if it was haunted. The security cameras were easier still; it had taken Castiel a while to understand how they worked, but creating a temporary loop in the feed was a simple measure.
The spirit lay quiet when Castiel entered the room, but recognised Michael in an instant for what he was; too long dead to ask with words, but everything left in its presence asking for forgiveness. Michael's touch worked instantaneously, sending the spirit on its way, and Castiel felt a cruel twist of self loathing the second he realised he'd almost asked Michael to say no. Not because he wanted the spirit to suffer, but because he'd wanted to find the reason for it being trapped; to track down whatever it had tied itself to and salt and burn the remains.
"Other abominations will come," Michael said, walking over to the bedroom window and running his fingers over the jagged edges of the glass, smashed by its previous occupant's rapid exit. It didn't matter that other humans might pass by the hotel; he did not wish to be seen by them and might as well have been invisible on account. "Death begets death."
Castiel nodded, knew full well that a room already tainted like this would be the perfect breeding ground for a poltergeist or similar creatures of its ilk; knelt to pick up one of the bloodied shards on the floor. "You don't see the point."
"I see what you are trying to do, but not why it matters. There is no bigger picture here."
Castiel rubbed the small sliver of glass between thumb and finger, sloughing off reddish-brown flakes. Dean had turned his eyes from the bigger picture; found more love and interest in the details around him than in the thought of the world as a whole. Castiel could scarce blame him; Dean had been asked to bear the weight of six billion lives, and Michael was the end result. "Starfish," Castiel said quietly.
Michael did not meet his eyes as he crouched to join Castiel, taking the glass from him and staring at that instead. "It would have mattered to that one," Michael said after a moment, seeming thoughtful as he threw the shard back amongst the others, something cold and beautiful in the sound of glass meeting glass.
Castiel was not sure how long they sat there in silence, if minutes had passed or only seconds, but it felt at once inevitable and impulsive when he wrapped his hand around the back of Michael's neck and leant in, pressing a kiss to Michael's cheek.
"If you wish to hunt, I have no objections," Michael said, gaze distant, something strange in his tone Castiel couldn't easily place.
When he did, the lingering twist of guilt in his stomach changed into something altogether different, if still unsettling. "I did not mean that as a bribe," he said, hesitant to speak so bluntly but uncertain how else to proceed.
Michael's gaze remained distant, his ignorance deliberate. "Then your affection lies with this body."
"It lies with you," Castiel said. "I didn't realise you were willing to learn." And as much as there had been something inevitable about that first kiss, there was nothing commanding him this time as he raised his free hand to Michael's face, tilting it towards his own. "I'm sorry," he said, leaning forward.
"Don't," Michael said.
"I want to," Castiel said. "I'm not doing this out of pity."
"That is not what worries me," Michael replied, sliding a hand into Castiel's hair. "I fear how much I want you to."
"I don't," Castiel said, closing the space between them and pressing his lips to Michael's.
He was not sure if it should have felt invasive when Michael kissed him back, whether he should have been frightened by the way Michael held tight to him, but all he could do, all he wanted to do, was hold tight in return, parting his lips with a gasp when Michael licked across them and sighing at the feel of Michael's tongue against his.
'Meant to' was meaningless here; he craved, even needed, anything to break the silence, anything to feel something other than stuck.
"Not here," Castiel said when Michael slid a hand up under his shirt, ignorant of the glass and blood scattered across the floor. "The motel."
It didn't matter that the beds there were smaller than the one in their hotel room; they hadn't lived in the hotel, and it was as much a stranger to them as any of its occupants.
Michael didn't answer or let go, pausing only to wrap his wings around them both. Archangels didn't need to concentrate to fly.
It was a learning curve for both of them, despite their grace and aeons of watching humans do the same; Castiel pausing uneasily when he remembered who the lubricant in Michael's bag had previously belonged to; Michael similarly uneasy when he noticed the time. It wasn't easy to break out of patterns of comfort, Castiel out of ignorance and Michael out of habit, but the temptation of learning each other's skin, the pattern of each other's breath remained motivation enough.
Michael did not demand, but Castiel offered freely, slicking Michael's fingers up and guiding them, gritting his teeth against the expected pain and surprised at how it felt more strange than sore to be pushed into. He couldn't have said if Michael's lips on his own had relaxed him enough to remove any hurt, if it was a side effect of his own strength, or if the sharp ache of his erection had been distraction enough, but it gave him the confidence to ask what Michael would not ask for.
It hurt this time; a burn not only in the stretch but in his lungs when they sought air he didn't technically need but wanted to draw, and when Michael stilled above him, both of them joined at the hip, it was a relief given he did not have the breath to ask that Michael wait.
They weren't in sync yet but Michael seemed to know him regardless, wiped his hands clean on the sheets before bracing one against the bed and taking Castiel's with the other, seeming little better for breath than Castiel did until a few moments had passed, both of them relaxing into this as best as possible under the strangeness of their circumstances.
"You," Michael began, skin flushed when neither of them should have felt the exertion of this, voice shuddering and uncertain. "I can't -"
Castiel knew a little of how this worked and rolled his hips, felt the slip and slide that asked to become a rhythm, wondered at the desperate gasp it wrung out of his brother. "Please," he repeated, gripping the hand Michael had pressed to his own tight and gasping in turn when he took his erection in the other.
He could feel everything, had not felt so alive in an age; the pressure of Michael above and inside him, the rising heat in his veins, and above everything else the brief sounds Michael seemed incapable of holding back. In this as in all else Michael was a man of few words; but each gasp, each involuntary groan, carried weight enough, the increasing frequency and ragged nature of the breaths Michael took giving Castiel all the information he needed.
And again, "Please," because it was not enough to simply lie there and take; he wanted more and the slow, careful rocking of Michael's hips could only provide so much. He didn't ask for faster, he didn't ask for harder, but he received and let go of Michael's hand to grasp his shoulder, feeling the tension coiled under his brother's skin.
"I cannot wait," Michael said before long but Castiel nodded his consent, almost relieved that Michael needed release while he still had some of his wits about him, felt the faint tremble in Michael's hands when they settled on his hip and his waist for leverage.
He didn't expect the sudden shock of something he hadn't known about, the almost agonising jolt of arousal brought on by the slight change of angle leading Michael to push against something that had Castiel digging his nails into Michael's shoulder, stroking his own erection rapidly because he would only get to feel this as long as Michael stayed inside him.
The frustration when Michael came was far, far outweighed by getting to watch; that expression would have meant the same thing on Heaven as on Earth. And if Castiel took pride in watching someone fall apart on account of him, watching Michael cling to him as if to do otherwise would mean death, listening to an incoherent cry wrought by his hands and his body, it wasn't as if he hadn't sinned before.
When organised thought became a realistic possibility again some time later, Castiel found one of his arms around Michael's back, the other slung loose across his shoulder so he could run his fingers absently through the sweat-damp hair at the nape of Michael's neck. Everything new in Michael, everything he had made his own felt perfect; radiance escaping wherever it could. The bland scent of hotel soap was strangely out of place and clean amongst everything else, but there was something in it Castiel could not entirely resist. Something that marked Michael as different.
"I love you," Michael said, voice quiet as he lay stretched across Castiel, neither of them needing to move, their strength rendering the idea of discomfort from weight meaningless. It was no sweet nothing. Michael did not lie or exaggerate; he meant everything.
Castiel shut his eyes and continued to stroke through Michael's hair, marvelled at how something this basic, this human could ease the ache of being trapped in this world. He understood now why Dean had placed so much importance on sex.
Castiel could not give Michael the words he wanted in turn, would not dishonour him with a lie, but he could offer something.
"I want to."
The End
