angelfeast | day of bones

Title: Day of Bones
Author:

miscellanium
Characters: Castiel/Sam (implied Castiel/Dean ~~and wincest if you squint~~)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: vague through 6x12
Word Count: 439
Summary: He is broad, solid, taller than you, and hollow like a sleepwalker.
Notes: Suggestions of blood play. Cross-posted to ff.net Feb 10. Fic remix here.

He is broad, solid, taller than you, and hollow like a sleepwalker. You'll fill him in, fill him up until he hates you.

He feels again, is full again, bends again. He'll break again.

You haven't hit him, not yet, you're not close enough. Only his brother can touch, leather and rain and tired anger rumbling like an old engine. But you've pressed inside, borrowed fingernails dragging past veins and ribs to feel the rawness beneath the flesh. He's held your belt in his mouth, white bloodied teeth leaving the marks branded now around your waist in dull half-moons.

He watches you, refuses to touch. There's a war, you tell him. Each minute here I'm that much closer to being ripped apart, you don't tell him. He is soft, hair longer each time you see him, and if a cut doesn't show you the years you'll have to open him up.
I'm sorry, he says, the words as empty as they sound and we're back where we started, aren't we?

You haven't hit him, not yet, but you want to. You want to feel your hand, skin that isn't yours, the dull thud of bone underneath. You want to tear at his lips, split his philtrum and anoint him in red, this creature of the Lord.
His brother knows, has felt the wind, the unnatural fury made of chain-link fences and dirty concrete. He signed himself over to you with each drop of blood, falling cold under the streetlights.

But this one hasn't, not yet. I have to go with him, this one says. He's vibrating like he's trying to find his brother's wavelength, the pitch that could bring down a bridge. Bring down you.

You let him go but he doesn't leave, doesn't move. This is their space, after all, these rooms not their own and the home that they carry with them. There's something I've been meaning to ask you, he says, his eyes dark and warm with the promise of something regained.

You've skipped ahead, know what he's saying, the page dog-eared. His hands are busy, gun parts sticking to his fingers scuffed and unready and nothing like his brother's knife, nothing like the sleeves on your unfamiliar arms peeled away, someone else's trench coat hanging off your thin frame like you're molting a season too late. He's still talking.

I don't know what this is any more, he says under the fluorescent hum, face in his hands and brother fifty miles away.

Oh, but this is love, you say. He watches you, waits for you to move, to breathe. He needs this, so you breathe.