Chapter Text
Trigger Warning!
- For those people like me who don't read the notes and skip down to the non-indented section. WARNING!
~ ~ ~
The smell of September still hung in the air. There was long dry grass and tree bark. Though the gold of autumn had begun to drag intimate breathes of colour through Castiel’s otherwise green hometown, it was yet to reach the lone chestnut tree on Stockade Hill. The tree would soon succumb and proudly bare kisses of amber amongst its green; fruit had already started to fall. It was going to happen any time now.
The sun was setting over the high school’s football field a few miles away. Perhaps, if Castiel looked off towards the township he might see a box kite against the yellow-orange sky. He instead decided to sit cross legged on the picnic blanket and contemplate a different yellow.
Leaning against the old chestnut tree, Samandriel ran a hand through his dark blond hair. Confused. Irritated. Adorable. He’d been flipping through one of the text books Castiel had brought with him and evidently stumbled across something he’d need explained.
“Giovanni Bag—bag-lion-ee?” Samandriel, also cross legged stared intently at the book then looked up to meet Castiel’s gaze.
“Baglione.” He answered, Italian diphthongs rolling of his tongue effortlessly.
“Let’s pretend I was close shall we?” Samandriel snorted on an awkward but rumbling giggle. His rough fingers delicately traced over the surface of the page.
Only one year out of high school, the young mechanic apprentice still yearned to understand the world of art which had forever vexed and confused him. What Samandriel lacked in wit and knowledge he made up for in dedication and curiosity. His father had wanted him to go study divinity and theology and become a church preacher like himself. Samandriel had wanted none of that.
Eyeing the furrow which was deepening between those blond eyebrows, Castiel knew what was coming.
“Could you—Could you explain this one to me? I don’t… get it.”
“Sure.” Castiel giggled, leaning over the book, looking down, his nose only inches away from Samandriel’s. “It’s called Sacred and Profane Love, Baglione was painting it in response to a work by the painter Caravaggio—he was that guy who did those ones I showed you with Jesus.”
“So who’s that there?” Samandriel, slightly overeager, was pointing at the small winged figure on the bottom right and accidently pushing a sharp corner of the book into Castiel’s ribs. Nevertheless, it made Castiel giggle slightly.
“That’s a young Cupid,” Castiel smiled.
“So he’s the good guy right? Why doesn’t he look like the good guy? He represents love! Why is he bad?” Samandriel was apparently growing concerned and confused. Castiel could see it in his eyes, trying so hard to understand the painting for him. Castiel blushed from how adorable it was.
“Hah, it’s not that simple. Though the Greek Eros would symbolise love, the Roman Cupid represents desire and affection.”
“But I remember you saying that they were same guy?”
“Not to the church.” Castiel got halfway through a chortle before a thought hit him. A rather sad thought which pulled his eyes from Samandriel’s gorgeously furrowed brows to the silver crucifix hanging from his neck two inches above the page. “What we see here is an angel intervening between a meeting of Cupid and Lucifer. That angel represents religiously sanctified love, while the cupid represents a perverse and unholy profanity to the church.”
“Oh. I think I get it.” Samandriel withdrew his hand from the page. “I don’t think I like this painting as much as I thought I did.”
The book thudded closed and Samandriel handed it back to Castiel, he then proceeded to shell and roast fallen chestnuts with a pocketknife and zippo lighter.
. . .
Off in the distance, the football field’s white-painted, wooden bleachers swallowed what was leftof the sun. Castiel lay back on Samandriel, head resting on his chest.
“You know,” Samandriel squirmed underneath Castiel, “I don’t understand why the Cupid’s love was any less valid than the angel’s.”
“I suspect you’re overthinking it,” Castiel assured him, snuggling down and finding a comfortable spot again against the roots and between Samandriel’s legs.
But he wasn’t overthinking it. He was thinking about it the exact right about.
“I suppose you’re right.” Samandriel slid out from underneath Castiel and moved until he was standing before him. “You’re right and I’m sorry.” Castiel raised an eyebrow. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I know it hurt you, and I’m sorry.”
“Umm… What?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Castiel. You just don’t understand.”
“What’re you talking about?” Castiel whispered, backed up against the tree as Samandriel crouched down in front of him. His eyes were undecipherable. Manic.
“I’m so sorry Castiel. I hope you’ll forgive me. I got you a gift. Give me your hand.”
Castiel stretched out his hand which had begun to shake slightly. Samandriel grabbed at his pocket and, concealing it in his fist, placed something in Castiel’s hand. It was cold. Smooth. Metal. Entirely out of place in the rough warmth of Samandriel’s hands.
“You’re scaring me Sam, what’re you doing?”
“Me? I didn’t do anything.” Samandriel’s voice was soft and affectionate. Toying. His mouth rested is a small smile. “You’re the one who did this to me Castiel. It was you. I’m not a fag. I’m a good kid.” Samandriel smiled and shrugged. The smile grew across his face and he opened his mouth. Blood. Blood pouring out over his teeth. Down his front and pooling on the ground. Two matching dark red streams falling from the inner corners of his eyes. Rushing down his face.
“SAMANDRIEL!”
He fell to his knees before Castiel, the flow of vile-smelling crimson only hastening, his eyes still locked on Castiel.
Castiel uncurled his fingers and looked down at his hand. A cold metal bullet, amber. It was then that Castiel noticed, twisted into a ball against the rough bark of the Chestnut tree, that he sat naked. Exposed. Cold against the now moonless night. Samandriel’s blood running down his hands and arms.
Castiel wanted to scream. Wanted to get up and run. Neither his voice nor legs could fathom movement. Castiel looked back in front of him.
Samandriel was gone. Just dry grass and tree roots.
Castiel. Confused. Disorientated. He balled up his long, scratched, naked body, hugging his knees. The wind was picking up and all the only light to be found from the stars weaved in and out from incoming clouds.
The wind, like probing hands, scratched nails over his shoulders and down his back. Lashing at the paled cream of his inner thighs. Twisting around his body. Relentless. Angry. Whistling. Throwing twigs and sharp seed pods from the tree like ammunition. Stinging his eyes and slamming his legs apart against a rough roots. Running down his chest, ravaging his body. No part left sacred.
An invisible hand grabbed his face. Forcing two fingers into his mouth. Another hand running, scratching a finger down the dark, narrow line of hair under his belly button. A third finger forced into his mouth. Down his throat. Gagging against the intrusion. The hand on his stomach approaching dangerously low, running the heel of palm over Castiel’s— Castiel writhed and twisted as another finger dragged itself down the small of his back and down the cleft of his buttocks. Talons stretched his legs further apart. The one resentful finger approached an opening, its malice and dark intent palpable.
Suddenly. Stillness.
A small drop of warmth on his right cheek. Protecting. Healing. A life giving drop from the heavens, running down his face, warding off the icy gusts. The hands twisting away to nothing. The wind dying down. As the warmth ran down his face, Castiel parted his lips, allowing himself to taste the sweet elixir.
Warm. Like salt and rust and stone and earth.
Blood. Horror threw Castiel’s shoulders back and his head up to the branches of the tree.
It was Dean. Dean’s body in the tree. All twisted and broken. Dark lashes ringing his throat and wrists. Two ravens began to pick at his face. One at the wound on his left wrist.
Another drop fell on Cas’ forehead. Then one on his knee, running down to his crotch. More and more, speeding up, the macabre rainstorm becoming a hurricane.
Thick. Warm. Rancid clumps catching on stubble. A globule running down the between his shoulder blades, containing something sharp. A tooth. The fetid stench of old pork. Castiel felt something move on his chin. Something writhe. A small white maggot twisted and fell onto his stomach.
The raven which sat at Dean’s wrist started screeching. Loud. Piercing through Castiel’s skull. The two at his neck joined. A number of unseen screeches joined, dull but many.
A shadow capered near Dean’s stomach. Again. Moving up and down his belly. Claw-like protrusions reaching out towards Castiel. The screeching grew louder. A squelching noise. A crack. Four more birds landed on the tree and joined in the uproar. Castiel clutched his head in his hands, begging the sound to stop. A hellish tearing noise. Another wound cut its way across Dean’s stomach. Eviscerating. Disembowelling. Countless black beaks peering out. A wave of decay stabbing at Castiel’s nostrils. A putrid wad of flesh fell onto Cas’ ankle. Entrails, cords of meat, like sausages, unravelling as they draped out of the opening, hooking closer to Cas.
Castiel opened his mouth to scream but no noise came out. Another fistful of flesh fell, barely missing his shoulder. Castiel tried harder to scream, a stream of thickened blood falling through his hair over an eye, blinding him. Clenching. Shouting. Forcing only silent scratches of air out. Twisting upwards, clawing at his throat. A clump of viscera fell into Cas’ open mouth. Caught. Stuck. Castiel wretched in horror and repulsion. Nothing. Forcing a shaking hand into his mouth he only drove the lump further back. Feeling the blood pour down his throat and burning into his lungs.
The beaks were twisting their way out. Further. More. Until with a repulsive ripping the wound widened and the ravens flew out with a spray of fresh blood.
His eyes burned. The screeching unbearable.
Dean’s body jolted closer slightly, twigs beginning to break under the weight. More birds twisting out of darkness perched on branches and started howling.
Demonic shrieking screams. The sound of snapping wood and one thousand beating wings. Rotting flesh catching in his throat. Suddenly open eyes. Bloodied. Reddened, but distinctly green and amber. The wood creaked. A final crack.
The body fell.
. . .
Awake. It took an alarming number of seconds for Castiel’s body to attempt to fill his empty lungs. Thrashing against the bed, sucking in air, his head banged against the wall. His pillow was nowhere to be seen.
He sat bolt upright, dizzying himself. Castiel tried to purge the images which still lingered from his mind. He had little success.
It was just a bad dream.
It had been a week since Castiel had seen Dean, drunken and bleeding, but by now he’d definitely be better. And definitely not dead in a tree. Everything would be fine. They’d hang out again, eventually. Everything would be fine.
~ ~ ~
“Don’t you agree Dean?”
“Sorry, what?” Dean had spaced out behind the milk steamer.
Lilth flicked a golden curl off her face and repeated herself. It was obviously for Dean but she directed it towards Charlie once more.
“I was just saying that I think it’s stupid when two friends think playing cat and mouse will lead to something more. You either do or you don’t, if you take too long opportunities disappear and then you’re left with nothing.” Dean swore he saw her slightly raise an eyebrow at him before she took a large sip from her soy latte.
“I don’t know, I figure some friends are cool with just being friends and then occasionally doing the nasty. Are you telling me there’s something wrong with that?” Charlie returned, measuring Lilith, trying to determine at whom she was digging. Lilith point-blank rejected the direction Charlie had steered the conversation.
“Ok, well you know Abby? She and Alastair have been friends for ages, and it’s obvious they both want to fuck each other senseless. Too bad he’s too polite and she’s too stupid.” Dean was rather confused. He didn’t understand why, but Lilith’s gaze became icy and tactlessly directed at him. “If only he’d grow a pair and just ask her on a date, they could be done with the aloof formalities which both of them seem so desperate to cling to.”
Charlie, noticing Lilith’s fixation, also turned to Dean. He simply gave a noncommittal shrug and wiped some stray foam off a nozzle.
Lilith let out a sharp and infuriated huff and then returned to her previous façade of light-spirited, chatty bliss.
“Oh by the way, my friend gave me this voucher to his restaurant. I’m not a fan of pasta so I thought you should have it Dean.”
Dean knew Lilith was the kind of person to whom one would rather not owe favours, and as he couldn’t for the life of him work out why she’d be offering such a kindness, found himself rejecting the gift.
“Haha, you thought you had any choice in this matter, cute. I’ve done you the liberty of booking you a table there tonight seeing as you can’t have any plans and Charlie and I are getting dinner over at La Cuillère Doux.”
“We are?”
“Oh, did I forget to mention that? Yes. We are. I’m paying. Oh well, I’m off. Have fun tonight Dean, I’m sure there’s someone you could invite.”
With that, Lilith strutted out leaving Dean confused, Charlie slack jawed, and one small black voucher sitting by the cashier.
“Oh… um, okay.”
~ ~ ~
Dean’s finger hovered over the call button on his phone. It’d be fine. He could do this. Dinner. Dinner was a thing people did. Friends do dinner. But then, Dean supposed, Friieeends do dinner and then get to do things after. No shit fuck! Friends. Just friends. A friend who just happened to ask another friend for a bite to eat at an Italian restaurant on 4th Street. Friends.
“Uhh—Hello? Anyone there?”
Fuck! Dean’s finger had accidentally slipped while he was thinking and he’d already called Castiel.
“Oh, hey Cas.”
“Hello Dean.”
“I was just sitting here—at home… just hanging—just casual, you know haaaaangin’.” What the fuck was he doing!? Conversation! Dean desperately needed a conversational topic. “So um—yeah, last week…”
“If I recall, you were slightest bit drunk. I bet you don’t even remember anything.” Cas laughed. Dean welcomed the excuse to not talk about… that.
“Yeah, it’s all a bit of a vodka coloured haze. I hope I haven’t scared you off. I can use a smart bud like you.” A SMART BUD!? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING DEAN! A smart bud.
“Hah, I don’t scare easy. Oh well, if my calculations are correct, I believe it’s back to being my turn to get black-out drunk this time?” Castiel’s confidence evidently faltered. “Or if you’re busy we could not, I just meant—“
“True we could do that, or I suppose, we could get dinner? Barker’s? At 7?”
There was a silence, the sound of someone chocking, and the crackling sound of the phone being dropped and picked up again.
“Uhh yeah, sure. See you there.”
“Cool, see ya.”
Click.
Dean was left on a worn fabric couch with a grin on his face, picking at his fingers.
Dinner. Barker’s. At 7. With Cas.
Baglione's Sacred and Profane Love: link
