ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛᴇᴏᴜs ᴍᴀɴ ( ᴊᴇɴɴɪғᴇʀ ᴀɴᴋʟᴇs ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
righteously) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2022-11-28 07:39 am
righteously) wrote in abraxaslogs2022-11-28 07:39 am
Sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴍᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀɢᴏ → ( ᴏᴘᴇɴ )
WHO: Dean Winchester
WHAT: catch-all with open prompts; the mark of cain is beginning to take a toll on Dean, resulting in some violent altercations and moodiness. also included: a quick trip to the naked werewolf baths.
WHEN: november-december
WHERE: cadens, nocwich, horizon
WARNING: alcoholism, corruption, violence, brutality, suicidal ideation, nudity
Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ᴀ ᴄᴀʟᴍ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴏʀᴍ
I ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ɪᴛ's ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴ' ғᴏʀ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ
WHAT: catch-all with open prompts; the mark of cain is beginning to take a toll on Dean, resulting in some violent altercations and moodiness. also included: a quick trip to the naked werewolf baths.
WHEN: november-december
WHERE: cadens, nocwich, horizon
WARNING: alcoholism, corruption, violence, brutality, suicidal ideation, nudity
I ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ɪᴛ's ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴ' ғᴏʀ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ
no subject
[ it's a tossed away comment, because dean's talking nonsense again, and that's not what's important here anyway. he barely even own real hands. heaven forbid dean develops an itch during this adventure.
a surge of pride and fondness hits him, his faith in their bond reassured and touched that dean would set his misgivings aside to trust him with this. cas knows the weight of this request, what all dean has to push through to submit to it. it's no light, frivolous gesture, and he intends to give it all the respect it deserves.
given snark aside, of course. knowing dean, that's a key part of maintaining comfort and the reassuring sense of normality, and cas has no intention of building this up more than it needs to be. ]
Ready? [ the short ask, as he steps in within arms reach. once there's a nod, cas looks to the sky, and the white-blue glow of his grace snakes up past his lips, travels like twisting smoke through the air, and slips in past dean's. the second the last of it leaves the jimmy novak-shaped, empty vessel, the body begins to drop.
Dean's arms, no longer under his immediate control, snap out to catch the inanimate body before it hits the cobblestone below, and Cas settles it carefully on the ground. No reason to come back to a concussion.
Cas doesn't intend to dig into Dean's mind, but it'll be impossible to ignore his immediate psyche, the thoughts running currently through his head, anything pressing and distinct about his body, emotions or mental state. ]
no subject
Ready?
Under his breath, a softly exhaled: )
Not really.
( But yes.
Cas steps up, and anticipation lurches in his gut. Nerves churn like a tumultuous sea storm; he straightens, shoulders squaring, fingers flexing like he's tempted to ball them into fists only to immediately abort the action. Feathers ruffle and wings flare up, wary, bracing himself. Light surges from Jimmy Novak's lips and eyes — Dean sucks in a tense breath, and with it, swallows grace.
And then-
And then.
And then.
Dean was born an empty vessel. He has felt that emptiness since he was a child. There has always been a space within him, a vacancy where something belongs. Where someone belongs. His mother, his brother, his father, the archangel he was meant to house, God only knows, but he was built to have an aching, empty chasm of yawning, lonely space.
For one fleeting moment, that empty space is filled with light, and is gone. For one fraction of a second, he is full, and in the purest, simplest sense, it is good. It's a relief to a pain so old and consuming, it could move a person to tears.
Then the shock fades, that flare of overwhelming energy and sensory overload begins to settle, and his lizard brain starts working again. It realizes he's not in control of his limbs, that his body is moving of its own accord, that he's not the one behind the wheel, and the panic flares mindlessly. It's pure animal instinct that has him trying to dig his heels in, rebelling against the force that controls him before he can remind himself that force is Cas.
Underneath it all, in the background, in the deep dark down, Cas will likely pick up on something foreign to both of them. Something that is neither himself nor Dean. A corruption, a stain, a black smear of ink growing, feeding on him, parasitic — subtle enough to skirt by beneath human perception, but undoubtedly wrong enough for an angel to sense. )
no subject
dean is a shoreless sea he tumbles into.
His soul envelopes the angel, pressing at his sides, pushing at his back. It isn’t drowning, or submersion, but floating, held in a pool of light, embraced. they weave together like complimenting threads in a tapestry, one over the other, over the other. its wholeness, home, melded together in a natural process he’s never experienced before. Perhaps it’s the familiarity between them, another odd byproduct of their profound bond, but regardless, it’s staggering enough he nearly fumbles his regular vessel.
the isolation Castiel’s carried since the dawn of time as the only one of his kind quite like this (off the line with a crack in his chassis ), echoes through the chasm he floods, finding the opposing puzzle piece that fits into all his gaps, makes space for the too-much-ness of him. for a split second, it’s a blissful integrality at their most basic level, before it rapidly deteriorates.
dean panics, wrests for control, and Cas takes a quick adjustment away from the complete commandeering he’s always practiced in possession. it takes some relearning. He has no interest in struggling with or subduing his friend, finds himself longing for a glimpse of the harmonious symbiosis they’d shared a breath ago. Cas pumps the breaks, surrenders the proverbial wheel and moves his focus to Dean’s body, the psychosomatic aches and tensions that seize him up.
Cas is a soothing wave drifting a steady current through the cavernous depths he’s filled, sprawling out and patiently taking up space. less a voice, more a low, rumbling feeling of patient assurance , a supporting warmth at his back. The innate trust he feels for Dean rises to the surface, washing over coiled muscle and rigid joints. It expands through his chest, eroding the compacted sensation that comes with panic and eking out space for his lungs to take in the extra oxygen he’s missing to calm his mind. The love Cas nurtures for him, familial or friendship or otherwise, radiates through the way careful fingertips in your hair sends relaxing tingles down your limbs. It leaves behind a subtle, tending warmth, a notion of security, being taken care of, easing the edge off fight or flight.
Pulling inward, Cas does his best to tamper down the loudness of his senses (dim the room, muffle the music), and he waits. lets them settle into one another. They’re very abruptly closer than they’ve ever been, without the audience of the physical world, the obvious barriers of skin and air, sensory input and perceived reality. the intimacy of it’s an unspoken secret buried between them, illustrated only in the vague language of thought, emotion, and biological shifting. It needs no words, no attention, no recognition - an uncomplicated truth that demands nothing.
He can nudge a couple agitated symptoms back into place - his constricted breathing, the muscle tension - but the darkness lingering in the depth… There’s nothing Cas can do to scrub out that cloud of black ooze clung to Dean’s soul like a cancer. The most is lean in, consume the empty space, curl protectively around Dean’s consciousness and drown the mark out for the time he’s in here with him. ]
no subject
The fact that he finds anything good in all of this is something his subconscious suggests he should be mortified by. He refuses to look into that too deeply.
This has a purpose. There's a reason they're doing it. It's Cas, and it's necessary. Learning how to control these feathery abominations strapped to his shoulder blades could help save lives. It's important. He needs to strap on his Big Boy pants and get over it.
Okay.
Breathe.
(The soothing flood of reassurance, of love, of calming energy nearly cracks him in half, nearly spears him through the heart. It's like the time Sam Wilson did his calm emotions thing for his first trip into the Horizon — but cranked up to a million. It's too good, it's addictive if he let it be.)
Experimentally, he twitches a finger. It moves. Relief surges in with the rest of the soothing sensations, and his shoulders soften a fraction of an inch.
Now, about the logistics here.
Eventually, a tentative murmur breaks from him — though he doesn't know if he just thinks it, or if it actually escapes his mouth out in the real world. )
...Cas?
no subject
if he ever pushes past that barrier of shame, all cas offers is his for the taking, but if not, it remains the same. deep down, inside, here, seconds are eons, and they have eternity. this is only prelude. ]
I'm here.
[ the words echo in the back of dean's mind, not so much jimmy novak's voice as it is colors, emotions, etching on the inside of his skull. a familiar feeling - the scent of holy oil and coolness of an angel blade against dean's palm, the glimpse of short, fluffy, dark hair and a tan trench coat from the corner of his eye. he makes himself known as passenger.
dean's own words pass through his lips, flesh obeying him as it always has. bystanding during possession is new and foreign for cas, but witnessing how dean operates from the inside out is well worth the adaptation. ]
Whenever you're ready, I'll start.
[ it'll be intense, a part of him warns. chained to a comet. there's nothing quite like diffusing your being into wave lengths that lattice through the interwoven planes of space and time. angel flight is a wild, interdimensional ride. even with dean's wings being primarily corporeal, cas doubts the actual process will be much different.
in shorter words, hold onto your butts, kids, shit's gonna get freaky. ]
no subject
His throat works nervously, adam's apple bobbing as his eyes flit to the corner to seek out a phantom that isn't there because he's riding shotgun inside of Dean's freaking skin.
Whatever. Don't think about it. Just. Don't think about any of this, not right now, not with an audience.
He clears his throat. Steels himself, makes sure his balls are screwed on, and then nods. )
Let's do this.
( Jesustiel take the wheel. )
no subject
rolling dean's shoulders out, cas stretches out his wings to full span, and shifts their eyes to the sky. he takes a single deep, steadying breath. then, the world blurs.
noise like a cyclone whips past dean's ears, and the next solid thing he can make out is a top view of Cadens, from a cruising altitude of about 40,000 feet. his new wings handle like a fine tuned machine, a smooth ride with a pilot that knows what he's doing at the helm. quite the view from up here, provided heights don't bother you - sorry, dean, he's missed it in recent months.
they hover there, just a moment, as cas sighs out, letting worry, tension, guilt and sorrow bleed out of him. there's no peace he knows like this, floating through the open sky of a miracle of a planet, full of life and beauty. wings spread wide, there's no teetering, no turbulence, held in the air like you're standing on some invisible shelf, sturdy. tranquil serenity washes through him, before he comes back to the task at hand.
travel, like angelic teleportation, requires envisioning a destination. closing their eyes, Cas builds the image of the marketplace in their mind, down to individual stalls, the surrounding streets, citizens milling around, the big statue of some the prime minister. ]
See yourself there, then go. [ another hurricane of sound around them, a blur of color, layers of reality rushing past their eyes, and dean's now standing atop the head of Prime Minister Marlo's statue, at the center of the marketplace. it isn't entirely that simple. there's equations and spatial considerations. he brought him to a place no one else is likely to be standing for a reason. but here we are. ]
no subject
See yourself there, then go. )
I see myself on the ground. In a bar. With- like- so much booze. What in the hell, man?! You're gonna need to keep my bladder on lockdown, because I'm seriously one stiff breeze away from pissing myself here.
no subject
but this training exercise isn't for him, and Cas focuses back in. Next lesson: not teleporting directly into another person. ]
A bar, then. [ In their shared mind space, Cas pulls up memories of the Sarstina - it's location within the city, the layout of the bar, the view of it the last time Dean stepped out from the stairs to the rooms onto the ground level. His wings unfurl, power rising, and the world begins to blur.
It's slower this time, Dean can watch the buildings, market stalls, civilians going by as they cruise through the streets several feet above. Yet, it all appears frozen below them, or moving so slowly it's near imperceptible. ]
Crowded spaces are more difficult. You start with a destination, slow on approach. This is what I meant by space and time. [ Walls, buildings, even people aren't obstacles while they're like this, traveling on some adjacent layer of reality, they simply phase through it all. No front door is taken to get into the inn, cas takes them directly through the wall as if it's nothing more than smoke and lights. Inside, it's a quick glance to find enough space between furniture and patrons to fit both dean and his corporeal wings before they touch down. ] It's unlikely you'll interrupt the molecular structure of another person or thing if you aren't careful where you land, but entirely possible you'd crush or throw any matter in your way. Don't forget your wingspan.
[ With a rush of air and flutter of wings, Dean is at the bar, ready to order. Cas relinquishes control (though, does make sure Dean's bladder and stomach are stable, no uncalled for ejections). ]
no subject
Right. Wide berth. Got it.
( He don't got it, not really. In theory? Sure. In practice, it's gonna take more than just a couple hours of tutorial mode with Cas piloting his meatsuit around for him to master it.
But... it's better than nothing.
They spend the better part of the afternoon doing this — Cas steering them, giving instructions that Dean gradually focuses on more than the weirdness of the sensation. By the time they finish, he can miraculously, spectacularly, take off from the ground all on his own, no angel co-pilot at the wheel.
It's progress.
Progress he hopes to god he never actually has to use, but... progress. Something he couldn't have accomplished without Cas, and that gratitude's in earnest full force when he finally gets around to saying thank you once night falls. )
no subject
eventually, they find a rhythm and understanding between them. working in tandem had come naturally in separate vessels all these years, why wouldn't sharing one be the same?
somewhere along the way, being housed in dean's skin, woven in through his blood and bones, becomes comfortable, like curling up under a warm blanket and tugging it over your head. it's familiar. he wonders if, on closer inspection, he might find his fingerprints on the atoms composing him, left from that first meeting in hell, the work of reassembly after. wonders if, on closer inspection, dean might find them too. perhaps there's some wisps of his grace fused between the bricks like glue. the sense of i've been here before lingers constantly, the longer he settles into the surroundings - into dean.
as promised, cas keeps his "hands" to himself, not straying any deeper into dean's psyche, but for the hours they're together, castiel does plant himself like the hoover fucking dam between dean and the dark fog of the mark that threatens to seep in between the crevices. if there's nothing else he can do to permanently remove it, at the very least, he can give dean a few hours of peace. ]
You're welcome. You did great, Dean, you'll be traveling on your own in no time. [ Cas echoes in his mind, as they touch down outside the inn. thankfully, castiel's body is still there, taking a nap in the middle of the courtyard. it probably would've been wise to leave a note. without him animating it, the vessel looks and feels, essentially, like a corpse. they're lucky no one carted him away for the morgue. ] I'm sorry it had to be so uncomfortable. Thank you for allowing me to join you.
[ there's almost a sorrow in parting from dean, when he returns to his vessel. braided together with dean's soul, seeing the world from his mind and facing it together had brewed a profound sense of fulfillment and solidity. a coldness seeps into the same old gaps in his being when he detangles them, the ethereal cloud of light that composes his being slipping from dean's lips and back into castiel's usual housing. that loneliness, emptiness, seems to echo through him now, bouncing off a hollow ribcage, haunting through the solitary of his mind.
the strangest thing, it's never felt like that before. not with any other host - just dean. ]