{FANFIC} Seeing Ghosts (Dean/Cas)
Title: Seeing Ghosts
Author: fatherleary
Rating: PG
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: general allusions to 7.02, mention of 2.20
Warnings: Mentions of alcoholism
Word Count: 1549
Summary: They’re somewhere in Maine when it happens.
They’re somewhere in Maine when it happens. A simple salt and burn for the first time in a long time and Dean is taking it in stride. The line at the sub shop is long, but hell, they’re meatball subs are worth it and he’s had them enough days in a row to know. He glares at a few too close fellow customers, shifts to his left and sighs.
The shittier-than-usual motel bed left a crick in his neck that won’t budge, chigger bites on his forearm, courtesy of the cemetery smack dab in the middle of dense wood at 2 in the morning, itch like a bitch, and a pin point of pressure stuck behind his right eye threatens a migraine. They culminate into an edgy, too-sober, gun-wielding bundle of frayed nerves. The last thing he needs is-
“Novak!”
Dean tries fighting down the urge, as he always does, to pay attention to whomever has the surname Novak. The same way he doesn’t perk up at the name Cas yelled in a public, or business men in trench coats on the street, or strangers with piercing blue eyes. It’s stupid, he knows, so fucking stupid.
He’s done an alright job of keeping Sam oblivious, although he hardly knows he's doing it when he stares into space at a certain word, a certain song, and Sam’ll call him back to earth. But he always jokes, instead of prying, and for that, Dean is thankful. How can he say, to anyone, ever, that he’s been so, that he’s, that he misses…someone so much, some days are harder to take than others because of something as simple as the logo on a bag of burgers.
The booze helps, too. He’d be lying if he said he’s not at least a functioning alcoholic, for as normally as he can function, but Sam had put a cap on that. Sort of. It took a few days of the shakes,and complete and utter misery, but he muddled through, and the second he was alone he took to the opening of a bottle of cheap whiskey like a mother’s teet and tasted every inch burn on the way down. Like the reminders, some days are better than others. Sometimes Sam can distract him enough that he only has 6 drinks a day. The rest he feels blessed that his liver doesn’t put on a little hat and pick up his suitcases the way characters in cartoons do when they get fed up and leave.
Leave.
But he didn’t leave, he-
He ran into something else last year, too. A djinn they’d tracked for 2 weeks in Louisiana almost got a hand on him, again. Except this time, just for a split second, he wondered why it would be so bad. He’d fought for so long, would it the worst possible thing to go out thinking things were okay? He remembered the faux-life the djinn’s kin had given to him years before, his Mom and Sam with Jess, maybe it was different if you went willingly. And then Sam stabbed that son of a bitch in the heart.
He drank so much that night when he got up the next evening he told Sam he'd better finish his history homework, Dad would be home soon.
Dean accepts his life as is, mourning and guilt, and other things he doesn't care to identify, eased daily by booze and food, and miraculously, he finds, they do lessen year by year, if only a little. Sam accepts that it’s his job now to keep his brother afloat in a million things he's never going to talk about.
But still. He twitches towards the mysterious Novak. The last one had been a blonde, bubbly teenage girl, the one before that an older couple. He moves to the name, or rather his feet move, while his brain barely protests anymore. So fucking stupid.
He’s tall, all shoulders and biceps, standing at the counter while the woman behind it explains they’ve somehow run out of olives. Reminds Dean of himself more than anything else. Thankfully, his stomach stops turning enough to settle itself, stop the immediate need for alcohol and lots of it. It takes less time than before, and if it keeps happening he might eventually not care at all, but he sincerely doubts it.
His attention turns back to his neck pain, the kids across the shop giggling at each other, the impatient, and incredibly annoying, couple behind him. At least the normal people don’t make his chest tighten, his pulse raise, like a fucking idiot who can’t control the swirl of anxiety in his head when he has no right to any of it.
A few orders go ahead of ‘Novak’, Dean wonders if he should just cut his losses, grab a burger and head back to the motel to drown his not-feelings in peace, when he’s pushed.
“Sorry, sorry.” The voice floats up from behind the customers. A head of brown hair bobs and weaves in between bodies and comes to settle beside Shoulders, who glances the mere inches down with a raw glint of happiness in his eye and snakes a hand around his waist.
Hell. Hooks piercing chunks of flesh. Slicing, tearing, burning, freezing, empty, endless suffering stretching out to infinity.
Hell can’t compare to the feeling that’s turning the blood in his veins to sludge. At least there he'd been dead . Here, alive, rage and jealousy and pure shock weigh him down, sticking him in place. A tiny voice in his head shouting, 'run, you fucking idiot, run!'
But all he can think is Cas. Cas. Castiel. Awkward, ignorant, virgin angel of the lord Castiel. His Cas. Real and in the flesh. So real, in fact, it would shock him that he isn't automatically assuming it's some kind of sick, evil, and about to be very dead, monster who's taken on the wrong fucking form.
This isn't Dean. Not the Dean he knows himself to be, but his fingers twitch to reach out and touch. His mouth is too dry, too lock-jawed to say the one syllabled name he hasn't let slip from his lips in so many years. His heart beats so loudly he can't hear the words they're saying now, faces close together and so calm.
"-those ridiculous--told him--whatever that is--"
Blood rushes through his ears and suddenly he's live again. Still filled to the brim, but every nerve in is body is live wire, all the electricity flowing towards the man's back, willing him forward.
But his feet don't move before Shoulder's phone rings and he's answering.
"Hello? Oh, are you feeling...Okay, bud." He tips the phone in his hand, "He wants to talk to you."
"Hey little man. Did you have fun with grandma? I know, lions are huge! The peacock had pretty-?" He chuckles, "I wish I had wings, too."
He's turned to the side, one finger in his ear, the phone on the opposite, and Dean sees his eyes fall. The tiniest of reactions, the most miniscule pull of facial muscles that spell out emotion in the way only one person could do, and Dean knows.
He might as well have been choking down spoonfuls of sand for all the good his throat feels, but his voice surprises him, "Ca-"
"I can't understand you when you're talking so fast. Alright, you can tell Dad and I all about it tomorrow. You be good. Love you, Dean."
His hands are gripping the wheel of the Impala before he knows where he is. A vague memory slips in and out. His hopeful voice, starting the word, the name. That familiar voice, soft and full of affection to the boy on the other end. And another name, his own, something he'd yearned to hear every time he shamefully screamed at the sky, angry and full of booze.
He tries to convince himself all he wanted was a hello. Hey, how ya' doin', things've been just peachy for me since you died, in case you were wondering. He laughs dry and bitter into the silence of the car. Any greeting, long, short, cordial, emotional, would've been far too much and never enough.
The reality of it doesn't cross his mind. He can't seem to make himself care whether or not Castiel was Castiel. If it wasn't, he's finally gone completely cuckcoo's nest, so tightly wound for too long and he's finally snapped into a million pieces. If it was, somehow, Cas is back, has been back. And if he's angel, human, hybrid, whatever, he's normal, has things Dean could see and entertain but never hold solid in his hands. And neither of the options offer any comfort at all.
So he drives. Drives and drives until Sam calls, making sure he still has a brother at all, but asking instead "Hey, you planning on coming back anytime soon? I'm starving." He stalks into the room and before Sam can look too worried and ask what's wrong, knowing, vaguely, what is always wrong, he tells him it's nothing.
He's alive, and I'm the ghost, now.
"It's nothing."
Author: fatherleary
Rating: PG
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: general allusions to 7.02, mention of 2.20
Warnings: Mentions of alcoholism
Word Count: 1549
Summary: They’re somewhere in Maine when it happens.
They’re somewhere in Maine when it happens. A simple salt and burn for the first time in a long time and Dean is taking it in stride. The line at the sub shop is long, but hell, they’re meatball subs are worth it and he’s had them enough days in a row to know. He glares at a few too close fellow customers, shifts to his left and sighs.
The shittier-than-usual motel bed left a crick in his neck that won’t budge, chigger bites on his forearm, courtesy of the cemetery smack dab in the middle of dense wood at 2 in the morning, itch like a bitch, and a pin point of pressure stuck behind his right eye threatens a migraine. They culminate into an edgy, too-sober, gun-wielding bundle of frayed nerves. The last thing he needs is-
“Novak!”
Dean tries fighting down the urge, as he always does, to pay attention to whomever has the surname Novak. The same way he doesn’t perk up at the name Cas yelled in a public, or business men in trench coats on the street, or strangers with piercing blue eyes. It’s stupid, he knows, so fucking stupid.
He’s done an alright job of keeping Sam oblivious, although he hardly knows he's doing it when he stares into space at a certain word, a certain song, and Sam’ll call him back to earth. But he always jokes, instead of prying, and for that, Dean is thankful. How can he say, to anyone, ever, that he’s been so, that he’s, that he misses…someone so much, some days are harder to take than others because of something as simple as the logo on a bag of burgers.
The booze helps, too. He’d be lying if he said he’s not at least a functioning alcoholic, for as normally as he can function, but Sam had put a cap on that. Sort of. It took a few days of the shakes,and complete and utter misery, but he muddled through, and the second he was alone he took to the opening of a bottle of cheap whiskey like a mother’s teet and tasted every inch burn on the way down. Like the reminders, some days are better than others. Sometimes Sam can distract him enough that he only has 6 drinks a day. The rest he feels blessed that his liver doesn’t put on a little hat and pick up his suitcases the way characters in cartoons do when they get fed up and leave.
Leave.
But he didn’t leave, he-
He ran into something else last year, too. A djinn they’d tracked for 2 weeks in Louisiana almost got a hand on him, again. Except this time, just for a split second, he wondered why it would be so bad. He’d fought for so long, would it the worst possible thing to go out thinking things were okay? He remembered the faux-life the djinn’s kin had given to him years before, his Mom and Sam with Jess, maybe it was different if you went willingly. And then Sam stabbed that son of a bitch in the heart.
He drank so much that night when he got up the next evening he told Sam he'd better finish his history homework, Dad would be home soon.
Dean accepts his life as is, mourning and guilt, and other things he doesn't care to identify, eased daily by booze and food, and miraculously, he finds, they do lessen year by year, if only a little. Sam accepts that it’s his job now to keep his brother afloat in a million things he's never going to talk about.
But still. He twitches towards the mysterious Novak. The last one had been a blonde, bubbly teenage girl, the one before that an older couple. He moves to the name, or rather his feet move, while his brain barely protests anymore. So fucking stupid.
He’s tall, all shoulders and biceps, standing at the counter while the woman behind it explains they’ve somehow run out of olives. Reminds Dean of himself more than anything else. Thankfully, his stomach stops turning enough to settle itself, stop the immediate need for alcohol and lots of it. It takes less time than before, and if it keeps happening he might eventually not care at all, but he sincerely doubts it.
His attention turns back to his neck pain, the kids across the shop giggling at each other, the impatient, and incredibly annoying, couple behind him. At least the normal people don’t make his chest tighten, his pulse raise, like a fucking idiot who can’t control the swirl of anxiety in his head when he has no right to any of it.
A few orders go ahead of ‘Novak’, Dean wonders if he should just cut his losses, grab a burger and head back to the motel to drown his not-feelings in peace, when he’s pushed.
“Sorry, sorry.” The voice floats up from behind the customers. A head of brown hair bobs and weaves in between bodies and comes to settle beside Shoulders, who glances the mere inches down with a raw glint of happiness in his eye and snakes a hand around his waist.
Hell. Hooks piercing chunks of flesh. Slicing, tearing, burning, freezing, empty, endless suffering stretching out to infinity.
Hell can’t compare to the feeling that’s turning the blood in his veins to sludge. At least there he'd been dead . Here, alive, rage and jealousy and pure shock weigh him down, sticking him in place. A tiny voice in his head shouting, 'run, you fucking idiot, run!'
But all he can think is Cas. Cas. Castiel. Awkward, ignorant, virgin angel of the lord Castiel. His Cas. Real and in the flesh. So real, in fact, it would shock him that he isn't automatically assuming it's some kind of sick, evil, and about to be very dead, monster who's taken on the wrong fucking form.
This isn't Dean. Not the Dean he knows himself to be, but his fingers twitch to reach out and touch. His mouth is too dry, too lock-jawed to say the one syllabled name he hasn't let slip from his lips in so many years. His heart beats so loudly he can't hear the words they're saying now, faces close together and so calm.
"-those ridiculous--told him--whatever that is--"
Blood rushes through his ears and suddenly he's live again. Still filled to the brim, but every nerve in is body is live wire, all the electricity flowing towards the man's back, willing him forward.
But his feet don't move before Shoulder's phone rings and he's answering.
"Hello? Oh, are you feeling...Okay, bud." He tips the phone in his hand, "He wants to talk to you."
"Hey little man. Did you have fun with grandma? I know, lions are huge! The peacock had pretty-?" He chuckles, "I wish I had wings, too."
He's turned to the side, one finger in his ear, the phone on the opposite, and Dean sees his eyes fall. The tiniest of reactions, the most miniscule pull of facial muscles that spell out emotion in the way only one person could do, and Dean knows.
He might as well have been choking down spoonfuls of sand for all the good his throat feels, but his voice surprises him, "Ca-"
"I can't understand you when you're talking so fast. Alright, you can tell Dad and I all about it tomorrow. You be good. Love you, Dean."
His hands are gripping the wheel of the Impala before he knows where he is. A vague memory slips in and out. His hopeful voice, starting the word, the name. That familiar voice, soft and full of affection to the boy on the other end. And another name, his own, something he'd yearned to hear every time he shamefully screamed at the sky, angry and full of booze.
He tries to convince himself all he wanted was a hello. Hey, how ya' doin', things've been just peachy for me since you died, in case you were wondering. He laughs dry and bitter into the silence of the car. Any greeting, long, short, cordial, emotional, would've been far too much and never enough.
The reality of it doesn't cross his mind. He can't seem to make himself care whether or not Castiel was Castiel. If it wasn't, he's finally gone completely cuckcoo's nest, so tightly wound for too long and he's finally snapped into a million pieces. If it was, somehow, Cas is back, has been back. And if he's angel, human, hybrid, whatever, he's normal, has things Dean could see and entertain but never hold solid in his hands. And neither of the options offer any comfort at all.
So he drives. Drives and drives until Sam calls, making sure he still has a brother at all, but asking instead "Hey, you planning on coming back anytime soon? I'm starving." He stalks into the room and before Sam can look too worried and ask what's wrong, knowing, vaguely, what is always wrong, he tells him it's nothing.
He's alive, and I'm the ghost, now.
"It's nothing."