Title: Divinity
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural, Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine

Notes: I have never in my life written SPN-fic. I do not watch SPN, it is too creepy for me, and the special effects kinda bore me. But I read a lot of Dean/Castiel, I've watched the relevant clips, and I've done some half-assed wikipedia research. And I had to write this. It was just there. It's probably not at all up-to-date with canon. Like, there's the Great Wall of China, and canon's on one side, and I'm waaaaay off on the other side. It was still fun, though. I'm experimenting with narrative POV, which I greatly enjoy. Also, it's one forty five in the morning. Nothing is my fault at this hour, or so I like to pretend.

Summary: The night after the last battle, an Angel is told to watch over the Winchesters.

-

The Angel is new, as Angels come. He is sexless, but prefers to be called by the male pronouns humans have when talked of in human terms, because they appear to be less specific. His duties don't often entail watching humans, so feminism has understandably passed him by.

He's kind of in a beaurocratic position, as far as Angels are concerned, but he's seen his share of battles. He's not exactly in a high position, but he's not low, either, not that Angels care. Still, it's rather a shock, on the evening after the war has ended, to be told by Gabriel that his new orders are to watch over the Winchesters for the night, though, really, all danger should have passed.

„Isn't that Castiel's job? " He asks, and perhaps he shouldn't have, given that Gabriel is definitely his superior.

But Gabriel just looks at him serenely and says, "Not tonight."

The Angel goes and guards, as he has been told to. The Winchesters are staying in a somewhat shabby motel (some things never change. Come rain or shine or, not to be painfully literal, Hell or high water, the Winchesters somehow always manage to find the worst possible motel. If there are two in town, they will doubtlessly find the one that has cockroaches) somewhere in the American state of California.

It is night; there is little need to search for his charges, as they both ought to be in bed and exhausted after the final battle. Many people are. The Angel doesn't feel, per se, but he knows of something called remorse, and he thinks that is what he is thinking of, because the thought that so many humans were harmed and hurt and touched by a brutal fight that did not involve most of them is unjust. And while justness is relative, it is still not to be overlooked. With the dust settling over the site of the battle and the humans collecting their fragile minds and bodies from the strange and difficult events, too much has been effected and changed, the Angel thinks.

The human Same Winchester lies with his demon. They were both instrumental, so the Angel does not begrudge them their happiness, though he can't say he approves. Then again, approval is not his to give.

The human Dean Winchester does not lie alone, either. The Angel is not shocked, because Angels are never shocked, but he is discomfited. He had thought that Gabriel had meant that Castiel was resting in heaven from his trials, but it does not appear so.

Without conscious effort, his essence melds with his brother's, as it would were they in heaven. This turns out to be a mistake, though not one he can control. Castiel's essence, not one the Angel has been close to before, is curiously tinged by humanity. Not altered, and his Grace is still intact, but tinged. He feels.

The Angel withdraws quickly from the spiritual plane. Privacy is not something they have in heaven, but it seems appropriate in this case. The Angel realizes he's never looked at things like this, the way humans must see them.

His eye is drawn involuntarily to the room that holds Dean Winchester.

Castiel's host body is lying back on the bed, head propped up on pillows, but the metal bars of the headboard appear to be rubbing against his scalp uncomfortably. Dean Winchester is straddled over his lap, head thrown back, sweat beading on his body.

Oh, the Angel thinks. That's what they're doing.

Dean Winchester's leg is bent back oddly, at an angle that strains his muscles more than is good, but he does not seem to mind. Neither does he seem to mind that both he and Castiel have not cleansed their bodies in days; that they reek of sweat and excrement and the tired smell a battle won leaves behind, victory without triumph, accomplishment without joy, horror without peace.

"Please," Dean is saying. "Please, Castiel, Cas, please."

"Yes," Castiel answers, though Dean has asked for nothing specific. "Always."

The Angel is baffled. He does not relish the idea, he must admit, but he's forced to concede that he does not understand the look of absolutely wrecked pleasure on Castiel's face, nor the desire on Dean's. What they are doing is base, vulgar, in a way. A way the Angel didn't know divine beings stooped to.

And yet, he is not repulsed. He does not turn his head away and he does not wonder if this could be wrong.

He does not care about the blasphemy pouring from Dean's mouth, nor about the benedictions from Castiel's (Yes, Dean, so good, more, Dean, Dean). They are right, somehow, they fit in this moment.

An Angel can see the whole of eternity, spread on a simple plain, he can see what has been, what is, and he can see what paths the future may take. He can see every infinitesimal piece slide into its proper position, and this is one. This piece fits perfectly, though the Angel may not understand what his brother feels.

Castiel's upper body is now vertical, his arms wrapped around Dean, their hips still moving in tandem (a base human need, one far below the joining of souls Angels experience in the web of their family, the closest two humans can ever become), Dean's leg bent even more awkwardly and Castiel's back beginning to ache.

The Angel knows this will not stop their movement, because it is so primal the only way to end it is its natural conclusion, but that, too, is drawing near, with the thrust of Castiel's (it is a host body, not his, a holy tax accountant, a devout man who prayed for this and should his body be- no. No, it is Castiel, regardless of body, regardless of motion, the angelic Grace within him is untouched) hips, with each groan from Dean's mouth.

The radiance of Castiel's essence is so strong the Angel can do little else than see it. This, he thinks, is not about carnal pleasure. It is not about succumbing to human desires. It is not about Castiel's Fall, or the end of the war. It is about love.

And there is nothing that can be wrong with love in the eyes of the Lord.

Their bodies are covered in even more fluids now, and their skin will be red and inflamed in the morning when they separate, but they don't seem to care as they lie so close together, despite the warm air around them, despite the odors of sweat and carnal pleasure, despite the hint of nicotine on the sheets the cleaning lady left there.

"I love you," Castiel says, not because this is new information for either of them, but because it is something Dean should hear more often.

Dean kisses Castiel.

A kiss is a strange thing. It accomplishes nothing on the spiritual level, it simply makes humans happy. The Angel remembers the first kiss. It was an accident, but the idea caught on quite quickly at the time.

Right now, Dean is kissing Castiel with all the fervor he can muster, and the Angel can look into Dean. There's a lot of fervor in there. There's a lot of love, too. The two appear closely related in this context.

"Cas," Dean says. His voice is low and rough as it always is, but it is not masked by bravado or machismo. "What happens now?"

"Now," Castiel says, "Life goes on."

But Castiel is not part of that life, and they both know this.

"Does…that, does that mean you're gonna go back to…heaven?" (Because after all this time and all this proof, Dean still does not like to say the words that would solidify his faith)

"Do you want me to?" Castiel asks, and the Angel thinks his brother may be an idiot. Of course that is not what Dean Winchester wants. Dean Winchester wants a house with a garden and a shed for his guns. He wants Castiel in his bed in the mornings, and Sam at his dinner table. He wants to see his brother grow beyond the half-and-half he is now and bring children to this world, wants to spoil his nieces and nephews (though they will undoubtedly be strange and otherworldly themselves), wants to shock his brother into silence with the revelation of his angelic lover, wants to live. And he wants Castiel with him.

But Dean Winchester has never believed he is good enough, so he will never say that.

What he says is, "No. I don't want you to go. I never want you to go."

God is not at all involved in those words, and yet, the Angel does not think he has ever heard a purer prayer.

"Then I won't," Castiel says, and they kiss again as they settle into sleep (in Dean's case, an Angel does not sleep, an Angel watches).

And the Angel understands. He knows he has been sent to witness this very moment, witness the fact that humanity and divinity need not be so far apart as to make the former repulsive to the latter when their joining can be so beautiful. He knows that he shall spread the word through the ranks that it is good, and he knows that it will reach the eyes and ears of the Prophet Chuck.

Perhaps, just perhaps, it is time that love and justice and peace are made as divine as they sound.