[ At the core of it, Castiel is more of a sponge than any of his kin, but inherently, underneath it all, he is capably rebellious, spirited, emotional. It makes it hard to differentiate between what was there all along, and which he absorbed from Dean and Sam, but he does reflect traits from them both--those specific traits that Heaven had been trying to iron out of him. That job is unfinished, however; he's unbroken. Not quite the perfect soldier of Heaven any more.
He's not foolish enough not to realize how frightening her smile is, how concerned he ought to be, training or not. Castiel does not want to die, but he is also calm and confident, unfettered by concerns or regrets. Except for one: he wants to tell Dean and Sam what he's learned. He wants to stop them, prevent Lucifer from being freed, and this demon seductress is between him and that goal.
He's about to open his mouth to respond when the blade taps against his jaw. If that hadn't silenced him, then the weight of her fingers easing through his feathers, her body sliding against his own, made him moan suddenly, helplessly. The demons who had bound him here hadn't touched them so gently, even once. They'd begun to pluck them, burn them, stab his blade into his wings, and each was its own kind of agony. But this? He wasn't prepared for how this felt.
His feathers were soft and black, sleek and elegant and fully grown. Not even the slightest hint of down still clung to the powerful muscles that stretched from shoulder to shoulder, though blood dripped from some of the longer flight feathers of his left wing.
The touch distracted him for a second. He struggled to keep his mind entirely on what she was saying, and in a quick attempt to chase up the moan he'd exhaled, as though he could make her forget it if he kept her talking, he pressed on. It was a mistake. He exposed more of his hand, not less. ]
As though you truly care what Sam thinks. He is as much a tool for you as he is for Heaven.
no subject
He's not foolish enough not to realize how frightening her smile is, how concerned he ought to be, training or not. Castiel does not want to die, but he is also calm and confident, unfettered by concerns or regrets. Except for one: he wants to tell Dean and Sam what he's learned. He wants to stop them, prevent Lucifer from being freed, and this demon seductress is between him and that goal.
He's about to open his mouth to respond when the blade taps against his jaw. If that hadn't silenced him, then the weight of her fingers easing through his feathers, her body sliding against his own, made him moan suddenly, helplessly. The demons who had bound him here hadn't touched them so gently, even once. They'd begun to pluck them, burn them, stab his blade into his wings, and each was its own kind of agony. But this? He wasn't prepared for how this felt.
His feathers were soft and black, sleek and elegant and fully grown. Not even the slightest hint of down still clung to the powerful muscles that stretched from shoulder to shoulder, though blood dripped from some of the longer flight feathers of his left wing.
The touch distracted him for a second. He struggled to keep his mind entirely on what she was saying, and in a quick attempt to chase up the moan he'd exhaled, as though he could make her forget it if he kept her talking, he pressed on. It was a mistake. He exposed more of his hand, not less. ]
As though you truly care what Sam thinks. He is as much a tool for you as he is for Heaven.