31 + 33 for Destiel, please! Love your writing. ;)
(send me two tropes + a pairing) Reincarnation + Demigod (or deity) AU
Castiel had lost count of the lifetimes he had shared with Dean.
Before they met, eternity lay before Castiel unchanging and unremarkable. Even the pleasures of observing Earth and humanity had lost their luster, the years passing in an endless monotonous stream, seasons coming and going without catching Castiel’s notice.
Then he met Dean, and the barrier between himself and the world shattered. He was involved again, living and not merely alive. His brothers told him that it was pointless to love a mortal, that it would only lead him to heartbreak, but Castiel didn’t listen.
The first time Dean died it was bloody and sudden, only eight short years after they met. It was pain beyond anything Castiel had known and he desperately wanted to follow Dean into oblivion but he couldn’t find the strength.
It was fortunate that he didn’t, because he soon felt the pull of that familiar soul.
Dean had been born again, a woman this time with dark curls but those same green eyes. Castiel met her shortly before her twentieth birthday and although she didn’t recognize him, they fell in love again.
They spent eight decades together. Castiel kept her healthy well into her old age and she died in his arms, a smile on her lips.
Thus began a cycle of blissful happiness, followed by devastating pain and heartbreak. Castiel would find Dean, only to lose him over and over again. Every time he had to witness him die, he wondered if it was worth it, and every time he discovered him again he knew that it was. Any pain was worth it, just to look into those green eyes again and to hold Dean and to have him love him.
Still, those lonely years in between began to take their toll, and Castiel had an idea.
It was a mad idea, and his brothers told him as much, but again Castiel didn’t want to listen. He didn’t share his brothers’ view that mortals were inferior to the gods. Castiel knew better; mortals were to be envied. Their lives had purpose that the gods could never dream of, because their lives would end. Even the cycle of reincarnation had its end, and their souls would move on to a place unknown.
Castiel knew what he had to do, not only to save himself from heartbreak but to make sure that Dean’s cycle would be allowed to reach its end. Dean’s soul was clinging to this plane in order to stay with Castiel but it was becoming old and tired.
And so, Castiel watched Dean die one last time.
Then he reached inside himself, carving out his divine spark and extinguishing it. He would die and be reborn, a human being just like Dean. There was no guarantee that they would be reunited but Castiel had faith.
This time, he would be the one waiting and Dean would be the one to find him.
temple prostitute dean working in deity!cas' temple
LMAO get ready for 1.1k of happy MCD, bitch!!!
Dean had lived in the temple for all of his life. He had been born in a shabby chamber meant for offerings to be stored in, hidden away from all the other servants. He had been taught the ways of worship by his mother and the ways of seduction by his the other servants of the temple, and he had grown to become a priest, and then a head priest, and still kept this position until this very day. He had lived in the temple for all of his life - so it was only right for him to also die there.
It hurt when they carried him from from his sickbed into the altar room. But the pain was omnipresent these days, anyhow; and he had begged them to grant him this one last wish, to not leave him to die in bed but lay him upon the altar, so his only complaints were the grunts and moans of the moment. The sickness had slowly eaten him from the inside-out, rotted his mind along with his body, so that every night, he awoke in pain and confusion, and awoke with them, too. The promise of the absence of pain was just one more reason for him not to fear, but welcome death. Even if it was not the most important one.
For the most important reason, the one that had given him the strength to tell the other servants that his time and come and that he was to be taken to the altar room in the first place; the one that had his limbs quiver in excitement, and not terror; the one that interrupted his rattling coughs with the shadows of a smile again and again, was that he would finally see Him again. His light, his lord, his salvation and only truth.
His god Castiel.
The one he had been serving all of his life, had praised and worshipped until he had reached maturity and met him at last - and from then on, had loved him, too. Not as before; not as distant and devout as was expected of him, but with a fervor and passion that bordered on perversion. Castiel’s blessed touches and graceful kisses had been what had elevated him to priesthood later on; His holy essence shining through Dean reason enough to recognize him as the head priest once his predecessor had finally returned into Castiel’s loving embrace. No one could deny that Dean had been touched by the lord himself - that he had given Castiel the greatest gift he had been able to make back then, and that he had been gifted in return.
Yet, from that night on, it had not been sacredness that he desired, but one sacred being. He had prayed to him, praised him even louder than before, saw him in visions and dreams, asleep and awake, searched for him in every lover that he took in his name, and had thought he could feel him, every now and then, but never for certain, never for long. All at once, their encounter had enriched Dean’s life beyond measure, irrevocably - and had dulled it, too. How could the sky compete with the blue of His eyes? How could the flowers hold any beauty greater than that of His grace? How could honey taste in any way as sweet as His kisses had been?
Dean had been anointed by Him; in both earthly and divine ways. His essence had filled his body and his soul, changed him so profoundly that he had not been able to recognize his own face in the reflection on the pond.
Only his service to the lord could quench his yearnings every so often. But his thoughts were not always subservient and his prayers not always pure. Still, he stayed in the temple, worshipped his name, burnt sacrifices, helped the sickly and the poor, did whatever Castiel could have expected and wanted of a servant.
Some days, his resolution might have wavered, but it never broke. He knew that if he served well, his reward would be all the grander. If he did right by his lord’s name, then his gratefulness would be even more true. If he worked hard and only went to his lord when he finally called for him, then there would be a hundred, a thousand, an eternal number of encounters by the pond again and again, neverending kisses, and love.
Yes, and that was why his sigh when they laid him down onto the altar was one of relief. He had done his time. Faithfully, he had waited more than sixty years, served his lord throughout them, and his longing had only grown stronger with every day. Even if the sickness were not about to take him, then the ache of his heart would have instead. Sixty years had been a long time -- too long a time, perhaps --, so why did waiting even another sixty seconds seem so long to him now, longer even than all those years?
(He knew why.)
He saw and smelled the first candle and flower they placed next to him, took them in almost ruefully. But with every little burst of fire and rustle of leaves and petals, they already appeared farther from him, as if only offered from a distance. The servants’ prayers slowly turned into chanting to his ears and finally lost themselves in indecipherable murmuring. Their tears and cries, too, soon did not touch him anymore. As if he knew they were futile; that there was no need for them.
This was a cause for celebration instead - a lover’s reunion.
He felt his lips pull into a smile upon that thought, one last reconnection with his body, and then, he finally began to slip out of himself.
Slowly, slowly, he could feel it -- could feel Him -- beckoning to him, finally calling him to sit by His side and eat from His table, to receive plentiful kisses. And as the candles grew dimmer, a blue light flickered in the ever-growing darkness of Dean’s sight. Small at first, it grew in size in tune with every prayer that was lost to his ears, every candle whose light did not touch him anymore, every tear needlessly shed for him from a now already faraway place. It grew and grew, seemed to fill all of his vision and of the sky and of his heart, blinding and seeing and caressing and there.
When it finally overtook everything, when his last breath fell away and he took his first true one in a long, long time, when warmth lightened his limbs and filled his longing heart, that was when he felt it at last: a smile pressed against his own, grace singing within his soul, his love finally coming to claim him again, to take him home.
Dean sees the moment the vampire knows it’s screwed.
He’s been leading it on a chase through the forest, right to this exact spot. He’s lucky it didn’t notice any of the stones marking the path to the shrine as they ran past them, but there is no way it won’t notice the fact that they’re now standing on holy ground.
It doesn’t matter. It’s far too late.
The vampire turns around anyway, but it only gets about half a foot before Castiel is there, grabbing it by the head and smiting it.
“You could find a different way of bringing me offerings,” he says in lieu of greeting to Dean.
Dean bows, but he can’t wipe the grin from his face. He’s always been a little too cocky when it comes to Castiel, a little too careless. It’s a good thing Castiel likes him.
He feels the touch of Castiel’s hand on the top of his head, light and unearthly warm, and shivers.
“Rise,” Castiel commands, voice low and rumbling. Dean feels it reverberate through him, right down to his bones.
He raises his head. As always, Castiel presence fills him with a sort of awe that he can’t explain. There’s something about it that makes Dean feel clean, which is about the furthest thing from reality. But Castiel seems to think he’s worthy anyway, and Dean doesn’t dare question it.
Castiel examines him for a long moment, and his gaze feels too heavy for Dean, who lowers his head again. “Your gifts may be unorthodox, but they are appreciated all the same,” he finally says, and Dean feels warmed by his approval.
“They’re not all I have to give,” Dean replies.
This isn’t the first time he’s made this offer. Castiel has never taken him up on it, but Dean can read between the lines well enough, can tell that he’s tempted. He may not be much of a holy man, but he knows lust.
Castiel lays his hand on his head again and this time it wanders, fingers softly threading Dean’s hair. Then he’s snatching it away, leaving Dean light-headed.
“You shouldn’t give yourself so freely,” he says. Perhaps it’s Dean’s imagination, but his voice sounds shaky.
“Only to you,” Dean says, already trembling at the audacity of what he’s about to say. “I know you’ve taken mortal lovers before, and I don’t ask that I be the only one. I just want-” he swallows, “I just want to be yours. In whatever way you’ll have me.”
“This isn’t a promise you can take back,” Castiel warns him.
He is a kind god; Dean knows of many who wouldn’t bother to warn him, or to hold off for his own good. He knows even more who would take what they wanted whether it was freely offered or not. The fact that Castiel wouldn’t only makes Dean want to give himself over all the more.
“I know.”
“Then rise.”
Dean does as told. When Castiel catches his gaze this time he holds it, even if it feels overwhelming. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches out and places his hand over Dean’s heart. It beats harder, straining against Dean’s chest as if wanting to escape into Castiel’s hold.
(this was a response to an ask about sacrifice!dean)
for starters, dean would be the surliest sacrifice ever. think of it like he was in scarecrow, shouting and cussing out the poor bastards who thought they could get away with tying and trussing him up like a thanksgiving turkey and just you wait, he’ll get loose any minute now and then you’ll regret it
but of course with his luck cas is like the most punctual deity ever because his worshipers have gone through the trouble of bringing him a sacrifice and it would be rude to make them wait just to appear more important (balthazar)
and dean would fall silent at the sight of him, half out of terror and half out of awe but it would only take a few moments for him to recover some bravado and snark at cas, scandalizing every devoted worshiper in earshot and this is why you got sacrificed in the first place, dean
cas himself wouldn’t be scandalized so much as confused, because he’s never gotten a human sacrifice - it’s usually goods from the harvest or at most a lamb or a goat, and he doesn’t really know what he’s meant to do with this angry (but admittedly beautiful) human. going by what his siblings usually do, he’s either meant to kill him or lay with him, so he asks the human which it is
and dean is again shocked into silence because what the hell
so cas helpfully concedes that he’ll accept goods from the harvest if the human feels up to neither
and well… the poor harvest this year is kind of why dean is being sacrificed so he probably should do the decent thing and lay with this handsome god since he insists
relieved at not having to kill any humans (to be honest, he’s not sure he could go through with it even if his worshipers wanted him to), cas takes dean back to his home with a simple touch of his finger. he also takes the opportunity to remove what few clothes the human was clad in
dean barely gets a chance to realize he’s in a new location before he’s got an armful of deity, ready to finally unleash some two-hundred odd years of sexual frustration (hey, getting laid isn’t easy when most of the people you interact with are technically your siblings)
the next few hours are kind of a blur though dean is pretty sure he comes at least three times and that at some point cas reaches into his actual soul which is simultaneously the worst and best thing dean has ever felt and if this is what fucking a deity is like why do people ever bother giving them grain?
for his part, cas is just glad he managed to navigate getting his first human sacrifice alright and is wondering if it’s possible for the exact same human to be sacrificed to him more than once. preferably every night for the foreseeable future
He nuzzles his nose against that warm, particularly nice-smelling part of Castiel’s neck, right above the gold-embroidered neckline of his robe, and closes his eyes with a soft sigh.
“This is of no concern to me,” comes Castiel’s voice in a low rumble, vibrating directly against Dean’s lips. Dean stays as he is, lax and settled on Castiel’s lap, one of Castiel’s arms draped around his back, His hot hand supporting Dean’s neck, His other hand absentmindedly tracing over Dean’s thighs or belly or face, whatever He feels like. Sitting as they do, entwined and unbashful in their touches, there is more than enough room for both of them on the throne.
“They are starving, my Light,” the high priestess retorts. Her gaze and chin are held high, and she seems unwavering in her request for this one small village at the edge of Castiel’s realm. Although human, she has been the only one -- apart from Dean, needless to say -- allowed to speak to Castiel in years, which has since given her enough courage not to be meek in face of her God, to remain steadfast in what she asks for.
“They are starving because they have been rejecting me, Hannah,” Castiel states, briefly brushing His lips against the top of Dean’s head. “They brought this upon themselves.”
Dean makes a small, sweet sound at the touch of Castiel’s lips, but nothing more. He has been in a half-slumber for most of the past hour now, ever since Hannah has begun bringing forth more dire requests and those that are more likely to be denied. Such as those of heathen villages that are possibly rightfully on the verge of extinction. It is nothing new; nothing of this process is. Which is why Dean remains unexcited and sleepy, preferring to listen to his God’s triple heartbeat, to His much slower breathing, than to Hannah’s appeals and arguments.
Passing thoughts of Castiel taking him to bed or to the dinner table at the end of this already long audience flit through Dean’s mind, and he sighs once more.
“But if You reject them now in turn, they will be forever lost. Whereas Your saving will lead them back into the light of your Grace and display Your might and benevolence to them and anyone else around, heathens and believers alike.”
“I possess no benevolence,” Castiel explains in an utter absence of inflection i his words. Dean makes a small sound of amusement against his skin that Castiel decides to ignore. “Instead, those heathen and believers should be given proof of what fate awaits them once they turn away from me. They will set an example.”
“Gracious One!” Hannah urges him, “By saving them, You will save so many more! The example You could set is that of endless goodness and an omnipresent gaze. Your almighty eye is capable of seeing even those far from Your capital and Your grace, and Your endlessly loving heart is kind enough to bestow Your blessings even unto those apostates! They will worship You with even more fervor, my Light; Your Grace will only grow.”
Castiel seems rather unmoved by this. His hands are more occupied with stroking up and down Dean’s soft sides than with the low lives of non-believers and pleas for clemency. In a display that Hannah is more than used to, Castiel keeps silent for a few minutes, extensively touching and kissing and caressing His most beloved, the fragile human in his lap, all while pretending not to mull over the request.
At last, He places a line of tender kisses on the sleep-warm apples of Dean’s cheeks and asks in a low murmur, “Dean?”
Dean, familiar with his involvement and well-aware of the true power he holds, closes his eyes in the pleasure that Castiel’s caresses brings, and, in a drowsy mutter, gives the reply the only other human in the room certainly hoped for, “Save them.”
Somewhere seemingly far off, Hannah makes a triumphant noise.
“Very well,” Castiel says, in a decisive tone, but doesn’t even bother to keep His lips from Dean’s freckles and flushed skin now and to pronounce the verdict once more to Hannah. It would be superfluous anyhow; Dean’s word is what is final, as is well-known.
“May I prepare the ceremony?” Hannah asks, sounding almost rhetorical in her question.
“Have it prepared in a few hours,” Castiel instructs, unheedful of anything else but Dean, now that He has started kissing him.
He pulls Dean closer against his chest and covers his lips and neck and still heavy eyelids in kisses. All while Hannah turns around to apply herself to her preparations and while Dean simply keeps himself relaxed and cared for in his God’s arms, enjoying the warm curl of pleasure that Castiel ministrations bring as much as the knowledge that the root for why Castiel would ever so much as consider helping humankind is to be found in no one but him, the first human Castiel ever saved. The first he has ever loved.
Dean is a servant in the temple of Castiel, a god who has been blessing and watching over the mountain and the valleys at its foot for centuries; he’s a benevolent deity who, in return, demands nothing but a humble temple and a handful of worshippers in his name. All of these worshippers are Omegas and tend to come from renowned families who offer their children as a sign of their deference to their god and of that they are affluent enough to let one of their children go instead of setting them to work or marrying them off to any generously paying Alpha.
This is not true for Dean, though; his whole family burnt alongside his home, and he only entered the temple because the priestess was kind enough to take in an Omega so young that he had just presented, instead of condemning him to serve the travelers and farmers in the Red House no one pretends to know of.
But Dean shames the temple and, in turn, the god Castiel. Because even though an Omega, he did not grow up beautiful and becoming of a temple servant, he turned out repugnant: his physique is far too broad, his hands and feet and shoulders laughably rivaling any Alpha’s, his skin is sullied by freckles instead of even in colour and milky pure, his eyes never turned golden, and it is well-known that what is between his legs is too thick and large and obscene for an Omega.
For that, he is being taunted.
Throughout the years, Dean has endured the mockery and the staring and the way the other Omega servants toss soap and clothes at him in the bath, make jokes about his crotch and the whole of his body and tell him thoroughly of his flaws. He has endured because he was lucky to at least still be alive, because he has rather had his skin dyed with blue colour for a week and his vestments cut and every part of his body shamed than work at the Red House. He knows that if he is already being treated like this among temple servants, only the most vile and perverse people would pay money to lay with him. In the temple, he knows that he is fairly safe, at least, but he would not want to know what could happen to an orphan and desperate Omega who sells his hideous body if he left the temple behind.
That is why he is anxious -- no, far more than that, he is terrified. The ceremony to mark the end of the year and greet the new one is fast approaching, and with it, he will officially enter his eighteenth year of living. He will be considered an adult and responsible for himself, and of no use for the temple. Because temple servants only stay for longer than they are adults if they fulfill the purpose of any servant of their god Castiel: if they have found a mate. A mate, a patron to donate generous amounts of silver to the temple, to refund the expenses of their servant mate living there, to appease the god and the priestess, to ensure that they may continue their service in Castiel’s name. And indeed, all of the temple servants have a mate to provide for them, and the mates enjoy the prestige that comes from being bound to a sacred worshipper of Castiel. All but one, that is, because no one has ever shown to favour Dean. Which is very little of a surprise, because even outside of the holy grounds, he would be considered undesirable for an Omega, but to have a creature like him dwelling among the beautiful and pure other Omegas that have come to praise Castiel of their own free will makes him into even more of an abomination.
So Dean dreads the new year. Dreads that with the first day of it, the priestess will not be kind enough to waste the temple’s silver and space on him, and -- in her own good name and despite her mercy -- banish Dean from the temple grounds. He will own nothing but his robe and his deformed body, and through the cold winter air, he will make his way down the mountain, to the outskirts of the farthest village, to the Red House, and come to serve there. Yes, he trembles and cries when he thinks of it at night, and the other servants mock him with the future everyone knows will be true for him, but he will endure. He will not hang himself from the highest tree he finds, he will not dive into the sacred tide, only to never come up again, he will not let himself be ripped apart from the patrons in the Red House. He has to live, for his family that could not, and it does not matter whether his knees are shaking and his eyes are overflowing.
(Besides, he loves serving their god Castiel. To Dean, no god is as beautiful and caring as he is, no one as giving to his followers. Though the only mortal to have seen him and who is still living these days is the priestess, and thus Dean himself has never laid eyes on him, Dean knows he would instinctively recognize him. Often, when he sneaks alone into the sanctuary to kneel and pray to his god in solitude, the feelings of safety and belonging swell up in his chest, warm him in the way only the soft embrace of his mother or the proud smile of his father could before. It is in these moments that, despite the other temple servants and despite the future awaiting him, he is not afraid. So he burns incense and speaks the words of prayer, and sometimes, when the mockery and the stares were too much to bear that day or when the memories of his family did not leave him since the morning, he shamefully speaks of other things too, not just in praise, but in secret and weakness. Dean knows he should not, that his mortal matters are of no import to a deity such as Castiel. But when his eyes are wet and his lips pressed together with a tremble, he can't help but confess to the only one he feels is left; the only one who would care and listen. The one -- he is sure, he desperately begs -- would not even abandon someone like him if he were to wander down to the Red House and service sacredly.)
But it still does not mean that he has made peace with his fate when the ceremony of the last and first day arrives at last. He cannot deny that there is a tremble to his hands when he passes the silver bowl filled with a thick golden liquid to the priestess, or that he feels as cold and lost as if he were already wading down the snowy mountain.
He flinches with the first of the 108 stroke of the bell the priestess tolls, the one that welcomes the new year and bids goodbye to the last. Each stroke makes him wince and shift and fills his heart with dread, because despite his resolution not to break under what the future holds for him, he becomes afraid. His body is untouched, he has no experience to speak of and no one to miss him, so the patrons of the Red House will either find him dissatisfying or a simple toy to do with as they please. They could kill him, and no one would bat an eye, they could tear into him, and his screams would probably be confused with those of lust. And yet, he would still have to be glad if anyone even wanted to touch him at all -- because he is hideous and will never find a partner, a mate. The hard hands of drunken Alphas and Betas will be all he will ever know of intimacy and of-- of love. This is all life holds for him.
And maybe it is all he deserves.
Dean blinks up through teary eyes when what must be the fifteenth bell punch is being followed by a loud and thunderous growl and a slight tremble of the mountain. Everyone stills immediately, stares in nervosity towards the priestess, who pauses, but only for as long as it takes the mountain to calm. Then, unperturbed, she strikes again.
Dean notices how two of his fellow temple servants glance towards him, their mouths curved upwards into mocking smiles and their fingers doing downwards motions on their cheeks, indicating the tears that Dean only now feels rolling down his face. They must think that he cries in fear of the mountain quaking. Even though Dean thought he had lost the ability for it long ago, he is newly vulnerable now and feels a sharp spike of shame in his chest, making him wish that the mountain would break in two and swallow him whole, finally end his miserable existence.
The mountain roars again.
But this time, it doesn’t quiet down after a few breaths of air and the priestess also doesn’t continue her work, for above the altar and the figure of their god there is suddenly a bright blue light, blinding everyone, and it is accompanied by a terrible sound, that makes every worshipper shriek in fear and avert their eyes.
The roaring grows high-pitched and even louder, unbearably. Dean clutches his hands over his ears, groaning in pain as he fears that he will soon be able to feel warm blood spilling out behind his hands. But right when the sound reaches its highest pitch yet, when Dean sees the people around him tremble and faint, it stops.
The silence following it is deafening -- almost as much as the roaring itself was. Dean hears his own blood rush and his breath punch out of his lungs. He is utterly lost in the functions of his body that he does not notice, within the first moments, that in front of the shaking priestess and not far from himself is a stranger.
With a heaving chest, Dean lets go of his ear and his gaze sweeps over the sanctuary for a moment, where no one else but him and the priestess have been able to recover from the roaring and everyone else is still cowering and panting, and then he hesitatingly glances towards the stranger. Over his white vestments and the blue girdles and the golden ornaments adorning him, up his broad shoulders and a face so beautiful, it’s inhumane, to piercing blue eyes that are looking directly at -- at Dean!
Dean takes a sharp breath. But the staring continues, and then those blue eyes soften in a smile that is only to be found around the skin of his eyes, and he steps forward. The priestess has long since thrown herself to the ground, into a position of worship, but he takes no notice of her. Instead, he walks to where his gaze takes him, unerringly towards Dean.
Dean wants to follow the example of his priestess, wants to lower his body and face to the ground, to kiss the feet of this creature, but instead, he only cowers and stills when the first whiff of the man drawing closer invades his nose and his skin. No, not man -- Alpha. Because that is what he is, through and through. It’s not just evident in the potent smell of him, but also in the way he carries himself, his whole posture speaking of power worthy of submission and adoration. He’s more than any mortal Alpha, as if he were the origin of any of them, more terrifying than any Alpha Dean has ever come across, and for the first time in his life, Dean craves to prostrate himself and to gain the favour of an Alpha, but-- but to what end? It is apparent that not even the lowest of human Alphas would touch or even look at him, so the thought of this beauticious creature considering him as anything less than dirt and an insult is inane. Dean clutches his prayer beads and only dares to hope that should the Alpha grant him his deserved end, he will do so quickly. That he will not make it hurt too much, that he will not laugh at Dean’s pain, that he--
“Dean,” a deep voice cuts in, sharp and admonishing. Dean swallows and fidgets when he the other creature finally reaches him.
The Alpha crouches down in front of him, and there is nothing but benevolence in his gaze. Dean quickly tries to lower his own, but before his eyes are fixed to the ground, a warm and gentle hand cups his chin and slowly tilts it up. With his eyes wide and surely speaking of his fear, he is forced to look the Alpha in the eye.
“Dean,” he says again, and Dean thinks he has never heard a voice as deep and as lovely before. And right as he finishes this thought, the Alpha smiles softly. “Thank you.” For what, Dean does not know. “Fear not. It is not my intention to harm you or to bring you pain in any way. I am here to do the opposite, to finally bring you the bliss you deserve, my beautiful Dean.” As he speaks, his hand slides from Dean’s chin over his cheek, and then he cups it, holds his head in the tender cradle of it. And then -- greedy and hungry and foolish as he is -- Dean leans into it with a small whimper. But instead of shoving him away and insulting Dean for how he dares such a thing, the Alpha's smile grows even wider and he strokes over the freckled, ugly skin of Dean’s face with his thumb. For just a moment, Dean feels his eyes flutter.
It’s been years since anyone has touched him without harm in mind.
“I have come to take you as my mate.”
Dean's eyes fling wide open.
"To take you with me, for that you may watch over these lands from your proper seat, the one that is right beside me."
For one terrible moment of hope, Dean believes him. Without thinking much of these words, not past the fact that the Alpha even acknowledges him existence, touches him with gentle hands -- he does not even dare to consider any of what the Alpha has just said.
Dean draws in a deep breath, and he hears himself shudder. “C-Castiel,” he says, because he knows that this is what -- who -- this Alpha is. He does not know the reason for it, but inside his heart, he recognizes the loving aura of whom he prayed to all those years. "I-- why am I...? You can, you can see what I am," he murmurs bitterly, lowering his gaze to show what it is that he is talking about, his whole shameful body; though the skin of his face and what Castiel might have seen from a first glance should already be answer enough.
"Yes," Castiel breathes, and if Dean did not know better, he would have described as in wonder. Which cannot be. He clenches his eyes shut.
"It is in wonder," Castiel confirms, and Dean feels great shame and terror come over him when that hand strokes over his cheek with a reverence that should be reserved for a king.
"I-- w--" Dean stutters, and understands, and then he wants to cry, because this simply cannot be -- maybe he is such an insult to his god that his god himself decided to come down, to ridicule him for it. Because it is not possible for someone like Castiel to regard him with anything but disgust.
"No," Castiel says sharply, and he sighs out when Dean winces at that. "Dean," he proceeds, his voice softer than before. "You have trusted me to be the one to cherish you, in spite of what these other mortals have done. You have said so in your prayers, and you knew it to be true in your heart. So how could you believe differently now?" He doesn't sound angered or accusatory, but as though he genuinely could not see for himself.
Dean huffs out a pained laugh. "Just look at me."
Castiel's eyes only wander for a moment, and it almost feels like a caress when his gaze sweeps over the features of Dean's face and his shoulders and his vestment-clad body. "I do."
Dean wants to hide; wants to flee. "Then surely you understand."
"I would not understand how one glance at you could make me wish for anything but to sing hymns myself; of your beauty, of the green of your eyes, of the sweet scent of fertility that clings to you, of your radiant soul."
Dean blushes and wishes to avert his eyes for a different reason than before now, but Castiel is quick to react: he settles his other hand on Dean's cheek as well, cupping his entire face with his warm and steady hands. It is too close and yet not close enough, and Castiel must have heard his thoughts or must feel the same, because the next moment, his right hand slides down Dean's skin to settle on his neck -- right at the most intimate spot, where a mating bite would be -- and leans forward with half-lidded eyes and his face soft and slackened in pleasure. And then he closes his eyes completely and inhales deeply.
Scents Dean.
Dean whines and feels his blood rushing when his god's nose softly presses against his glands, and it is then that -- for a moment -- Dean takes notice of the other worshippers, all staring at him with an equal expression of shock on their faces, their mouths open and some hidden behind hands, and for the first time in his life, Dean can share their feelings.
“I have watched you, beloved, I have listened to you for years,” Castiel breathes warmly against the skin of Dean’s neck, and the Omega shudders. “All your prayers and pleas, your honest and hidden words, and your confessions. I have wanted to meet you, to embrace you in the way you are deserving of, chase away the darkness that my very own followers have brought upon you. But I trusted you to take care of yourself until I could. Until I could worship you." Castiel's hand clenches at Dean's neck, in an imitation of a mating bite, and Dean feels his body respond with warmth and the need to submit and with a flood of feelings of safety and adoration. "I have waited, and at last," Castiel mouths against Dean's neck, and Dean is ashamed to admit that he grows aroused beneath his robes. And that is when Castiel presses even closer, cradles Dean's body against his chest, as if he not only knew of Dean's arousal, but also wanted it for himself. "You are finally of age, and it is time for me to claim you."
Dean wants to recoil in shock, wants to shove this deity away from himself and cry out for how he is mocked again, but the hand of Castiel that is not resting against his neck coils itself around his waist and holds him tightly against the unbearable warmth of Castiel's body. Dean struggles in his hold, whines and pities himself, expecting Castiel to be the one to shove him away any moment now, to ridicule Dean for his reactions and his faith, but he does not. He neither loosens his grip nor does he laugh, and it's only when Dean ceases his struggling that he speaks again.
"It pains me that you would consider this anything but the truth. That I could not show you how much I adore you before, that any tenderness was taken from you in those years when you needed it the most." There is an underlying growl in his voice, and Dean does not need to see to know from the gasps behind himself that Castiel must be glaring at his other followers.
It's when Dean blinks up to see the priestess looking at him, in a calmness that rests in itself and with no guilt and no pleasure to speak of, and when she then sinks back down into her position of worship, not just before Castiel, but also before the Omega who is so intimately and possesively held, that the Alphas's words sink in. That Castiel just declared Dean to be the one he desires to be mated to, that it is not a claim spoken lightly, but one he has been waiting to make for years. This powerful Alpha just condemned the action of his own people and stated that this shunned and humbled Omega was who he considered his own for so long now?
Dean is overcome by doubt and a new light to see. Did the priestess know? Did she undertake anything in light of Castiel's claim? Or did this not change anything?
"What is your answer?" Castiel speaks softly against the sensitive skin behind Dean's ears, his question breathed directly against the shell of it.
Dean shifts, or he tries to, in the incessant hold of his Alpha. "What do you mean?" he asks, and is ashamed by how weak his voice sounds.
"Do you accept my claim?" Castiel's lips wander downwards, to where his hand rests against Dean's neck, and he presses a small, promising kiss to the intimate spot reserved for the mating bite. "Do you grant me the honour of becoming my mate, my Omega, my complement and equal?"
"I-- I don't understand, why would you--"
"Dean," Castiel sighs, and there is disappointment in there, and cold anger. Though Dean dares to assume by now that this anger is not directed at him. "Because becoming the mate of a god is only befitting for someone as strong and beautiful and pure as you are. I know that you do not see, that you do not recognize it for yourself." He pauses and draws back enough for Dean to catch sight of the honesty in his face, the adoration in his features. "But if you allow me to, I will make you understand. You, and everyone who ever did you wrong. Please, allow me to mate you, to make you mine. Grant me access to your body and your heart and your soul." Dean feels himself grasp at the garments of Castiel, in an attempt to make sense of what an actual god asks him for. "I vow to you that you will not come to regret to take me as a mate, that I will never bring you any harm, but only pleasure, my beloved Dean."
For a moment, Dean loses his breath. He forgets his own name, his future and his past days, unlearns the fear and the revulsion for himself, abandons the mockery and the harsh touches and even harsher words, and sinks into sweet oblivion. Goes to where the is nothing but light and warmth and the scent of Castiel, and he lets himself be swept away, washed away, washed clear.
Then, he sees.
He follows his instincts and the calling from afar. And when follows a way that is light and right, he opens his eyes and inhales deeply, and he finds himself in the arms of his mate, his own nose deeply buried in his neck, taking deep and even deeper breaths, because now, he can finally breathe. It is with a tender kiss to his neck and warm hands stroking his hair that he sighs out a willing and liberated "Yes."
And then there is a light and warm, relieved laughter and absolute safety engulfing him, and the feeling of his skin being breached and desired blood being spilled is only secondary to how there is no ground beneath him anymore and no human faces, and in the cradle of his mate's arms and with his overjoyed kisses to his face and with Castiel's comforting scent encompassing him, Dean ascends.
Summary: Dean's human. Cas is a deity. They're roommates, and then they're friends, and then maybe they're something else.
Comments: Here's the summary from the first part: "Dean runs a pretty tight operation. Someone’s a minor god or goddess, it’s their first time on Earth, and Dean hooks them up with a human who can show them the ropes." which gives a bit of a better idea of the world this is set in. The fic is basically the internal monologue as Dean freaks/figures out how to get along with/love this very much non-human being. Cas is ultra-naive and meanders along without a care.
