Fic: A Tragedy in Five Acts
Title: A Tragedy in Five Acts
Author:
thinlizzy2
Recipient:sailorhathor for 
spnraritiesfest
Word count: 2065
Characters/pairings: Castiel/Gwen, mention of Castiel/Crowley
Rating: R
Warnings: non-explicit sex, consent issues, abuse, character death
Summary: For the prompt:
The Campbells capture (pre-6.22) Castiel and someone has sex with him out of Christian/Arlene/Gwen/and Mark. Some sort of manipulation on Castiel's part to try and escape. Can be special angel sex, he can do one or all of them, whatever. Dub-con is fine.
Gwen thought she was in control.
Author notes: I was intrigued by this prompt, but ended up focusing more on the aftermath of the escape than the escape itself. Hope that's ok! It was really interesting to get into the head of a Campbell, as well as to work out what effects angel-sex might have on a human. Thanks for the inspiration,sailorhathor.
1
She was naive enough to believe she was totally in control the first time they fucked.
Somehow it made perfect sense in her head. She'd offer to screw the angel; why not, really? She couldn't help but be curious and he was attractive enough. Also, it was as safe as it was ever going to be - he was secured in the deepest lock-down that scumbag, Crowley, could devise, surrounded by angel-binding sigils and getting hourly injections of holy oil. Samuel had already made it clear he'd have no problem killing Castiel if it somehow brought him closer to getting Mary back, so Gwen could even look at it as an act of charity if she really tried.
Never mind the fact that she'd survived this long by learning not to think with her crotch. Sure, Gwen wasn't opposed to blowing off some steam with a quick fling, but she'd always confined herself to other hunters who knew the score; her life was dangerous enough not to make the bedroom a high-risk zone as well. All female hunters had it drilled into them at a pretty early age that there was always a chance that monsters and other various creepy-crawlies could knock them up. But none of that occurred to her as she entered Castiel's cell and pulled off her shirt, cocking an eyebrow and asking,
"So... you wanna?"
The strange white haze that filled her head the moment he entered her should have been a warning sign, but by then it was already far too late. And once it was done, the odd singing in her ears completely drowned out any doubts about whether or not undoing his restraints and opening up the door was actually a perfectly sensible thing to do. She never questioned her decision to go with him, despite the fact that she'd long ago decided that she whether she lived or died she was going to do it with her family. She flinched, of course, as he flung Samuel against the wall and even pulled him towards the exits before he could do whatever it was that angels did to hunters who locked them up and performed experiments on them. But she was already sitting quietly in the corner of a strange octagonal room, trying to decipher snatches of rapid Enochian reports delivered by various suit-clad messengers, before she realized something had gone terribly wrong.
2
She wondered, from time to time, if she might be in love with him.
She wasn't sure; she'd never been in love before and had no real idea what it was meant to feel like. Was that why she couldn't seem to leave him, no matter how obvious it now was that she could have no life here? Why she kept going to bed with him, despite the fact he clearly didn't care if she enjoyed it or not? Could love explain why she didn't object to him working with Crowley?
She always bit her tongue when the demon appeared, no matter how much he repulsed her. And that was a significant amount. Everything about Crowley made her skin crawl. He was the kind of demon who didn't just destroy human lives; he deliberately set out to do the most emotional damage possible, for no other reason than his own amusement. She had openly argued with Samuel over working with him; she'd even threatened to leave before he promised she'd never be put in a position where she had to directly follow Crowley's orders. But whenever Crowley visited Castiel, Gwen found herself staring blankly at the floor, silently counting the minutes until he went away again.
There was one exception to that: the time she heard Crowley jeering that Castiel was the bottom in their little arrangement. Gwen was blinded by a red-hot flash of jealous rage - the only strong emotion she'd had since all of this began. She'd barely waited until the demon was gone before she'd straddled Castiel's lap, kissing him for the first time since the actual first time. She wished it was possible for her to mark that angelic skin, leave bruises on his neck or scratches on his back so that Crowley might see them and know that she was the one who shared his bed. She didn't want anyone else in the world to have a greater claim on him than she did, and if that wasn't love then what was it?
But then the sun came up and Crowley returned, as smug as ever. Castiel rose from the bed and conferred with him over some dusty old manuscript, and Gwen sat numbly on the bed with a scratchy blanket covering her nakedness. She felt nothing but a dull disgust at the two of them and herself.
So maybe not love after all.
3
She nearly left a couple of times.
Mostly, she didn't even think about it. She just observed the walls of her room; their uniform greyness was oddly fascinating. Once, she watched a spider manipulate all eight of its legs to scamper - with rather incredible amounts of grace and speed - from the filthy baseboards to the cracked window and she marvelled aloud at the detail and beauty of God's creation in a language that she vaguely realized she had never learned. For the most part, Castiel treated her like an inconvenience that he was trying to make the best of; he brought food and water and screwed her at regular intervals but otherwise ignored her. They were very seldom alone; angels visited them constantly. Sometimes she caught bits of conversations in which the name Winchester was mentioned and she vaguely wondered if she should care, but she was never able to contemplate it for long.
But when Castiel left for longer stretches, her mind cleared a bit. She was able to complete thoughts, even to wonder if she might have made a fairly horrific mistake. When he was gone for a few days at a time, it even occurred to her that she could do something about her situation; there was a door and she could go out it. More than once, she'd even managed to struggle out of the snarl of blankets that covered her cot, stagger to the kitchen to gulp a bit of water, gather her things and get halfway to the exit before she heard the flapping of wings and he reappeared in front of her.
He never berated her for what she was clearly about to do; he never addressed it at all. He just removed his coat and reached for her, and then following him towards her sleeping area seemed like the only logical thing to do. There would be a flurry of hands on her skin, a sharp sudden ache inside her and then a sweet soothing mist would crowd her vision and her brain. She never knew how long it took before she regained any semblance of sense, but whenever she finally came back to herself she was inevitably starving, in desperate need of a shower and unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds at a time.
4
There was one incident that never quite blended in the rest of the miasma that filled up her mind.
Castiel returning to their room in an agitated and distracted state was nothing unusual. But his being genuinely angry - that was less normal. It was, in fact, rare enough to rouse her from the bed and compel her to watch him as he paced the dusty stone floor. She stared as he muttered to himself furiously, cursing the "ungrateful" and "unseeing" allies that had apparently gotten him into this state. When he finally sank down onto the stained mattress, he buried his face in his hands and she heard him sigh out the true root of his misery.
"Why don't they understand I'm doing this all for them?"
That was how she understood that this was all about her cousins.
The need to comfort him was overwhelming. She undid her robe and laid back, offering him her flesh. That was all they shared and all she knew how to give him. But he stared at her with blank incomprehension, as if he'd never fucked her, or touched her, or even seen her before. The moment stretched on and on as she grew cold and goosebumps appeared on her skin.
"They don't understand." His voice was low and rough. "They don't understand, and you..." His eyes dropped to the floor. "You."
Uncomfortable with the silence and the chill, she closed her robe. Castiel exhaled slowly and turned away. He vanished before he reached the other side of the room.
Gwen sat up and rubbed at her eyes. She wished, more than anything, that she could be the sort of person who might find comfort in weeping.
5
When the end came, she was only surprised by how unsurprised she was.
He made no attempt to hide it from her and she was bizarrely grateful for that. After all that she'd survived, she'd hate to have her throat slit from behind like a sheep being bled out for slaughter. There was a weird dignity in seeing him paint the sigils and lay out the knives. Was it strange that she was focused on that, rather than the inevitable end to this morbid scenario?
Was it strange that she wasn't even scared?
Crowley was there; Gwen objected to that more than to anything else. The demon leered openly at her as he complimented Castiel's choice of sacrificial lambs. Castiel gritted his teeth and ignored him; Gwen tried to follow his example.
"Aww", Crowley snickered. "Is this a sad moment? Are we going to be all solemn and dire?" He took a sip of his ever-present drink. "I'd advise you to buck up, Cas. We're going to need to shed a lot more blood than this before we're finished."
Castiel filled a silver bowl with oil and placed it in a circle of salt. He seemed to be taking a particularly long time arranging it in the exact center. He didn't look at her as he spoke. "It won't make any difference, but I do wish there had been another way."
"Can I have a last request?" It was the one thing she had asked him for since all this began. "Let me go out as me."
The shock in his face made it clear that he had no idea she even suspected. His control over her must not have been as complete as he believed. Still, it was complete enough that when he pressed two fingers to her forehead and the fog in her head finally cleared, she retched in horror as the reality of what the last few weeks of her life had been finally set in.
"You're the first." Castiel's voice was like flame on virgin skin. "The first to die in service of this. And for me, you were the first..."
She couldn't bear to hear it. "Just get it over with."
He nodded and drew the longest blade from its sheath. It flashed gold in the candlelight.
Her last thought was entirely her own.
There should have already been enough betrayed idealists in this world to have blood to spare. Why did he need to create one?
Author:
thinlizzy2Recipient:
sailorhathor for spnraritiesfestWord count: 2065
Characters/pairings: Castiel/Gwen, mention of Castiel/Crowley
Rating: R
Warnings: non-explicit sex, consent issues, abuse, character death
Summary: For the prompt:
The Campbells capture (pre-6.22) Castiel and someone has sex with him out of Christian/Arlene/Gwen/and Mark. Some sort of manipulation on Castiel's part to try and escape. Can be special angel sex, he can do one or all of them, whatever. Dub-con is fine.
Gwen thought she was in control.
Author notes: I was intrigued by this prompt, but ended up focusing more on the aftermath of the escape than the escape itself. Hope that's ok! It was really interesting to get into the head of a Campbell, as well as to work out what effects angel-sex might have on a human. Thanks for the inspiration,
sailorhathor.She was naive enough to believe she was totally in control the first time they fucked.
Somehow it made perfect sense in her head. She'd offer to screw the angel; why not, really? She couldn't help but be curious and he was attractive enough. Also, it was as safe as it was ever going to be - he was secured in the deepest lock-down that scumbag, Crowley, could devise, surrounded by angel-binding sigils and getting hourly injections of holy oil. Samuel had already made it clear he'd have no problem killing Castiel if it somehow brought him closer to getting Mary back, so Gwen could even look at it as an act of charity if she really tried.
Never mind the fact that she'd survived this long by learning not to think with her crotch. Sure, Gwen wasn't opposed to blowing off some steam with a quick fling, but she'd always confined herself to other hunters who knew the score; her life was dangerous enough not to make the bedroom a high-risk zone as well. All female hunters had it drilled into them at a pretty early age that there was always a chance that monsters and other various creepy-crawlies could knock them up. But none of that occurred to her as she entered Castiel's cell and pulled off her shirt, cocking an eyebrow and asking,
"So... you wanna?"
The strange white haze that filled her head the moment he entered her should have been a warning sign, but by then it was already far too late. And once it was done, the odd singing in her ears completely drowned out any doubts about whether or not undoing his restraints and opening up the door was actually a perfectly sensible thing to do. She never questioned her decision to go with him, despite the fact that she'd long ago decided that she whether she lived or died she was going to do it with her family. She flinched, of course, as he flung Samuel against the wall and even pulled him towards the exits before he could do whatever it was that angels did to hunters who locked them up and performed experiments on them. But she was already sitting quietly in the corner of a strange octagonal room, trying to decipher snatches of rapid Enochian reports delivered by various suit-clad messengers, before she realized something had gone terribly wrong.
She wondered, from time to time, if she might be in love with him.
She wasn't sure; she'd never been in love before and had no real idea what it was meant to feel like. Was that why she couldn't seem to leave him, no matter how obvious it now was that she could have no life here? Why she kept going to bed with him, despite the fact he clearly didn't care if she enjoyed it or not? Could love explain why she didn't object to him working with Crowley?
She always bit her tongue when the demon appeared, no matter how much he repulsed her. And that was a significant amount. Everything about Crowley made her skin crawl. He was the kind of demon who didn't just destroy human lives; he deliberately set out to do the most emotional damage possible, for no other reason than his own amusement. She had openly argued with Samuel over working with him; she'd even threatened to leave before he promised she'd never be put in a position where she had to directly follow Crowley's orders. But whenever Crowley visited Castiel, Gwen found herself staring blankly at the floor, silently counting the minutes until he went away again.
There was one exception to that: the time she heard Crowley jeering that Castiel was the bottom in their little arrangement. Gwen was blinded by a red-hot flash of jealous rage - the only strong emotion she'd had since all of this began. She'd barely waited until the demon was gone before she'd straddled Castiel's lap, kissing him for the first time since the actual first time. She wished it was possible for her to mark that angelic skin, leave bruises on his neck or scratches on his back so that Crowley might see them and know that she was the one who shared his bed. She didn't want anyone else in the world to have a greater claim on him than she did, and if that wasn't love then what was it?
But then the sun came up and Crowley returned, as smug as ever. Castiel rose from the bed and conferred with him over some dusty old manuscript, and Gwen sat numbly on the bed with a scratchy blanket covering her nakedness. She felt nothing but a dull disgust at the two of them and herself.
So maybe not love after all.
She nearly left a couple of times.
Mostly, she didn't even think about it. She just observed the walls of her room; their uniform greyness was oddly fascinating. Once, she watched a spider manipulate all eight of its legs to scamper - with rather incredible amounts of grace and speed - from the filthy baseboards to the cracked window and she marvelled aloud at the detail and beauty of God's creation in a language that she vaguely realized she had never learned. For the most part, Castiel treated her like an inconvenience that he was trying to make the best of; he brought food and water and screwed her at regular intervals but otherwise ignored her. They were very seldom alone; angels visited them constantly. Sometimes she caught bits of conversations in which the name Winchester was mentioned and she vaguely wondered if she should care, but she was never able to contemplate it for long.
But when Castiel left for longer stretches, her mind cleared a bit. She was able to complete thoughts, even to wonder if she might have made a fairly horrific mistake. When he was gone for a few days at a time, it even occurred to her that she could do something about her situation; there was a door and she could go out it. More than once, she'd even managed to struggle out of the snarl of blankets that covered her cot, stagger to the kitchen to gulp a bit of water, gather her things and get halfway to the exit before she heard the flapping of wings and he reappeared in front of her.
He never berated her for what she was clearly about to do; he never addressed it at all. He just removed his coat and reached for her, and then following him towards her sleeping area seemed like the only logical thing to do. There would be a flurry of hands on her skin, a sharp sudden ache inside her and then a sweet soothing mist would crowd her vision and her brain. She never knew how long it took before she regained any semblance of sense, but whenever she finally came back to herself she was inevitably starving, in desperate need of a shower and unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds at a time.
There was one incident that never quite blended in the rest of the miasma that filled up her mind.
Castiel returning to their room in an agitated and distracted state was nothing unusual. But his being genuinely angry - that was less normal. It was, in fact, rare enough to rouse her from the bed and compel her to watch him as he paced the dusty stone floor. She stared as he muttered to himself furiously, cursing the "ungrateful" and "unseeing" allies that had apparently gotten him into this state. When he finally sank down onto the stained mattress, he buried his face in his hands and she heard him sigh out the true root of his misery.
"Why don't they understand I'm doing this all for them?"
That was how she understood that this was all about her cousins.
The need to comfort him was overwhelming. She undid her robe and laid back, offering him her flesh. That was all they shared and all she knew how to give him. But he stared at her with blank incomprehension, as if he'd never fucked her, or touched her, or even seen her before. The moment stretched on and on as she grew cold and goosebumps appeared on her skin.
"They don't understand." His voice was low and rough. "They don't understand, and you..." His eyes dropped to the floor. "You."
Uncomfortable with the silence and the chill, she closed her robe. Castiel exhaled slowly and turned away. He vanished before he reached the other side of the room.
Gwen sat up and rubbed at her eyes. She wished, more than anything, that she could be the sort of person who might find comfort in weeping.
When the end came, she was only surprised by how unsurprised she was.
He made no attempt to hide it from her and she was bizarrely grateful for that. After all that she'd survived, she'd hate to have her throat slit from behind like a sheep being bled out for slaughter. There was a weird dignity in seeing him paint the sigils and lay out the knives. Was it strange that she was focused on that, rather than the inevitable end to this morbid scenario?
Was it strange that she wasn't even scared?
Crowley was there; Gwen objected to that more than to anything else. The demon leered openly at her as he complimented Castiel's choice of sacrificial lambs. Castiel gritted his teeth and ignored him; Gwen tried to follow his example.
"Aww", Crowley snickered. "Is this a sad moment? Are we going to be all solemn and dire?" He took a sip of his ever-present drink. "I'd advise you to buck up, Cas. We're going to need to shed a lot more blood than this before we're finished."
Castiel filled a silver bowl with oil and placed it in a circle of salt. He seemed to be taking a particularly long time arranging it in the exact center. He didn't look at her as he spoke. "It won't make any difference, but I do wish there had been another way."
"Can I have a last request?" It was the one thing she had asked him for since all this began. "Let me go out as me."
The shock in his face made it clear that he had no idea she even suspected. His control over her must not have been as complete as he believed. Still, it was complete enough that when he pressed two fingers to her forehead and the fog in her head finally cleared, she retched in horror as the reality of what the last few weeks of her life had been finally set in.
"You're the first." Castiel's voice was like flame on virgin skin. "The first to die in service of this. And for me, you were the first..."
She couldn't bear to hear it. "Just get it over with."
He nodded and drew the longest blade from its sheath. It flashed gold in the candlelight.
Her last thought was entirely her own.
There should have already been enough betrayed idealists in this world to have blood to spare. Why did he need to create one?
