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Title In the Darkening Day
Fandom Supernatural
Pairing Castiel/Victor Henriksen
Rating: R
Warnings/Kinks: Handjob, drug usage,

Summary: Victor is part of the Camp Chitiqua crew in 2014, and he and Cas have an understanding. When Cas gets high, Victor likes to listen to Cas talking about what it was to be an angel, and sometimes he likes to touch. Something about it reminds Victor of his own purpose before the world's end.

Notes: Idea from this prompt here

Victor holds out for as long as he can, holds onto the remnants of his past life. This isn't him, he thinks. He doesn't fuck other dudes, not even ex-angels with eyes that can still burn right through him and leave him exposed and bloody to the world. Then after the third incursion- when the camp only barely manages to repel the Croatoans assailing their gates, when Cas is right there beside him, smile raw and hideous, covered in blood to the elbow, buried deep in the bodies, thin veneer of peace and pacifism forgotten as though the warrior of heaven he once was is shining through, Victor thinks 'fuck it.' Nothing is like what it once was.

Cas doesn't seek him out, nor turn him away when Victor invites himself into his den. He watches lazily as Victor sits there crosslegged on cushions piled three deep, doesn't offer him a drag of whatever he's smoking. Like he knows Victor wouldn't touch it anyway. Victor's said goodbye to his hitherto 100% undamaged heterosexuality, he's said goodbye to three warnings before he shoots, but he hasn't said goodbye to the law. He knew cops who used to smoke that shit on their days off, they were never the best, and deep inside himself, though he's without a badge, and with too many guns Victor is still a cop. He watches still though now instead of youths in hoodies it's the line of Cas's neck as he inhales deep, lets the smoke dissipate in the heated air of the hut. Sometimes this is the only place that's warm but that's not why Victor is here.

Dean doesn't give a shit what Victor does, where he spends his off time. He gave him one long considering look when he turned up, didn't ask how he escaped Lilith's slaughter, just threw holy water in his face, cut him deep with silver, and made him say an Our Father, like the bizarro-world version of the priest who used to scare the crap out of Victor when he was little and his mama took him to church. Sure he doesn't trust him, but Dean trusts no-one, and Victor wonders how his old self could ever have thought Dean Winchester was some pissant little shit, had never seen that this cold lurked under his skin. Victor takes orders now, carries them out to the best of his ability, and rewards himself with the company of the one person he thinks comes closest to understanding what Victor has lost.

Not that Cas gets it. When he's high and floating, he talks of what he's lost, and it dwarfs Victor's loss by orders of magnitude that he can't even understand. Victor has lost an alimony check and a wife he hadn't seen in six years, lost a badge and a clarity of purpose that he's had since childhood. Cas has lost heaven, all the host and his own garrison. He has lost the grace that should run through his veins, and the grief in his voice is terrifying, would flay the skin from Victor's bones if Cas was anything of what he had once been. But there are echoes in his words, that Victor understands, and that is why he stays. That's why he lets this happen, lets Cas fuck himself up on whatever is handy, because when he speaks Victor hears the world that once was.

The first time it happens properly though- the first time Cas touches him- Cas is soaring on coke. There's none of it smeared around his nose, Castiel is not one for waste. We used to save everything, Victor hears the past whispers, we took every drop of the lifeblood they offered, we swam in their veins and gave thanks to our Father, and Cas's eyes are bloodshot, the blue so bright and fixed that Victor wonders if he should get help. Then Cas is there, in his space, lips pulled back from his gums and he looks savage. "Have you come to laugh?" he says, and he shakes Victor like a rag-doll. "Have you come to laugh at my ruin?" He's still a little more than human now, and his hands are inexorable, they tighten until Victor can barely breathe, his chest constricting in fear as Cas holds him there poised in the fading light of the afternoon.

He manages to gasp out a 'no,' and Cas drops him back onto the cushions, and stares at him broodingly. "I want to understand," Victor says, and it's true. He wants to understand the extent of Cas's loss, measure it side by side with his own, wants a glimpse of that fellow feeling he had when they fought side by side in the darkening day.

Cas laughs then, and Victor barely dares to move, as Cas holds himself up on white knuckled hands. "Understand," he repeats, and for a moment it's as though he can never stop laughing. "You want to understand?"

Victor stares at him, stares at the hair that hasn't been washed in too long, at the curve of his mouth bitten red and bloody like he's chewed on it for too long, at the touch of majesty that still suffuses him, can never be lost, and feels a helpless surge of pity, a helpless surge of want. He hasn't felt either in too long, hadn't perhaps believed he could feel either again. Pity dies fast, its the first thing to go when you witness horrors. He'd known that before this had gone down, before the world had imploded. Had hardly been able to muster it for corpses tied to chairs, for young women tortured for hours, for the broken sprawled bodies he'd seen in town after town. Dean Winchester hadn't even been the worst of it back then.

Then after the time of Lucifer, there had been so many bodies that he couldn't count them, decent burial became a thing of the past, and bloated swelling corpses rotting at the side of the road had been a fact of life. Now though, it touches him again, and he feels something tender well up in him, and it intermingles with the want, a feeling almost as foreign to him. It's been months since he even got hard, his dick quiescent and quiet. He's tried all sorts of stuff, been through every memory of every girlfriend, even the good times at the beginning with Sara, and there's been nothing doing. He's blamed the lack of vitamins in his diet, the lack of any stimulation bar his own right hand, and he's sure they've played their part. But now he feels it again, trickling through him, an unfamiliar warmth, deep in his belly that he hardly knows what to do with anymore. "Yes," he says blindly, because he does want to. He wants to hear Cas talk.

"My name is Castiel," Cas says and there is nothing in his face now that Victor can read. "My real name would strip your flesh from you in moments, my real form would crush you," in contrast to his words, his fingers are gentle against Victor's face, against his skin, tracing over him as though he can read something through his fingertips. "My name is Castiel," he says, and Victor feels it between them, the immense surge of fear that leaps up, that Castiel radiates. Half of it Victor knows, is the paranoia that you get coming down from a too intense high, the rest of him acts on instinct, drapes an arm around Cas and holds him close as he cracks a little.

Victor doesn't know how much later it is that he feels Cas's dick, hard and insistent against his thigh, and his own response unfurling once more as though it needed only this closeness to exist once more, and he can feel a smile twitching at his lips, bitter but there. The worlds end and all he wants is skin on skin, touch that closes the distance between him and the rest of humanity, even if the conduit is the all too human, all too alien man pressing down into him now. It's rough and uncoordinated between them, Victor's experience with men extends as far as his own hand around his own dick, and Cas has buried himself in humanity but not absorbed their norms, not yet. Pants get pushed down, and then Castiel too sloppy, too real kisses him, mouth against mouth, and Victor can feel both their hearts beat so hard and fast, pressed chest to chest.

"Tell me," he says, and he hardly knows what he asks, as Cas's hand cool and real closes round his dick, and as though by instinct Victor fumbles reciprocally against him.

Castiel doesn't break his stroke, doesn't falter as he speaks. "There was purpose," he says, "there was clarity. There was knowing you were loved, knowing you had a place in the eyes of the Lord. You stood shoulder to shoulder with your brothers and your sisters, and there was but one mind, one thought between you," his voice breaks now, and Victor feels the shudder that runs through him. "There was the righteousness of the kill, and the knowledge of your faith and your power. With your hands you served, with your voice you praised, and your soul worshipped the Lord."

"Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity," Victor says softly, the FBI's motto.

Cas touches their lips against each other once more. "Exactly," he says, "perhaps you understand a little." He rocks their hips against each others, hands caught in between, catches that bitten lip between his teeth. "We're all dying," he says softly. "We're all rotting slowly on this earth, some of us a little faster than others. Some of us know what we're missing, the eternal grace, the goodness and the light. The certainty." Victor thinks it's more than a little fucked up that they can still get off with that knowledge, then Cas bends and laps at the head of his cock, almost curiously, and sacred thoughts leave Victor's head, and he bites down hard on his own free hand. When he looks down, Cas meets his eyes and sucks him slowly, deeply, before he leans back up.

"Please," asks Victor and he doesn't know what he wants, not properly. He has his hand round Cas's dick now, moving slowly, jerking him and his own dick is damp with Cas's saliva, hard and thrusting against the air. Then Cas's hand is there, warm against him for once, and they rub against each other, still mostly clothed, and Victor feels unfamiliar prayers come to his lips, remnants of a long ago childhood surfacing now. He thinks of loss, of kinship and the great loneliness of Cas that expands to fill the space he's in, and can never be satiated. Then there are no thoughts, and he's falling into sensation. When next he comes back to himself, mere seconds later, Cas has finished as well, and slumped over him, warm and whole and human in so many ways, so empty and alien in others. Reflexively Victor's arms fold around him, hold him closer, anchoring Cas to himself for this moment at least.

There's salty dampness on Cas's face, but his eyes are clear, as though he's never heard of tears. Victor tucks them against each other for this moment at least and pretends that he feels any less alone.

Sequel here Ignore the Setting Sun


( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
Jan. 6th, 2013 03:57 am (UTC)
Edition #2,440
User dehavilland referenced to your post from Edition #2,440 saying: [...] by (Dean/Castiel, NC-17) In the Darkening Day [...]
Jan. 29th, 2013 10:45 pm (UTC)
I must admit I'd never even considered this pairing before, but then you mentioned it the other week, and I thought, shit, better check that out, sounds awesome.

AND IT IS. </p>

I love how you've managed to capture the undoubted bleakness of living day-to-day in that future, but with a little spark of something else too.

So good! :D

Jan. 30th, 2013 10:06 am (UTC)
Thank you! I'd never considered it either until I saw a prompt for them and it instantly clicked. Very glad you enjoyed, and appreciate the comment :)

(and pimping shamelessly, I wrote a sequel to this a few days ago if you enjoyed the pairing :)
( 3 comments — Leave a comment )