VenusMoon

Dean is a faithless man. He knows that. He is dirty and impure and everything an angel should hate and seek to cure.

Castiel is an angel. A servant of the Lord. But his God is gone, and he is Fallen. So what is there left but a broken thing with the name of something divine. What is there left but a servant with no one to serve.

Castiel was Dean’s saving grace. The being that pulled him from hell, yes, but also the angel that helped him understand what family meant beyond empty duty. How to believe that he was worth saving.

Dean was Castiel’s saving grace. The broken and bloodied man had taught him what it meant to be human. How to live for himself. How to deal with absent fathers and the emptiness they left.

Dean changed Cas, on a level so fundamental it may as well be some shift in the forces holding his quarks together. His humanity, his unholiness, had stained Cas’s hands irrevocably with love and blood and disillusionment. Dean was an anchor bringing him low but also keeping him in place, a settling force that made its way into his bones, settling his restless wings and giving him a purpose. He was something to serve, to deserve unending loyalty, to love with his entire being. That was how Dean became Castiel’s God.

Castiel changed Dean, in a way so fundamental it must have somehow rewired his synapses. Even through his lack of faith, his refusal to believe in something higher, Cas’s divinity had stained him in a way deeper than the handprint on his shoulder or the sigils carved into his ribs. Castiel became the person Dean could trust more than himself, trust to always do the right thing, trust to do what was right for Dean and what was right for the world. Someone he trusted to never hurt him without reason. Castiel was the first person he had ever prayed to since the night of the fire. He was the first thing worth praying to. That was how Cas became Dean’s God.

In the wake of absent fathers and wandering duty, the two built something for themselves in the names of each other. They made churches dedicated to whispered words and clasped hands, light shining through stained glass of spread wings and dripping blood. Balled fists, rifles, daggers became the crosses they wore around their necks like a shield against the cruelty of the world, a trench coat and a leather jacket their clerical vestments. Choirs were found in whispered prayers and thunderous voices, sermons preached of a Godhood neither knew they possessed but that the other held onto like a rock against waves, with bloodied knuckles and blistering palms.

When the divine loves a man profane, that love smears his divinity. But, so too does a love for the divine do the same to profanity. To be close to something holy is to be stained by it, its essence smeared across your soul.

I love lying ab not finishing smthn