SPN fic: dream a little
Title: dream a little
Words: 746
Rating: PG
Pairings: Dean/Castiel
Summary: Dean wishes he could remember.
Disclaimer: Characters/etc. belong to Kripke.
Written in tandem with Heather's multi-fandom fanmix.
There are some dreams that Dean really wishes he could forget. Hell, there are some memories that he really wishes he could forget. But more and more, he’s finding a familiar itch in his mind when he wakes up, the tease of some dream just out of reach. He usually doesn’t give it much thought, but as it begins happening more often, it becomes a nuisance.
He usually forgets about it during the events of the day, whether he’s driving across the country or chasing after some monster, demon, angel, or other. It’s when he sinks into bed for the evening that he occasionally remembers, and steels himself to come out on top the following morning. It never quite works like that, unfortunately.
Sitting half-awake in bed, Dean tries not to think about it and allows his mind to wander. He’s sore and tired from the day, muscles a dull ache alongside his heavy bones. He has a song stuck in his head that he can’t quite place, but it’s a soothing melody that works his way around his mind naturally. He breathes deeply, savoring the peace of the moment. Suddenly, he realizes that he feels more at peace now than he has in a long time.
Suddenly, the bed dips behind him and a cool figure lies on top of the sheets behind him. For some reason Dean doesn’t jolt into complete consciousness but instead relaxes back into the body, which winds an arm around his waist. The clothes - most notably a long coat - are cold against his back, but quickly warm with their close proximity. A head shifts and a mouth presses a kiss to the back of his neck. Dean smiles into his pillow.
“Sorry I’m late,” a voice says in his ear, tone low and measured. Dean seeks the hand somewhere around his ribcage and intertwines their fingers.
“You’re here now,” he says. The pad of his thumb brushes against the other’s hand. Dean can feel his heartbeat pounding evenly in his chest, can feel the subtle electricity of the blood in his veins. He feels alive, calm, content.
Dean feels cool breath on his neck and the tickle of stubble as more casual kisses adorn his neck and shoulders. A thought floats just out of consciousness, lingering with the vague impression of importance. There’s something he should be doing right now, but he can’t be bothered to remember what it is.
Words are whispered into his ears, half-coherent phrases and murmurs that Dean only catches parts of.
“I wish…”
“…forever, save everything…”
“…I am here…”
“Another life…”
“…don’t know how…”
“Never let go…”
The more words he manages to catch, the more difficult is to shake the feeling that he’s forgetting something. He shifts, turning over to face the body behind him. He looks at the sad eyes, the tight mouth, and tries to remember.
“Cas…” Dean says, reaching up to place a hand on his cheek. He brings his mouth to Castiel’s, kissing him slowly, letting their mouths slide against one another. He draws back to place a kiss to Castiel’s temple, raising his hand to rake his fingers through dark hair.
“Love you,” is the reply, low, quiet, barely audible. “I love you, Dean.”
Dean’s heart stalls, hovering in the moment and making him short of breath. He opens his mouth to reciprocate, but his voice catches in his throat and for some reason he can’t. He closes his eyes to kiss Castiel again and gets lost in the fluorescent darkness behind his lids, falling…
Dean wakes to the familiar smell of coffee and motel bed sheets, already in a bad mood. His neck aches and his eyes burn. Sam sits at the table, sipping a cup of coffee and typing on his laptop. Dean sits up with a groan.
Sam’s eyes flit to him. “Rough night?”
The itch is back at the edge of Dean’s mind. He wishes it would go the fuck away already. “Peachy keen.” He pads to the restroom, pisses, splashes some water in his face, and returns with that same itch around his conscious and a growling stomach.
“Let’s hit the road and grab some doughnuts or something,” he says, grabbing his jacket. “I’m starved.”
Sam gives him an admonishing look but closes his laptop and stands. He begins saying something, but Dean doesn’t hear him; his mind is lost in cyclical thoughts and the shadow of whispered words hidden just beyond his consciousness.
*
Words: 746
Rating: PG
Pairings: Dean/Castiel
Summary: Dean wishes he could remember.
Disclaimer: Characters/etc. belong to Kripke.
Written in tandem with Heather's multi-fandom fanmix.
There are some dreams that Dean really wishes he could forget. Hell, there are some memories that he really wishes he could forget. But more and more, he’s finding a familiar itch in his mind when he wakes up, the tease of some dream just out of reach. He usually doesn’t give it much thought, but as it begins happening more often, it becomes a nuisance.
He usually forgets about it during the events of the day, whether he’s driving across the country or chasing after some monster, demon, angel, or other. It’s when he sinks into bed for the evening that he occasionally remembers, and steels himself to come out on top the following morning. It never quite works like that, unfortunately.
Sitting half-awake in bed, Dean tries not to think about it and allows his mind to wander. He’s sore and tired from the day, muscles a dull ache alongside his heavy bones. He has a song stuck in his head that he can’t quite place, but it’s a soothing melody that works his way around his mind naturally. He breathes deeply, savoring the peace of the moment. Suddenly, he realizes that he feels more at peace now than he has in a long time.
Suddenly, the bed dips behind him and a cool figure lies on top of the sheets behind him. For some reason Dean doesn’t jolt into complete consciousness but instead relaxes back into the body, which winds an arm around his waist. The clothes - most notably a long coat - are cold against his back, but quickly warm with their close proximity. A head shifts and a mouth presses a kiss to the back of his neck. Dean smiles into his pillow.
“Sorry I’m late,” a voice says in his ear, tone low and measured. Dean seeks the hand somewhere around his ribcage and intertwines their fingers.
“You’re here now,” he says. The pad of his thumb brushes against the other’s hand. Dean can feel his heartbeat pounding evenly in his chest, can feel the subtle electricity of the blood in his veins. He feels alive, calm, content.
Dean feels cool breath on his neck and the tickle of stubble as more casual kisses adorn his neck and shoulders. A thought floats just out of consciousness, lingering with the vague impression of importance. There’s something he should be doing right now, but he can’t be bothered to remember what it is.
Words are whispered into his ears, half-coherent phrases and murmurs that Dean only catches parts of.
“I wish…”
“…forever, save everything…”
“…I am here…”
“Another life…”
“…don’t know how…”
“Never let go…”
The more words he manages to catch, the more difficult is to shake the feeling that he’s forgetting something. He shifts, turning over to face the body behind him. He looks at the sad eyes, the tight mouth, and tries to remember.
“Cas…” Dean says, reaching up to place a hand on his cheek. He brings his mouth to Castiel’s, kissing him slowly, letting their mouths slide against one another. He draws back to place a kiss to Castiel’s temple, raising his hand to rake his fingers through dark hair.
“Love you,” is the reply, low, quiet, barely audible. “I love you, Dean.”
Dean’s heart stalls, hovering in the moment and making him short of breath. He opens his mouth to reciprocate, but his voice catches in his throat and for some reason he can’t. He closes his eyes to kiss Castiel again and gets lost in the fluorescent darkness behind his lids, falling…
Dean wakes to the familiar smell of coffee and motel bed sheets, already in a bad mood. His neck aches and his eyes burn. Sam sits at the table, sipping a cup of coffee and typing on his laptop. Dean sits up with a groan.
Sam’s eyes flit to him. “Rough night?”
The itch is back at the edge of Dean’s mind. He wishes it would go the fuck away already. “Peachy keen.” He pads to the restroom, pisses, splashes some water in his face, and returns with that same itch around his conscious and a growling stomach.
“Let’s hit the road and grab some doughnuts or something,” he says, grabbing his jacket. “I’m starved.”
Sam gives him an admonishing look but closes his laptop and stands. He begins saying something, but Dean doesn’t hear him; his mind is lost in cyclical thoughts and the shadow of whispered words hidden just beyond his consciousness.
*