#oh if only...

“Hullo!” Tyelpë grinned, getting up and stretching his tired limbs with the grace of a shadow-dancer, before slinging his arms enthusiastically around that midriff Annatar had been musing about for the last few moments, “How has your day been then?”

“It was uninteresting,” he replied sharply. It annoyed him somewhat that he was unable to avert his gaze from the pools of liquid silver and starlight that were Tyelpë’s eyes; it truly was ridiculous for he was certainly less beautiful than many a specimen of his race Annatar had seen – and probably killed – before, and yet he couldn’t escape the irresistible allure this particular youth exuded.

Celebrimbor was a world of his own – with his own gravitational field – and as such, he was a force to be reckoned with; at the same time, he was soft and delicate, his eyes open and full of benevolent trust, and his heart so close to the surface that Annatar sometimes felt as if he could plunge his own fingers through his skin as one dipped a brazen hand into a cool pond to retrieve a shiny stone.

“That bad, huh?” Tyelpë hummed, undoing the intricate hairdo his friend and lover had favoured on this day – always a clear indication that he had not been feeling confident about a meeting – quickly and efficiently.

Catching him by the wrists, Annatar couldn’t help but press a tempestuous kiss onto the spot where his blood pulsed under the most fragile part of that silken skin, which made the other laugh breathily and step away farther from his workbench. 

He thought of Tyelpë’s hands too much, Annatar realised, for they were extraordinary; he remembered the obscene, severed monstrosity his master had kept out of perverse pride, and he had to admit that Nelyafinwë’s hand – broad, calloused, and rough – had been akin to a vulgar hammer in comparison to the delicate instruments of sinew and bone with which his nephew made the world itself sing new creation into being.

“How about a relaxing bath while I show you what I’ve been working on?”

With every word falling from Tyelpë’s lips, contradicting urges spread like tendrils of smoke through Annatar’s awareness; on the one hand, he couldn’t deny the almost childishly destructive impulse to crush something so delicate and fragile between his ruthless fingers, and on the other hand, he could almost make himself believe that – held in those strong, impervious arms steered by an infallible moral compass – he could renounce his former ways.

He was not beyond saving, he told himself repeatedly as those honeyed lips slid over the exposed skin of his throat, etching words of hope and of love into it with the same dedicated finesse as was used to engrave precious metals with powerful runes. 

The deliciously confusing contradiction between the shockingly naïve hopefulness and the established mental strength of the puzzling and dazzling creature embracing him as if it was he who was crafted of finest crystal and threads of gold made his head spin, every doubt he’d ever known or allowed to take hold in his soul a live wire thrashing through a hollow body, sending out vicious sparks to set all his nerves alight. 

Impetuously, he hugged Tyelpë back, burying his face in the dark hair that should have made his skin crawl, but its warm smell of ash and molten metal inspired confidence and a feeling he would have identified as homesickness if it had been described to him rather than burgeoning in his own mind. 

“Oh, let’s go then,” the smith cooed, “I’ll draw you a bath and we can just talk.”

Talk, Annatar wanted to shake his head again to dispel the toxic, cloying fumes that paralysed his sharp wits and lulled his fire into abating into smouldering embers; he didn’t feel like talking, he never did, but – if he was to reveal himself to this perpetual stranger – he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Alright,” he heard himself say as he gave in; Tyelpë pulled him out of the room by the hand – his own so lithe and yet steady – and into their private quarters with so much genuine anticipation that Annatar didn’t have the heart to struggle. 

He had a meticulous, orderly mind that revelled in long-winded plans and so, he could but stand and stare as this scion of a cursed bloodline flourished into a hurricane of movement and action – each step a dance, every gesture a prayer – for the sake of a state of relaxation he could not possibly hope to achieve.

Before he had even taken a single step into the spacious bath chamber, Tyelpë was back – smiling up at him fondly – and shifting his tunic over his shoulders with gentle, steady fingers; a single sigh, drawn-out and low, trembled in the steamy air between them as that painfully brittle creature knelt in front of him to relieve him of his trousers as well.

Again, Annatar had to swallow against the rising desire to hug him so tightly that he’d end up squeezing the very life out of him; he had never thought himself obsessive – despite what people whispered behind his back – but, when it came to Tyelpë and his many inherent mysteries and contradictions, he knew that he’d rather see him dead than severed from his influence. He was consumed by the elusive charm of one who gave himself so freely that it stoked a hunger for more than he was willing and able to give in the endless darkness that thrummed like a living, beating heart within Annatar’s being.

“Come now,” Tyelpë purred seductively, “oh, you’re absolutely stunning; if I didn’t know better, I’d say you become more beautiful every day.”

The same illogical, absurd thought had already crossed Annatar’s mind as well; as if Tyelpë’s magical hands roaming across his skin, that was naught more than sheep’s clothing for the wolf, were moulding and polishing him into renewed and heightened splendour day by day, he seemed to become more hypnotising and enchanting with every second he spent in this conflicting togetherness that was his sanctuary and his prison.

Celebrimbor sighed under his breath when he saw how tense Annatar still was; he looked positively statuesque as he stood there – naked and motionless – as if he was waiting for some catastrophe to befall them that only he could see darken a horizon that looked clear and bright to anybody else. 

The recollection of other people – deeply loved, desperately cherished, and deplorably lost – staring obsessively into a faraway future welled up in Celebrimbor and he pushed the thought away with all his might; he missed his family every day and yet, he knew that he could not have changed their path neither by threat nor by pleading. 

“Look at me,” he whispered urgently, drawing that flaming gaze to his reassuring smile, “stay here with me!”

Every time the fire of his own blood, the weight of his legacy, flared up within his soul, he forced it down again inexorably; he had chosen another kind of bravery, he had opted for warmth and solace – a conscious decision that still cost him dearly – and for faith and creation instead of mindless, begrudging destruction.

They both had known the overwhelming persuasion of someone older and stronger and they had been led astray by their own willingness to obey and to serve what they had thought to be the greater good; it would not help nor heal anyone to dwell on these things, not now that they were given another chance – if not to rewrite history – to be and do better this time around.

Leading Annatar, like a blind man, over to the filled tub, he slid his hands behind the other man’s shoulder blades to let him glide gently into the hot water.

He was so blindingly beautiful that Celebrimbor – even knowing that it was all just a façade – could not help but admire the creativity of the cryptical entity sharing more than just his bed; in his expert opinion, it took a certain type of genius to even come up with a design so flawless and entrancing.

Running his fingers along the ridge of Annatar’s spine, he revelled in the sensations of smooth skin and sharp bone; he was a crafter at heart and the exquisite textures, the extraordinary balance, and the exceptional composition of his lover’s form made his heart soar and plummet weightlessly in turn.

“You’re so good to me,” Annatar grunted; it almost sounded like an accusation as if any shred of common decency was anathema to his very existence.

“Someone has to, no?” Tyelpë answered lightly, smoothing a tender palm over the now unbound hair, carding his fingers through the silken strands, and rubbing tight circles onto the abused scalp; yes, he had set his mind and heart on being a comforting presence, and not even the lingering threat in the air would dissuade him. He would show him what it meant to be cherished and cared for!

“I am not sure of that, Tyelpë, my dear,” Annatar laughed mirthlessly, “but I am thankful to you, nonetheless.”

His movements were quick and fluid – serpentine and unsettling – as he grabbed Celebrimbor’s wrist and tugged hard enough to almost make him lose his balance; twisting like molten gold or liquid glass, Annatar surged up and pressed astonishingly warm and soft lips onto his, half-open in wordless shock.

Their kiss deepened, wet fingers tangling in dark hair, and Celebrimbor sighed into the bottomless void that swirled and eddied within that glorious body; the echo – deep and hollow – didn’t take long to resound and, shrugging out of his own clothes hastily, he let himself be dragged into the tub.

Settled against the pristine, white chest of his lover, he spoke of his newest experiments with much enthusiasm while Annatar rubbed perfumed oils into his sore shoulders, humming now and then appreciatively to keep him talking.

“You are precious,” the elusive Maia then purred without prelude, “and adorable.”

“You adore me then?” Celebrimbor grinned to dissimulate the ripple of stunned pleasure coursing through his system.

“Hmmm, I do,” came the pensive answer, interrupted and punctuated by small kisses lavished upon the crown of his head, “I truly do.” 

“That is good then,” he answered earnestly, “for I am quite fond of you myself, good emissary.”

“Is that so? How about you prove it?” 

And because Celebrimbor could sense that Annatar was preoccupied and heartsick tonight, he let this monumental confession die away unheeded and uncommented, and eagerly turned around in those strong arms to face his lover, peppering his own slew of teasing kisses across his chin and jawline.

Flames were lapping at him – dark and voracious – but he was not in the mood tonight to question whether it was his heart or his flesh that was led to the pyre; he had braved fire and blood before, and he was not afraid to do so again.

I am so sorry if this is all wrong; I have given it my best shot 🙈

@medusas-hairband you said you wanted to see this, well, here it is 🥺

Sam came through the doors only moment later and slammed into Cas’ back. He felt the impact but even Sam’s substantial height and weight didn’t budge him. Mary and Jack were standing to the right of the old altar near a window and they looked relatively unharmed. Their faces had been apprehensive when Cas had first barged in but now they were staring at him and Sam in shock.

Dean was standing across from Michael in front of the altar with only a few bruises on his face and forearms. Although his back was stiff it looked like he’d been casually conversing with the archangel.

“Dean?” Sam asked from Cas’ left side.

“What’s going on?” Cas asked before anyone could get a word in.

Michael turned an angry glare to the two of them. “I’d ask you the same question but you’ve interrupted us and-” he stopped short and stared at Cas for a few more moments. “Castiel? Impossible.”

“You came,” Jack said to Cas with that huge, innocent smile on his face. To Mary he said, “Castiel is my father. Well, he’s not tech-”

The smile she gave him was amused but no less genuine as she cut him off, “I know.”

Cas’ heart swelled inside his chest at the word. He still didn’t think Jack was wise in putting such a title to him, he’d screwed up so many times since being on earth, but he always accepted the title when Jack said it. When he looked back to Dean his chest constricted with so many questions and worries. Human emotions were immensely exhausting.

“Dean? What have we interrupted?”

As soon as he asked the question Dean’s eyes looked down to the floor. Whatever is was, Cas knew then that he wasn’t going to like it.

“Dean has agreed to become my vessel. All he has to do now is say the magic word,” Michael said.

Sam balked beside him and Cas’ heart felt like it had fallen to the floor. Why did Dean insist on such passively suicidal missions? The question, and it’s answer, threatened to squeeze his chest to the point of suffocation. He looked back to Dean and saw that the man was already looking at him. Cas forced himself to hold eye contact with him and he tried to put as much words as he could into the look.

After a moment Dean said pointing to Cas, “just give me a moment with the angel.”

Michael looked like he was about to object but Dean was already walking toward Cas. When he got up to them he leaned toward Sam and said in a low voice, “we need him to kill Lucifer. Not stuff him back in the cage with Rowena where he’ll eventually worm his way out again either. We need him gone Sammy and I don’t know another way we’re going to do it.”

Sam was shaking his head but his brows were drawn together in thought and he didn’t say anything. Without waiting for a response from him Dean laid a hand on Cas’ arm and guided him to a corner in back.

“Let me do it,” Cas said. He’d hosted Lucifer himself and had survived relatively unscathed. What was a lesser archangel?

“No. Cas-”

Desperation was starting to eat it’s way through his chest. “You don’t understand Dean. Michael is an archangel, his power is too much for human vessels to hold for long.”

“It can’t be you Cas. Lucifer can’t see Michael coming, that’s the only way this will ever work.”

“You have no idea what it’s like to have an angel inside you Dean.” Cas opened his mouth to say more but Dean’s eyebrows had shot up and his mouth was quirked up to one side in a crooked smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said and then tried to school his features with little success. Cas only had to wait a few moments before Dean said in a mockingly serious tone, “no, you’re right, I have no idea what it’s like to have an angel inside me.”

Normally Dean’s immature response to Cas’ unintentional innuendos made his lower stomach clench and his face get hot but now it only spurred his panic. “Dean please take this seriously. Micheal’s powers will gut you from the inside out. It will eat at your mind and soul until there’s nothing left but an empty sh-” he had to stop and swallow back the word because he could feel the break in his voice. Unshed tears started to burn behind his eyes but he took a deep breath and looked at the man he’d fallen in love with.

Dean’s eyes warmed and his shoulders fell. “I don’t mean to worry you Cas. But we both know I’m going to do this so let’s not spend these last moments fighting.”

The words ‘last moments’ did something to Cas then that he wasn’t sure what to call. They emptied him of thoughts and even worries so all that was left was instinct. And instinct told him that this might be the last time he’d be with his Dean.

Cas let the blind instinct take over and he grabbed Dean’s jacket and pulled him into a kiss. As their lips touched Dean seemed to relax into it and his hand came up to press Cas’ arm that was holding his jacket even closer.

When they broke apart Cas felt his face heat up and he didn’t dare look over to their dead-silent audience. “What will I hold onto when you’re lost? If things don’t go the right way. If you-”

Panic was starting to rise up in him again, tainting the sweet feeling that had rushed through him at Dean’s reciprocation of his kiss. But then Dean said his name in such a deep tone that the panic stilled in him. “You remember what you said to us, to me, in Ramiel’s barn?”

“Of course,” Cas said and felt his face get even hotter.

“Well,” Dean shrugged but he had let go of Cas’ arm and they were still standing only inches apart. “I do too.”