dean & castiel gen ficlet for maboheme
this is a hot mess; nothing happens, it didn't go anywhere, i didn't even turn it into dean/cas. epic fic fail.
came out of commenting to maboheme about those scenes in that movie where misha is wearing dean's clothes. unf.
fic in which castiel falls from grace, shows up at 2014!dean's door naked. somehow i made it Very Serious Business. then it got away from me, so i gave up.
i didn't even bother to title it. just 1100 words of huhwhat? enjoy!
This is what a cold night is. Skin prickles, arm hairs raise, shoulders curl inward to avoid a breeze. Castiel’s lungs are tight, and those first conscious breaths send fine needling pain through his chest. It only takes the human body a few seconds to acclimate, and he finds himself with a clear mind. He stands.
Blinking into the darkness, he finds the white moon ducked under a cloud and a network of stars straining to break through a fast-moving weather system. For a moment, all he can compute is thin air, night sky, and a tree line to his left. He’s confused and cold, unsure of past present and future all at once.
He feels different. He remembers being warmer, before.
What he finds is he still knows things. For example, he knows where Dean is; knows the square mile radius of his base and the most direct route to get there on foot. Taking a deep breath, he disappears into the tree line. It’s going to be a long walk.
There are microbursts of activity that die down as Castiel passes them. Men in dirty tee-shirts and thick black leather boots stare him down as if debating on whether to detain him; they continue weapons checks and vehicle repairs. He reasons there must be an upcoming raid. Dean will be difficult to engage.
Castiel makes his way to a cabin on the far side of the compound. His feet ache, his shins feel scratched up and worn out. There is the sensation of dizziness and a hollow throbbing in his stomach. Sunlight burns his eyes and makes him nauseas. He stumbles on the cabin steps, just catches trembling fingers on the door frame.
It opens before he knocks; Dean’s on the other side, blade drawn, but he drops it with wide eyes and surges forward to catch Castiel as his feet give out. There is a painful shuffle of muscle as Dean gets arms under Castiel’s armpits and hauls him to a cot. Castiel’s ankles twist weakly under him and the whoomph of impact punches the air out of his chest. His stomach coils viciously and he curls onto his side to cushion it.
“Jesus, Cas,” Dean says. “Just - just hang on. Let me get something for you to put on. You know you’re fuckin’ bare ass, right? You walk through the base like this?”
“I need a cheeseburger.”
“You need to lock it up, is what you need. Hang on.”
Castiel closes his eyes and wills consciousness to remain while Dean digs through a backpack on the floor by the door. A hand on his shoulder makes Castiel pick his head up, and Dean stands over him soft and concerned, holding out an armful of clothing.
“I’ll assume that came out of a wrinkled and rancid ball of sweat shoved somewhere I’d rather not consider.”
They’re clean, you ass. Put ‘em on, I’ll go find you something to eat.”
Castiel opens his mouth, pauses for a beat. He says: “I’m very - I walked a lot.”
Dean frowns, and Castiel can read it in his eyes: he’s afraid of whatever happened to cause this. This is not the time for Castiel to admit that he is too. Instead he lifts the shirt in his lap to his nose and sniffs cautiously, raising an incredulous eyebrow. Dean cuffs him in the back of the head and leaves him there to get dressed.
Fruitlessly, he tries briefly to wipe the dirt from his skin before putting on Dean’s clean clothes. He pulls on the jeans first: ripped, faded, bloodstained, and so much a part of Dean that Castiel feels like he’s violating privacy by wearing them. They fit well, snug in his hips, button-fly sliding home like it’s done a hundred thousand times before.
The red tee-shirt is faded, threadbare, and soft as down. As soon as it’s on, Castiel smoothes palms down the front, fingers hesitating at the torn hem. He stares at the closed doorway to the cabin. Turns his head, lifts his shoulder, and buries his nose in the cotton. Smells like leather and the mustiness of a rainy day. He twists his hands into the shirt, pulls it tight against his dirt-caked stomach, lets it bunch on the belt loops of his jeans.
These clothes remind him of before; of the Winchester brothers, the Impala, of meeting them in diners, under overpasses, outside ground-level motel rooms. He feels in his bones that things are very different now. He won’t ask.
Dean comes back, approaches cautiously. He offers a bowl of pasta and a Slim Jim. Castiel takes them without complaint, and eats on the edge of the bed without meeting Dean’s eyes. Dean pulls a chair up alongside the bed and sits with elbows on his knees, staring at the glass of whiskey cupped loosely in his hands.
“I’m sorry to come without request,” Castiel says, mouth full. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“What the hell happened to you, anyway? You got me ten kinds of freaked out. Last time I saw you, shit. It’s been years.”
“I think I fell. I’m reasonably certain I fell from grace. Or, it was taken away. I don’t really know. Have there been angels? I feel like it’s been a long time. I am so hungry. Is there more of this? This is awful. What is this?”
“Wait, you fell? Cas - what do you mean you fell? You mean, like, you’re human? Like Anna?”
“No wings,” Castiel shrugs, and he notices that the thought spoken aloud makes his voice crack. “And I just feel - different.”
“No mojo.”
“Empty. But also, distracted. I don’t know; it’s all very confusing. Is this starving, am I starving? I have watched this happen to people, but I had no idea. How awful. How awful.”
“Relax, for shit’s sake,” Dean says, but his eyes are sympathetic. “I’ll feed you, all right? Are you staying? Will you be here?”
“If you’re in agreement with this. Where the Winchesters are, so am I. As it seems.”
Dean’s eyes drop, and Castiel feels the tension manifest like a detonated explosive. He clutches fingers uncomfortably over the knees of his jeans. The white frayed edge of a torn hole catches on his fingers, and he pulls at it.
“Sorry,” Castiel says. “I don’t know - I’m lost.”
“Found your way here well enough,” Dean says, offering a tired smile. “We’ll figure it out. Clothes fit? Walk with me; we’ll grab something else to eat. Gotta get your strength back. We got work to do.”
Castiel feels it - a smile, his first in a long time. It feels natural, comfortable, and Dean returns it.
came out of commenting to maboheme about those scenes in that movie where misha is wearing dean's clothes. unf.
fic in which castiel falls from grace, shows up at 2014!dean's door naked. somehow i made it Very Serious Business. then it got away from me, so i gave up.
i didn't even bother to title it. just 1100 words of huhwhat? enjoy!
This is what a cold night is. Skin prickles, arm hairs raise, shoulders curl inward to avoid a breeze. Castiel’s lungs are tight, and those first conscious breaths send fine needling pain through his chest. It only takes the human body a few seconds to acclimate, and he finds himself with a clear mind. He stands.
Blinking into the darkness, he finds the white moon ducked under a cloud and a network of stars straining to break through a fast-moving weather system. For a moment, all he can compute is thin air, night sky, and a tree line to his left. He’s confused and cold, unsure of past present and future all at once.
He feels different. He remembers being warmer, before.
What he finds is he still knows things. For example, he knows where Dean is; knows the square mile radius of his base and the most direct route to get there on foot. Taking a deep breath, he disappears into the tree line. It’s going to be a long walk.
There are microbursts of activity that die down as Castiel passes them. Men in dirty tee-shirts and thick black leather boots stare him down as if debating on whether to detain him; they continue weapons checks and vehicle repairs. He reasons there must be an upcoming raid. Dean will be difficult to engage.
Castiel makes his way to a cabin on the far side of the compound. His feet ache, his shins feel scratched up and worn out. There is the sensation of dizziness and a hollow throbbing in his stomach. Sunlight burns his eyes and makes him nauseas. He stumbles on the cabin steps, just catches trembling fingers on the door frame.
It opens before he knocks; Dean’s on the other side, blade drawn, but he drops it with wide eyes and surges forward to catch Castiel as his feet give out. There is a painful shuffle of muscle as Dean gets arms under Castiel’s armpits and hauls him to a cot. Castiel’s ankles twist weakly under him and the whoomph of impact punches the air out of his chest. His stomach coils viciously and he curls onto his side to cushion it.
“Jesus, Cas,” Dean says. “Just - just hang on. Let me get something for you to put on. You know you’re fuckin’ bare ass, right? You walk through the base like this?”
“I need a cheeseburger.”
“You need to lock it up, is what you need. Hang on.”
Castiel closes his eyes and wills consciousness to remain while Dean digs through a backpack on the floor by the door. A hand on his shoulder makes Castiel pick his head up, and Dean stands over him soft and concerned, holding out an armful of clothing.
“I’ll assume that came out of a wrinkled and rancid ball of sweat shoved somewhere I’d rather not consider.”
They’re clean, you ass. Put ‘em on, I’ll go find you something to eat.”
Castiel opens his mouth, pauses for a beat. He says: “I’m very - I walked a lot.”
Dean frowns, and Castiel can read it in his eyes: he’s afraid of whatever happened to cause this. This is not the time for Castiel to admit that he is too. Instead he lifts the shirt in his lap to his nose and sniffs cautiously, raising an incredulous eyebrow. Dean cuffs him in the back of the head and leaves him there to get dressed.
Fruitlessly, he tries briefly to wipe the dirt from his skin before putting on Dean’s clean clothes. He pulls on the jeans first: ripped, faded, bloodstained, and so much a part of Dean that Castiel feels like he’s violating privacy by wearing them. They fit well, snug in his hips, button-fly sliding home like it’s done a hundred thousand times before.
The red tee-shirt is faded, threadbare, and soft as down. As soon as it’s on, Castiel smoothes palms down the front, fingers hesitating at the torn hem. He stares at the closed doorway to the cabin. Turns his head, lifts his shoulder, and buries his nose in the cotton. Smells like leather and the mustiness of a rainy day. He twists his hands into the shirt, pulls it tight against his dirt-caked stomach, lets it bunch on the belt loops of his jeans.
These clothes remind him of before; of the Winchester brothers, the Impala, of meeting them in diners, under overpasses, outside ground-level motel rooms. He feels in his bones that things are very different now. He won’t ask.
Dean comes back, approaches cautiously. He offers a bowl of pasta and a Slim Jim. Castiel takes them without complaint, and eats on the edge of the bed without meeting Dean’s eyes. Dean pulls a chair up alongside the bed and sits with elbows on his knees, staring at the glass of whiskey cupped loosely in his hands.
“I’m sorry to come without request,” Castiel says, mouth full. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“What the hell happened to you, anyway? You got me ten kinds of freaked out. Last time I saw you, shit. It’s been years.”
“I think I fell. I’m reasonably certain I fell from grace. Or, it was taken away. I don’t really know. Have there been angels? I feel like it’s been a long time. I am so hungry. Is there more of this? This is awful. What is this?”
“Wait, you fell? Cas - what do you mean you fell? You mean, like, you’re human? Like Anna?”
“No wings,” Castiel shrugs, and he notices that the thought spoken aloud makes his voice crack. “And I just feel - different.”
“No mojo.”
“Empty. But also, distracted. I don’t know; it’s all very confusing. Is this starving, am I starving? I have watched this happen to people, but I had no idea. How awful. How awful.”
“Relax, for shit’s sake,” Dean says, but his eyes are sympathetic. “I’ll feed you, all right? Are you staying? Will you be here?”
“If you’re in agreement with this. Where the Winchesters are, so am I. As it seems.”
Dean’s eyes drop, and Castiel feels the tension manifest like a detonated explosive. He clutches fingers uncomfortably over the knees of his jeans. The white frayed edge of a torn hole catches on his fingers, and he pulls at it.
“Sorry,” Castiel says. “I don’t know - I’m lost.”
“Found your way here well enough,” Dean says, offering a tired smile. “We’ll figure it out. Clothes fit? Walk with me; we’ll grab something else to eat. Gotta get your strength back. We got work to do.”
Castiel feels it - a smile, his first in a long time. It feels natural, comfortable, and Dean returns it.