SPN FIC - You Like Dogs
I'm in the middle of another story, but this one suddenly popped up out of nowhere. So ... here you go.
Characters: Dean and Castiel
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Spoilers: none (set early in S4)
Length: 781 words
Then he sinks back into his bothered silence, leaving Castiel to ponder him. This has become somewhat routine with the two of them: the sitting, the studying, the questions. It rankles Dean, being studied like this, but so far - this afternoon, at least - he hasn’t tried to leave. He’s been here in the park for almost an hour, eating something called a “chili cheese steak” and drinking a dark-colored beverage out of a big yellow cup.
YOU LIKE DOGS
By Carol Davis
“You like dogs,” Castiel observes quietly.
Dean doesn’t respond. His attention’s firmly fixed on the other side of the park, and has been for several minutes.
“Dean,” the angel prods.
“What?”
The annoyance on Dean’s face has no effect on the angel; Castiel is becoming accustomed to the young man’s mercurial nature, and simply regards him in bemusement for a moment. Perhaps, he thinks, he should let Dean sit here alone for a while.
“You like dogs,” he says again.
“Is that a problem?”
“Is it?”
“Jesus,” Dean sputters. “Could you not do that?”
Then he sinks back into his bothered silence, leaving Castiel to ponder him. This has become somewhat routine with the two of them: the sitting, the studying, the questions. It rankles Dean, being studied like this, but so far - this afternoon, at least - he hasn’t tried to leave. He’s been here in the park for almost an hour, eating something called a “chili cheese steak” and drinking a dark-colored beverage out of a big yellow cup.
And watching the dogs.
A couple of times he almost smiles.
There are a lot of dogs to watch. Castiel does an idle count and comes up with seventeen, none of them alike. None of the humans accompanying the animals are much alike, either, aside from being somewhat evenly split between male and female. Their ages vary, their sizes vary, their style of dress varies. The only thing that seems universal among them is that they all like dogs. And playing. Running across the grass, two or three of them tossing a white saucer-shaped thing that Dean has informed him is called a Frisbee. Laughing and clapping and hooting and…acting like children.
“Always wanted one,” Dean mumbles. “Dad always said no.”
“Your father has no more say in the matter.”
Dean’s head turns. The expression he offers Castiel is difficult to read, none the less so because Dean has been wearing some version of it the entire time he’s been sitting here. “Doesn’t make any difference,” Dean mutters.
Why eludes Castiel completely - until one of the dogs comes romping toward their bench. Surely, he thinks, Dean will greet the dog as the other humans have been doing, by holding out a hand for the dog to inspect, offering a scratch behind the ears or a comment along the lines of, “Hey, boy, whatcha doin’?”
Instead, Dean flinches back, shrinks a little against the backrest of the bench. Not until the dog’s owner has called it away does Dean begin to relax.
No, that’s wrong. He’s not relaxed.
He’s…grieving.
It’s palpable, the sudden, leaden sadness that occupies Dean’s mind and body, and in a small way it’s terrible to watch. If he himself were human, Castiel thinks, he would offer a word of comfort, or a suggestion that they leave the park.
He’d offer some understanding, because he does understand.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” he says. Maybe that will do.
Dean is silent for a moment, then rasps, “Why? You didn’t send the hellhounds after me.”
That prompts a long sigh from the angel. The dogs here in the park bear little resemblance to the hellspawn that killed Dean a few months ago, but, Castiel thinks, a general similarity is probably more than enough to prompt a bad reaction, particularly if it’s accompanied by a bark in a particular timbre. He’s suggested right from the moment the mission began that they erase Dean’s memories of Hell (and, by association, what took him there), but he’s been turned down again and again. Humans are easily crippled by trauma, to the point of becoming almost useless to themselves or anyone else, but Castiel’s repeated statements along those lines have, as the humans say, “cut no ice.”
The thing is…he likes Dean.
Feels sympathy for him.
He closes his eyes for a moment, shutting away the image of the young man slumped on the park bench, and lets himself imagine Dean as a boy, crouching in front of a small dog the way the humans on the other side of the park have been doing. Offering a scratch behind the ears, a soft word, a little unconditional love.
Dogs, Castiel has been told, are one of the Father’s finest creations.
So, in his own way, is Dean Winchester.
And surely, this one small thing will escape notice.
Castiel waits for Dean to turn away, to take his line of sight far enough to the side that he won’t see Castiel lift a hand.
Castiel’s fingers touch Dean’s temple for only an instant.
“You like dogs,” Castiel whispers.
Then he leaves Dean by himself in the park.
* * * * *
Characters: Dean and Castiel
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Spoilers: none (set early in S4)
Length: 781 words
Then he sinks back into his bothered silence, leaving Castiel to ponder him. This has become somewhat routine with the two of them: the sitting, the studying, the questions. It rankles Dean, being studied like this, but so far - this afternoon, at least - he hasn’t tried to leave. He’s been here in the park for almost an hour, eating something called a “chili cheese steak” and drinking a dark-colored beverage out of a big yellow cup.
YOU LIKE DOGS
By Carol Davis
“You like dogs,” Castiel observes quietly.
Dean doesn’t respond. His attention’s firmly fixed on the other side of the park, and has been for several minutes.
“Dean,” the angel prods.
“What?”
The annoyance on Dean’s face has no effect on the angel; Castiel is becoming accustomed to the young man’s mercurial nature, and simply regards him in bemusement for a moment. Perhaps, he thinks, he should let Dean sit here alone for a while.
“You like dogs,” he says again.
“Is that a problem?”
“Is it?”
“Jesus,” Dean sputters. “Could you not do that?”
Then he sinks back into his bothered silence, leaving Castiel to ponder him. This has become somewhat routine with the two of them: the sitting, the studying, the questions. It rankles Dean, being studied like this, but so far - this afternoon, at least - he hasn’t tried to leave. He’s been here in the park for almost an hour, eating something called a “chili cheese steak” and drinking a dark-colored beverage out of a big yellow cup.
And watching the dogs.
A couple of times he almost smiles.
There are a lot of dogs to watch. Castiel does an idle count and comes up with seventeen, none of them alike. None of the humans accompanying the animals are much alike, either, aside from being somewhat evenly split between male and female. Their ages vary, their sizes vary, their style of dress varies. The only thing that seems universal among them is that they all like dogs. And playing. Running across the grass, two or three of them tossing a white saucer-shaped thing that Dean has informed him is called a Frisbee. Laughing and clapping and hooting and…acting like children.
“Always wanted one,” Dean mumbles. “Dad always said no.”
“Your father has no more say in the matter.”
Dean’s head turns. The expression he offers Castiel is difficult to read, none the less so because Dean has been wearing some version of it the entire time he’s been sitting here. “Doesn’t make any difference,” Dean mutters.
Why eludes Castiel completely - until one of the dogs comes romping toward their bench. Surely, he thinks, Dean will greet the dog as the other humans have been doing, by holding out a hand for the dog to inspect, offering a scratch behind the ears or a comment along the lines of, “Hey, boy, whatcha doin’?”
Instead, Dean flinches back, shrinks a little against the backrest of the bench. Not until the dog’s owner has called it away does Dean begin to relax.
No, that’s wrong. He’s not relaxed.
He’s…grieving.
It’s palpable, the sudden, leaden sadness that occupies Dean’s mind and body, and in a small way it’s terrible to watch. If he himself were human, Castiel thinks, he would offer a word of comfort, or a suggestion that they leave the park.
He’d offer some understanding, because he does understand.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” he says. Maybe that will do.
Dean is silent for a moment, then rasps, “Why? You didn’t send the hellhounds after me.”
That prompts a long sigh from the angel. The dogs here in the park bear little resemblance to the hellspawn that killed Dean a few months ago, but, Castiel thinks, a general similarity is probably more than enough to prompt a bad reaction, particularly if it’s accompanied by a bark in a particular timbre. He’s suggested right from the moment the mission began that they erase Dean’s memories of Hell (and, by association, what took him there), but he’s been turned down again and again. Humans are easily crippled by trauma, to the point of becoming almost useless to themselves or anyone else, but Castiel’s repeated statements along those lines have, as the humans say, “cut no ice.”
The thing is…he likes Dean.
Feels sympathy for him.
He closes his eyes for a moment, shutting away the image of the young man slumped on the park bench, and lets himself imagine Dean as a boy, crouching in front of a small dog the way the humans on the other side of the park have been doing. Offering a scratch behind the ears, a soft word, a little unconditional love.
Dogs, Castiel has been told, are one of the Father’s finest creations.
So, in his own way, is Dean Winchester.
And surely, this one small thing will escape notice.
Castiel waits for Dean to turn away, to take his line of sight far enough to the side that he won’t see Castiel lift a hand.
Castiel’s fingers touch Dean’s temple for only an instant.
“You like dogs,” Castiel whispers.
Then he leaves Dean by himself in the park.
* * * * *