Words Wisely Woven, a Dean/Cas ficlet
Title: Words Wisely Woven
Pairing:Cas/Dean
Rating:G
Word Count: 1283
A/N: Not owned by me at all. No copyright infringement intended.
Kansas City
“Did you put these here?” Dean pointed to a bouquet of Tulips, Daffodils and Hyacinth on the table near his bed.
“Huh? No.” Sam blinked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“How’d they get there then?” Dean accused, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know. The maid likes you?”
“Dude. That’s just creepy. She had a mustache. Seriously. How did…” Dean looked next to the vase and there was a single black feather. “Oh.”
“Maid right?”
“Yeah...yeah it was the maid.”
Philadelphia
“Dean you need to be more careful, I know you are having a hard time but this is the third time I have stitched you up in a month.”
“I’m careful.”
“No. You aren’t.” Sam snipped, opening the motel room door. “Where did that come from?”
“What?” Dean hissed as he put more pressure on his arm.
“That.” Sam pointed to the table, where a full spread of hamburgers from Dean’s favorite diner lay, complete with cold beers.
“What the hell?” Dean stopped.
“There’s a note.” Sam picked it up to read it.
“Hands off!” Dean smacked his hand and took it, getting a few bloody fingerprints along the edges.
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. ”
“What does it say?” Sam asked.
“Nothing. Just. The food is fine, we can eat it. “Dean said “Stitch me up.”
“Dean we probably should not eat food that just…”
“It. Is. Fine. Stitch me up.”
Boulder
“OK, Dean this is getting creepy.” Sam said.
On the seat of the Impala lay a boxed pie. Apple, from a very famous bakery in Seattle. A black feather lay on Dean’s side of the seat. A small note leaned on the steering wheel.
Dean opened it with shaking hands.
“Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have Astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.”
“Dean, what is going on?”
“It’s fine Sammy.” Dean wiped an eye. “It’s fine.”
Sioux Falls
“I’ll be outside.” Dean said.
“Yep.” Bobby acknowledged, going back to reading and sipping his ever full glass of whiskey.
Dean walked out to the yard, to a place he knew no one would find this but him. The note was wrinkled, on college ruled paper. He had written it and thrown it away, but after a couple drinks decided to try. He smoothed it against his jeans, trying to get out most of the wrinkles and the ketchup stain.
“Um. Hey. This is for you. I am not really good at, you know, picking these out. OK, so I am just going to leave this here. Ok..umm. This is weird, so, here. I hope you get it.”
Dean placed the note on the ground, anchoring it with some gravel and stood staring at the sky for a while before heading inside.
It was seconds after he left that the flutter of wings arrived. A battered hand reached down to grasp the note.
“Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts--from far where I abide--
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.”
Sioux Falls, Day Two
Dean woke early on the couch, and looked around. There was nothing apparent, no trace or sign that his note was received. He sighed heavily and sat up, putting his bare feet on the floor. He felt his toe hit something.
Bending down in the dim morning light he picked up a small, very ancient looking book.
“Shakespeare’s Love Sonnets”
He smiled slightly and opened the cover. A single black feather fell out.
“Cas. Come home.” Dean whispered, clutching the book. “Please.”
Sperry
Dean woke to the note on his pillow this time, with the feather so close he did not know how he didn’t wake.
“Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.”
“Cas..man. Come home. Please. It’s too much…let it go. You can’t be God Cas. Let it go.”
A flutter of wings was heard. Weary face, a head of messy hair, a trench coat. Familiar and comforting and everything.
“Cas.” Dean’s broken voice said.
“How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.”
Cas was moving closer as he recited, as he sat on the edge of the bed.He reached out and cupped Dean’s cheek. He held out a single black feather.
“It is my last one.” Cas said. His voice seemed strange. Dean had so longed to hear it, deep and gravely. It rolled over him like thunder.
“You mean…”
“I do.”
“Cas…” Before he knew what he was doing, or thought anything or it he took a delicate hand in his own.
“You liked my gifts?”
“Yeah. I knew you were here, and I hoped you were OK anyway, and..yeah. I liked them.”
“Sometimes the words we cannot say are best expressed by those who weave them wisely.” Cas said, squeezing Dean’s hand. “Would you have me stay?”
“Please.”
“Always.” Cas said just as Sam woke up.
Pairing:Cas/Dean
Rating:G
Word Count: 1283
A/N: Not owned by me at all. No copyright infringement intended.
Kansas City
“Did you put these here?” Dean pointed to a bouquet of Tulips, Daffodils and Hyacinth on the table near his bed.
“Huh? No.” Sam blinked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“How’d they get there then?” Dean accused, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know. The maid likes you?”
“Dude. That’s just creepy. She had a mustache. Seriously. How did…” Dean looked next to the vase and there was a single black feather. “Oh.”
“Maid right?”
“Yeah...yeah it was the maid.”
Philadelphia
“Dean you need to be more careful, I know you are having a hard time but this is the third time I have stitched you up in a month.”
“I’m careful.”
“No. You aren’t.” Sam snipped, opening the motel room door. “Where did that come from?”
“What?” Dean hissed as he put more pressure on his arm.
“That.” Sam pointed to the table, where a full spread of hamburgers from Dean’s favorite diner lay, complete with cold beers.
“What the hell?” Dean stopped.
“There’s a note.” Sam picked it up to read it.
“Hands off!” Dean smacked his hand and took it, getting a few bloody fingerprints along the edges.
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. ”
“What does it say?” Sam asked.
“Nothing. Just. The food is fine, we can eat it. “Dean said “Stitch me up.”
“Dean we probably should not eat food that just…”
“It. Is. Fine. Stitch me up.”
Boulder
“OK, Dean this is getting creepy.” Sam said.
On the seat of the Impala lay a boxed pie. Apple, from a very famous bakery in Seattle. A black feather lay on Dean’s side of the seat. A small note leaned on the steering wheel.
Dean opened it with shaking hands.
“Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have Astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.”
“Dean, what is going on?”
“It’s fine Sammy.” Dean wiped an eye. “It’s fine.”
Sioux Falls
“I’ll be outside.” Dean said.
“Yep.” Bobby acknowledged, going back to reading and sipping his ever full glass of whiskey.
Dean walked out to the yard, to a place he knew no one would find this but him. The note was wrinkled, on college ruled paper. He had written it and thrown it away, but after a couple drinks decided to try. He smoothed it against his jeans, trying to get out most of the wrinkles and the ketchup stain.
“Um. Hey. This is for you. I am not really good at, you know, picking these out. OK, so I am just going to leave this here. Ok..umm. This is weird, so, here. I hope you get it.”
Dean placed the note on the ground, anchoring it with some gravel and stood staring at the sky for a while before heading inside.
It was seconds after he left that the flutter of wings arrived. A battered hand reached down to grasp the note.
“Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts--from far where I abide--
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.”
Sioux Falls, Day Two
Dean woke early on the couch, and looked around. There was nothing apparent, no trace or sign that his note was received. He sighed heavily and sat up, putting his bare feet on the floor. He felt his toe hit something.
Bending down in the dim morning light he picked up a small, very ancient looking book.
“Shakespeare’s Love Sonnets”
He smiled slightly and opened the cover. A single black feather fell out.
“Cas. Come home.” Dean whispered, clutching the book. “Please.”
Sperry
Dean woke to the note on his pillow this time, with the feather so close he did not know how he didn’t wake.
“Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.”
“Cas..man. Come home. Please. It’s too much…let it go. You can’t be God Cas. Let it go.”
A flutter of wings was heard. Weary face, a head of messy hair, a trench coat. Familiar and comforting and everything.
“Cas.” Dean’s broken voice said.
“How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.”
Cas was moving closer as he recited, as he sat on the edge of the bed.He reached out and cupped Dean’s cheek. He held out a single black feather.
“It is my last one.” Cas said. His voice seemed strange. Dean had so longed to hear it, deep and gravely. It rolled over him like thunder.
“You mean…”
“I do.”
“Cas…” Before he knew what he was doing, or thought anything or it he took a delicate hand in his own.
“You liked my gifts?”
“Yeah. I knew you were here, and I hoped you were OK anyway, and..yeah. I liked them.”
“Sometimes the words we cannot say are best expressed by those who weave them wisely.” Cas said, squeezing Dean’s hand. “Would you have me stay?”
“Please.”
“Always.” Cas said just as Sam woke up.