[SPN] Four Hours
Title: Four Hours
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel implied
Wordcount: ~1500
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Summary/Notes: SPOILERS FOR 5.04. Castiel waits on the side of the road. Castiel POV, thanks to tracy_loo_who for the prompt.
Castiel hears the phone go dead, but keeps it pressed to his ear for a moment anyway. Perhaps he will be able to hear Dean as he goes to sleep, perhaps through his ear and his thoughts be able to keep the memories of hell at bay. He considers ignoring Dean's instructions and arriving at his hotel room, where he can much more easily guard his dreams.
But Dean has said four hours, and perhaps it's not exactly sleep he needs. Perhaps he has found a girl to soothe his sexual urges - it has been a long time since Castiel has had to shield his mind from that sort of thought, from Dean. Or perhaps he is doing it himself, and has told Castiel to stay away - surely out of some need for privacy and not any respect for how Castiel might feel, seeing him...
Or perhaps he simply needs four hours alone, without Castiel.
He waits by the side of the road. Trucks go past him, a swirl of wind and water and leaves in their wake. It soaks through his trench coat, and then vanishes, away with all the bloodstains, the inkstains, the tearstains, all the things that have marred Castiel before.
A woman stops, pulls up in her car and looks at him for a long moment. He looks back. "Well?" She says, "You going to get in? I'm going as far as the border, but you have to find your own way from there."
"No." He says.
She frowns at him. "No?"
"No, I am not going to get in." He says, and then lowers his chin, a little sadly. He was tempted to tell her, and no - you will not make it as far as the border. The roads are wet, and there is a drunken man named Gerald Clarke, driving a truck. Your head will hit the windshield and the paramedics will arrive too late.
She has the smell about her of a life about to end. It's written on the footsteps that stretch before her, golden angelic script that Castiel has always seen the glimmer of, always noted it idly as he passed it by. But why give her the sadness that is waiting for death? Better it be quick.
She frowns more, and then rolls her window back up and drives off, muttering about crazy tax accountants in the middle of the night.
Yes, he thinks, Jimmy has gone insane. He can feel him, still, but he sleeps for most of these days. Dying has a way of doing that to a person.
After that, he waits invisible.
He watches the rain slow and finally stop, watches the clouds clear from moon. He sees the towering ramparts of them, dark against a darker sky, sees their edges tinted with silvered moonlight, and he thinks perhaps he know why humans have long thought Heaven to be in the sky. And were he to fly so high, dart up to the moon, would the door there still open for him? Would the door anywhere?
He stands by the side of the road and thinks of home. He thinks of home as Heaven and he thinks of home as Dean and he thinks of home as the nice woman's home, the little one-story in the development with her son and her dog and her husband and he thinks about how long they will remain unplagued by the coming storm. And he thinks about how little they will care that the world is ending, because their mother, their wife, their loved one is gone.
He thinks about how little he would care about the end of the world, without that one tie to its safety...
And suddenly Dean is shouting at him, inside his head. So you're just going to let her die? Standing there with your angelic mojo and you can't even save one soul?
Her soul is not her life, he argues. And I no longer know what it means for a soul to be saved. With Zachariah and the other angels in control of Heaven -
Dean interrupts. Then that's worse! Letting her soul fly off to parts unknown when you, with just one twitch of your hand, could whisk her out of harms way?
I could not whisk. He says gravely to the Dean inside his mind. It takes major "mojo" to save a life that is due to end. And it is meant to end. It is not my place to- I could fall -
And there his mind stops, because that has always been he worst thing, always been the punishment he's afraid of, always been the thing stopping him from caring for these humans, because if he cares too much, if he lets himself, he could...
It's a little late for that. Dean's voice is humorless, and suddenly Castiel feels terribly free.
He blinks and he's in the passenger seat of the woman's car, invisible. She has the radio on, and at his arrival it crackles white noise. He frowns at it and raises a hand, and she curses and fiddles with the knob, and it slides back into classic rock.
The inside of the car is warm. The woman taps her fingers on the steering wheel, reminding Castiel of Dean.
Two hours and four minutes, he thinks, and then there's a truck coming at them from the side, horn blaring and lights far too bright. The woman screams and throws her hands up, braced as she can be for impact -
And Castiel blinks again, and the truck runs by in front of them, careening madly from side to side. He stares at it, hard, and it slows, coming to a stop on the side of the road. The woman is shaking and crying, her own car still moving, and Castiel slows them, too, enough that she can get control of the wheel. He looks at her a long moment, watching the way her eyes blink away tears and disbelief both, watching her mind fabricate what had happened, what had obviously happened, because a human who sees something impossible does everything they can to make it possible. He smiles as she takes out her phone and calls her husband, settling down immediately when she hears the voice at the end of the line.
He blinks again, and is sitting in the cab of the truck. The driver is staring straight ahead, groping for the hip flask that's shoved haphazardly into his cup holder. His breathing is harsh in the silence. Castiel picks up the flask first and puts it in his pocket, using his other hand, two fingers on the forehead, to send him into a deep sleep.
He leans close and murmurs in the man's ear, giving his voice just a whisper of his true power. "Hear me, Gerald Clarke. Hear the voice of Castiel, angel of the Lord, and know that this night but for my grace you would have taken the life of an innocent woman." His words are harsh but not too harsh, soothing and firm. He speaks wisdom and hope into the man's besotted mind, speaks of hardship and of rebirth.
He pours out the hip flask, as well as the rest of the empty bottles and cans that litter the truck, and gets rid of them. The hip flask, though, he turns over and over in his hands as he waits by the side of the road. It's well crafted - silver, with a C engraved on the front. For Clarke, he knows, but he slips it back into his pocket anyway. Perhaps it will be a present for Dean.
Fifty seven minutes.
He thinks about the woman he saved, thinks about her son's face, her husband's voice on the phone. He thinks about the bleak emptiness before her that once held golden footprints of fate, the same emptiness that Sam has, that Dean has.
He knows what Dean would say, to learn that there was another soul in the world like him. Poor bastard, he can hear, and the chuckle that says he was in no way joking.
But Castiel thinks about Dean's strength. He thinks about the way he is broken, so broken and so pained and yet carrying on through everything because he must, because he is Dean. He thinks of Dean's beauty, in the curve of his back and in the curve of his lips, and he thinks of Dean's hope, a wild and desperate thing that has come so close to death so many times and yet burns too brightly -
And he feels the question being asked, as the minutes slip away. He feels the world hold its breath yet again. And there is a silence, for too long, a heavy sort of weighted silence, and then with a flippant syllable Dean's hope - Castiel's hope - flares to life.
And without thinking about it Castiel pulls Dean to him, wanting to wrap him up and hold him tight, wanting to press his torn and broken pieces together until they stuck, until they healed. But he puts Dean an arm's distance away because it is Dean and he has Personal Space and Castiel has done enough, this night, that is new.
But there is something in Dean's eyes that makes him regret not embracing him, for a moment, and for a longer moment he thinks that perhaps Dean will embrace him. His face is so relieved, so joyful to see Castiel that Castiel cannot help but smile back, a twitch of his lips.
And Dean lays a hand on his shoulder, all solid warmth, and Castiel thinks, the world will be better for another like Dean.
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel implied
Wordcount: ~1500
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Summary/Notes: SPOILERS FOR 5.04. Castiel waits on the side of the road. Castiel POV, thanks to tracy_loo_who for the prompt.
Castiel hears the phone go dead, but keeps it pressed to his ear for a moment anyway. Perhaps he will be able to hear Dean as he goes to sleep, perhaps through his ear and his thoughts be able to keep the memories of hell at bay. He considers ignoring Dean's instructions and arriving at his hotel room, where he can much more easily guard his dreams.
But Dean has said four hours, and perhaps it's not exactly sleep he needs. Perhaps he has found a girl to soothe his sexual urges - it has been a long time since Castiel has had to shield his mind from that sort of thought, from Dean. Or perhaps he is doing it himself, and has told Castiel to stay away - surely out of some need for privacy and not any respect for how Castiel might feel, seeing him...
Or perhaps he simply needs four hours alone, without Castiel.
He waits by the side of the road. Trucks go past him, a swirl of wind and water and leaves in their wake. It soaks through his trench coat, and then vanishes, away with all the bloodstains, the inkstains, the tearstains, all the things that have marred Castiel before.
A woman stops, pulls up in her car and looks at him for a long moment. He looks back. "Well?" She says, "You going to get in? I'm going as far as the border, but you have to find your own way from there."
"No." He says.
She frowns at him. "No?"
"No, I am not going to get in." He says, and then lowers his chin, a little sadly. He was tempted to tell her, and no - you will not make it as far as the border. The roads are wet, and there is a drunken man named Gerald Clarke, driving a truck. Your head will hit the windshield and the paramedics will arrive too late.
She has the smell about her of a life about to end. It's written on the footsteps that stretch before her, golden angelic script that Castiel has always seen the glimmer of, always noted it idly as he passed it by. But why give her the sadness that is waiting for death? Better it be quick.
She frowns more, and then rolls her window back up and drives off, muttering about crazy tax accountants in the middle of the night.
Yes, he thinks, Jimmy has gone insane. He can feel him, still, but he sleeps for most of these days. Dying has a way of doing that to a person.
After that, he waits invisible.
He watches the rain slow and finally stop, watches the clouds clear from moon. He sees the towering ramparts of them, dark against a darker sky, sees their edges tinted with silvered moonlight, and he thinks perhaps he know why humans have long thought Heaven to be in the sky. And were he to fly so high, dart up to the moon, would the door there still open for him? Would the door anywhere?
He stands by the side of the road and thinks of home. He thinks of home as Heaven and he thinks of home as Dean and he thinks of home as the nice woman's home, the little one-story in the development with her son and her dog and her husband and he thinks about how long they will remain unplagued by the coming storm. And he thinks about how little they will care that the world is ending, because their mother, their wife, their loved one is gone.
He thinks about how little he would care about the end of the world, without that one tie to its safety...
And suddenly Dean is shouting at him, inside his head. So you're just going to let her die? Standing there with your angelic mojo and you can't even save one soul?
Her soul is not her life, he argues. And I no longer know what it means for a soul to be saved. With Zachariah and the other angels in control of Heaven -
Dean interrupts. Then that's worse! Letting her soul fly off to parts unknown when you, with just one twitch of your hand, could whisk her out of harms way?
I could not whisk. He says gravely to the Dean inside his mind. It takes major "mojo" to save a life that is due to end. And it is meant to end. It is not my place to- I could fall -
And there his mind stops, because that has always been he worst thing, always been the punishment he's afraid of, always been the thing stopping him from caring for these humans, because if he cares too much, if he lets himself, he could...
It's a little late for that. Dean's voice is humorless, and suddenly Castiel feels terribly free.
He blinks and he's in the passenger seat of the woman's car, invisible. She has the radio on, and at his arrival it crackles white noise. He frowns at it and raises a hand, and she curses and fiddles with the knob, and it slides back into classic rock.
The inside of the car is warm. The woman taps her fingers on the steering wheel, reminding Castiel of Dean.
Two hours and four minutes, he thinks, and then there's a truck coming at them from the side, horn blaring and lights far too bright. The woman screams and throws her hands up, braced as she can be for impact -
And Castiel blinks again, and the truck runs by in front of them, careening madly from side to side. He stares at it, hard, and it slows, coming to a stop on the side of the road. The woman is shaking and crying, her own car still moving, and Castiel slows them, too, enough that she can get control of the wheel. He looks at her a long moment, watching the way her eyes blink away tears and disbelief both, watching her mind fabricate what had happened, what had obviously happened, because a human who sees something impossible does everything they can to make it possible. He smiles as she takes out her phone and calls her husband, settling down immediately when she hears the voice at the end of the line.
He blinks again, and is sitting in the cab of the truck. The driver is staring straight ahead, groping for the hip flask that's shoved haphazardly into his cup holder. His breathing is harsh in the silence. Castiel picks up the flask first and puts it in his pocket, using his other hand, two fingers on the forehead, to send him into a deep sleep.
He leans close and murmurs in the man's ear, giving his voice just a whisper of his true power. "Hear me, Gerald Clarke. Hear the voice of Castiel, angel of the Lord, and know that this night but for my grace you would have taken the life of an innocent woman." His words are harsh but not too harsh, soothing and firm. He speaks wisdom and hope into the man's besotted mind, speaks of hardship and of rebirth.
He pours out the hip flask, as well as the rest of the empty bottles and cans that litter the truck, and gets rid of them. The hip flask, though, he turns over and over in his hands as he waits by the side of the road. It's well crafted - silver, with a C engraved on the front. For Clarke, he knows, but he slips it back into his pocket anyway. Perhaps it will be a present for Dean.
Fifty seven minutes.
He thinks about the woman he saved, thinks about her son's face, her husband's voice on the phone. He thinks about the bleak emptiness before her that once held golden footprints of fate, the same emptiness that Sam has, that Dean has.
He knows what Dean would say, to learn that there was another soul in the world like him. Poor bastard, he can hear, and the chuckle that says he was in no way joking.
But Castiel thinks about Dean's strength. He thinks about the way he is broken, so broken and so pained and yet carrying on through everything because he must, because he is Dean. He thinks of Dean's beauty, in the curve of his back and in the curve of his lips, and he thinks of Dean's hope, a wild and desperate thing that has come so close to death so many times and yet burns too brightly -
And he feels the question being asked, as the minutes slip away. He feels the world hold its breath yet again. And there is a silence, for too long, a heavy sort of weighted silence, and then with a flippant syllable Dean's hope - Castiel's hope - flares to life.
And without thinking about it Castiel pulls Dean to him, wanting to wrap him up and hold him tight, wanting to press his torn and broken pieces together until they stuck, until they healed. But he puts Dean an arm's distance away because it is Dean and he has Personal Space and Castiel has done enough, this night, that is new.
But there is something in Dean's eyes that makes him regret not embracing him, for a moment, and for a longer moment he thinks that perhaps Dean will embrace him. His face is so relieved, so joyful to see Castiel that Castiel cannot help but smile back, a twitch of his lips.
And Dean lays a hand on his shoulder, all solid warmth, and Castiel thinks, the world will be better for another like Dean.