Eating All Your Kings And Queens

Luci/Cas for Drey, because she taught me how and healed my brokenhearted Dean/Cas soul.

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You were always clever, but too foolish to see it. Your story isn’t special, but prophets and poets alike will sing of it like you used to sing of him and his righteous soul. Shakespeare would have gnashed his teeth and shorn his beard in spite, for all the world will be in love with your tragedy, and pay no worship to his star crossed lovers.

Love makes fools and heroes out of greater gods than you. In that, you were very much like those petty humans you died thrice over to save. And where does that leave you, little one?

You had no heaven of your own, and so you loved the garden you carved from an addled mind, smudged and mottled as it was with a drowned man’s memory. That place was yours and yours alone, but I am there now. Now the grass bows under the sigh of broken wings, each feather a charred reminder of your wrath. I may have birthed the seven sins, but you used them well, little one. You do me proud.

It’s been two months, but time is anything I want it to be. We speak with the same mouth and kiss with the same desperate, bruising curiosity. You bend just like the matted grass, pliant and child-like in my hands; these very hands that spring from your shoulders and mark you as my own.

Look outside, but they never come. The leaves hiss an apology you’ll never hear, and dead birds litter the windowsill, their tiny upturned legs framing your piss-poor excuse for a sky.

You like it when I shudder in you, my tongue chasing the blood in your veins as that sad little heart of yours furiously pumps sacred, worthless blood around that used up vessel. It’s not his face your see when I cradle you between your thighs and bring you to your knees, you wouldn’t dare conjure his eyes when I unravel you like a paper doll in the hands of a cruel child.

Funny creature you are, to trade your wits for a devil in your handbasket. I suppose you like to fantasize that he wept for you, that you were forgiven. You know better, little one. So wear that old, dirty coat like the skin of an ex-lover, wear it like the wings you lost. Wear it, but see me as I map the storms that crease your brow, as I poison the apple of your eye. See only me, Castiel. I’ll make you mine yet.

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Title from David Usher’s ‘Black Black Heart’.