The discipline lies heavy against the palm of his hand; the leather of the handle is soft and well-worn, slick with the sweat that coats his palm as he kneels upon the flagstone floor before the alter, above which is hung an ornate cross bearing the Son of Man. He does not see it; does not wish to lay eyes upon its splendour and feel his own worthlessness reflected back through its unseeing all-seeing gaze.
gone with the sin;
U-Rated, 714words, self-flagellation;
Castiel has fallen.
Instead, his head is bent, chin-to-chest, as his mouth moves silently, frantically, over words of prayer; his fingers curling themselves more tightly about the instrument he holds, his body quivering in silent expectation. He lifts the discipline- hears the jingle of chain and barb as it scratches across the stony ground- and he does not hesitate. With a flick of the wrist the instrument is raised up and over his left shoulder; spiked barbs ripping into the flesh of his vessel- his body- and tearing like teeth as he pulls it away again only to repeat the action again over the right shoulder; and repeat.
The flagellation hurts, it burns this body with whiplashes of pain and he bites back his moans knowing that in this lies his forgiveness, in this his absolution, in this… he feels the trickle of blood down his mutilated back and through his prayers,- his confessions of sin, his pleas for forgiveness from his Father for these sins,- he sends up a prayer for the vessel he has used- abused- in his fall from glory and grace. He has sinned of the flesh. He has sinned against his brothers and his sisters. He has sinned against his Father and been cast from his sight. That knowledge in itself hurts more than the thrumming ache of the flesh he finds himself cocooned within.
The tears upon his cheeks are salty and unexpected. So too is the cooling touch of a hand pressed hesitantly to his shoulder, drawing the burn away but pressing forth the sting. He looks up with a gaze too open and honest and filled with anguish and sees him there; his salvation, his temptation, and as a mirage, he does not know whether to believe or deny the sight before him. The want of it consumes him. The pain of the flesh warns him. He drops his head and feels his shoulders shudder against the silent sobs wracking his body. He does not know.
“Castiel,” comes the whisper of a name- his name- and he shakes his head against the call of it, against the way it echoes around the hush of the chapel; blessing and curse combined.
“Why?” He coughs out, voice hoarse from pain and prayer, feeling the hand upon his shoulder tighten whilst the other moves to uncurl his grasping fingers from the discipline. Why he asks, but in that one word he asks so much more- why have you come? Why you? Why now? Why at all?
There comes no answer, only the instant tugging of the hand upon his shoulder, urging him to stand on legs too unsteady to support him and he trembles, leans heavily upon the solid warmth of a chest and allows himself to be walked, slowly and shakily from the altar and away.
He knows not where he is to be led. He knows not why he has come. He knows only that he is not to question this; that he has been found when he is lost, for he is always found, even when he prays that he will not be. He knows that he is weak. He knows that he wants that which he should never have had. He knows that he sins with every fibre of his being just by looking upon the face of the man beside him.
He knows all, and nothing, and finds that he cannot help himself when he is led through to a room through the back, a room he has hidden himself in for more weeks than he thought to count, and is lowered to the mattress that has served as his bed.
His back burns in aching protest and his eyes bleed tears of self-loathing but his lips part in willingness to a devil’s kiss as he gives himself up to the sin.
[ end. ]
[ Written as part of Caspe-Wri-Mo ‘09 ]