(no subject)
Ficlet: Unfinished Dean/Cas AU
Summary: I started working on a slash fic, for old time's sake...don't know if I'll ever finish it though. But so far I have a little over 1200 words. I may or may not do more with it, depending.
Stay
He said, “Sh. Cas, Shh.”
Cas pushed. Dean’s fingers nearly met the inside of his arm and the little letter opener spilled out of his hand onto the floor with a bright noise. Dean choked and stumbled and Cas grabbed his shoulder, pivoted the larger man, shifted his grip on Dean’s arm and wrenched it back and up. Dean’s knees buckled and Cas forced him down. Dean’s free hand clawed at the floor and he made a small, agonized sound.
“Stop stop oh God please…”
Cas eased up, just a little, enough to let Dean catch his breath. But he wasn’t letting go. Not yet.
“Calm down, Dean,” he murmured, and Dean scrabbled at the floor again. “You’ll be okay. Everything will be fine. Settle down. Come on.”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, coughed out something like a moan, and turned his head to press his face against the worn floorboards. He shuddered, his spine and ribcage trembling, not with tears or grief but with something more like fear, or nausea. Sickness.
“It’s my fault,” he managed, when Cas finally relented enough to allow him to roll over, and pulled him partway off the floor, resting Dean’s head in his lap. “Mine.”
“No, Dean,” Cas said as gently as he could. “It’s really, really not.”
He collected Dean’s hands and held them, loosely clasped between his own. There was no blood, at least. Dean hadn’t had time to do any real damage to himself. Cas ran his thumb over the bones of Dean’s left hand and resisted the urge to bite his own lip.
The letter opener lay on the floor, forgotten.
--
“I want you to stay here,” Cas said, in the morning sunlight, when Dean turned his head and looked him fully in the face. “I don’t want you to go back out…there.”
Dean’s eyes were washed out in the light, pale and clear.
“I need to find Sam,” he said, lips barely moving. His body lay still beneath the blanket, curled up on the floor beside the sofa. Cas hadn’t managed to get him to sleep on a bed.
“Dean,” he said softly, “Stay. For a little while.” So you don’t get sick again. So I know where you are. “I-we’ll look for Sam, okay? Together. But just…you need to rest.”
Dean’s lips parted in a small smile, and he blinked slowly.
His face was gentle in the light, the ravages of illness smoothed away, the hard planes of hunger and rough living softened. Cas didn’t know how old Dean actually was, but he suspected, in moments like this, that he was several years his junior. Grief and solitude and addiction had carved lines too deep to be erased by any amount of care, but there were times, like now, when the echo of the man he might have been showed through clearly, and Cas struggled to swallow his fury over the injustice of the world.
“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean said, still lying on the floor, apparently content to remain so for the moment. “You don’t have to take care of me.”
And he was probably a little out of it with the remnants of fever and lack of solid food and the last vestiges of sleep still clinging to his mind and that was why Cas didn’t allow himself to be hurt, or permit any reaction to show on his face.
Instead he said, “You should sleep on the sofa,” and allowed himself a small smile when Dean rolled his eyes.
“Can’t. Feels wrong. ‘Fraid I’ll roll over an’ suffocate.”
“You won’t suffocate. No one experiences ‘sudden couch death’. Dean.”
He grinned up at Cas, and seemed so young.
“Come on.” Cas gave his shoulder a little shake, climbing to his own feet and nudging Dean along. “Let’s see if we can’t get some real food into you.”
Dean frowned and sat up, rubbing at his eyes and pushing a hand down his face. His hair was crazy-again-and Cas knew he’d have to take some time to try to make some sense out of it now that Dean was on the mend. He’d half-jokingly suggested buzzing it off completely in the past, but Dean’s outraged squawk had been enough to put the kibosh on that idea.
He let Cas get him situated on the sofa, listing a little and face draining of color as he was manhandled.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
Dean shifted restlessly, blinked at Cas, looked away.
“Can’t remember.”
Cas bit back a sigh. “You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I was looking for Sam.”
“I know you were.” He pushed him back, not ungently, against the sofa cushions “I know. You should have gone to the shelter. If you were sick, I mean.” He didn’t say, You could have come to me.
You should have come to me.
Dean shook his head. “Been sick for a while.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Forgot about it.”
Cas thinned his lips. “Forgot about the shelter? Or that you were sick?”
Dean looked at him, briefly, then away, gaze skittering off his face to rest on the wall as if Cas were of less consequence than the play of sunlight over the off-white paint, which was probably in some way the case.
“I was looking for Sam,” Dean said again, voice a little hollow. Cas shut his eyes briefly, and sighed.
“Don’t think about that now,” Cas said finally, patting Dean lightly on the side of the face, forcing his attention back to the conversation. It was Cas’ fault for bringing it up, and he couldn’t afford to let Dean get mired in the memory of the last few weeks. Not now. When Dean was stronger, maybe. When he could talk about it without getting lost. “I’ll make you some coffee. Think you could handle some toast?”
Dean grimaced but shrugged noncommittally and Cas let a small smile quirk his lips and headed into the kitchen. The coffee was made already and he was back in moments with a heavy ceramic mug half full of the all-powerful drug caffeine. Dean had pushed back further into the sofa, eyes half-closed, head tilted a little to the side. He didn’t stir until Cas rapped him on the shoulder with a knuckle.
“Drink this,” Cas instructed briskly, pushing the mug into his hands. Dean, after a blank moment, shook himself and wrenched his gaze back to the hot beverage, wrapping his too-thin fingers around the ceramic and sipping, eyes sliding closed in something very like bliss.
“Ah-God, it’s been…I don’t even know.”
Cas smiled and repeated his earlier inquiry.
“Do you think you could manage some toast? Some dry toast?”
Dean hummed, clearly lost in a haze of caffeinated ecstasy, and Cas wondered if he’d even heard the question.
___________________________________________
Note: I may still try to make this into something complete. I don't know. I have a pretty good idea of a structure, but I want it to be less than 5000 words and I'm afraid what I'm thinking of now is much, much too long. So we'll see.
Summary: I started working on a slash fic, for old time's sake...don't know if I'll ever finish it though. But so far I have a little over 1200 words. I may or may not do more with it, depending.
Stay
He said, “Sh. Cas, Shh.”
Cas pushed. Dean’s fingers nearly met the inside of his arm and the little letter opener spilled out of his hand onto the floor with a bright noise. Dean choked and stumbled and Cas grabbed his shoulder, pivoted the larger man, shifted his grip on Dean’s arm and wrenched it back and up. Dean’s knees buckled and Cas forced him down. Dean’s free hand clawed at the floor and he made a small, agonized sound.
“Stop stop oh God please…”
Cas eased up, just a little, enough to let Dean catch his breath. But he wasn’t letting go. Not yet.
“Calm down, Dean,” he murmured, and Dean scrabbled at the floor again. “You’ll be okay. Everything will be fine. Settle down. Come on.”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, coughed out something like a moan, and turned his head to press his face against the worn floorboards. He shuddered, his spine and ribcage trembling, not with tears or grief but with something more like fear, or nausea. Sickness.
“It’s my fault,” he managed, when Cas finally relented enough to allow him to roll over, and pulled him partway off the floor, resting Dean’s head in his lap. “Mine.”
“No, Dean,” Cas said as gently as he could. “It’s really, really not.”
He collected Dean’s hands and held them, loosely clasped between his own. There was no blood, at least. Dean hadn’t had time to do any real damage to himself. Cas ran his thumb over the bones of Dean’s left hand and resisted the urge to bite his own lip.
The letter opener lay on the floor, forgotten.
--
“I want you to stay here,” Cas said, in the morning sunlight, when Dean turned his head and looked him fully in the face. “I don’t want you to go back out…there.”
Dean’s eyes were washed out in the light, pale and clear.
“I need to find Sam,” he said, lips barely moving. His body lay still beneath the blanket, curled up on the floor beside the sofa. Cas hadn’t managed to get him to sleep on a bed.
“Dean,” he said softly, “Stay. For a little while.” So you don’t get sick again. So I know where you are. “I-we’ll look for Sam, okay? Together. But just…you need to rest.”
Dean’s lips parted in a small smile, and he blinked slowly.
His face was gentle in the light, the ravages of illness smoothed away, the hard planes of hunger and rough living softened. Cas didn’t know how old Dean actually was, but he suspected, in moments like this, that he was several years his junior. Grief and solitude and addiction had carved lines too deep to be erased by any amount of care, but there were times, like now, when the echo of the man he might have been showed through clearly, and Cas struggled to swallow his fury over the injustice of the world.
“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean said, still lying on the floor, apparently content to remain so for the moment. “You don’t have to take care of me.”
And he was probably a little out of it with the remnants of fever and lack of solid food and the last vestiges of sleep still clinging to his mind and that was why Cas didn’t allow himself to be hurt, or permit any reaction to show on his face.
Instead he said, “You should sleep on the sofa,” and allowed himself a small smile when Dean rolled his eyes.
“Can’t. Feels wrong. ‘Fraid I’ll roll over an’ suffocate.”
“You won’t suffocate. No one experiences ‘sudden couch death’. Dean.”
He grinned up at Cas, and seemed so young.
“Come on.” Cas gave his shoulder a little shake, climbing to his own feet and nudging Dean along. “Let’s see if we can’t get some real food into you.”
Dean frowned and sat up, rubbing at his eyes and pushing a hand down his face. His hair was crazy-again-and Cas knew he’d have to take some time to try to make some sense out of it now that Dean was on the mend. He’d half-jokingly suggested buzzing it off completely in the past, but Dean’s outraged squawk had been enough to put the kibosh on that idea.
He let Cas get him situated on the sofa, listing a little and face draining of color as he was manhandled.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
Dean shifted restlessly, blinked at Cas, looked away.
“Can’t remember.”
Cas bit back a sigh. “You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I was looking for Sam.”
“I know you were.” He pushed him back, not ungently, against the sofa cushions “I know. You should have gone to the shelter. If you were sick, I mean.” He didn’t say, You could have come to me.
You should have come to me.
Dean shook his head. “Been sick for a while.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Forgot about it.”
Cas thinned his lips. “Forgot about the shelter? Or that you were sick?”
Dean looked at him, briefly, then away, gaze skittering off his face to rest on the wall as if Cas were of less consequence than the play of sunlight over the off-white paint, which was probably in some way the case.
“I was looking for Sam,” Dean said again, voice a little hollow. Cas shut his eyes briefly, and sighed.
“Don’t think about that now,” Cas said finally, patting Dean lightly on the side of the face, forcing his attention back to the conversation. It was Cas’ fault for bringing it up, and he couldn’t afford to let Dean get mired in the memory of the last few weeks. Not now. When Dean was stronger, maybe. When he could talk about it without getting lost. “I’ll make you some coffee. Think you could handle some toast?”
Dean grimaced but shrugged noncommittally and Cas let a small smile quirk his lips and headed into the kitchen. The coffee was made already and he was back in moments with a heavy ceramic mug half full of the all-powerful drug caffeine. Dean had pushed back further into the sofa, eyes half-closed, head tilted a little to the side. He didn’t stir until Cas rapped him on the shoulder with a knuckle.
“Drink this,” Cas instructed briskly, pushing the mug into his hands. Dean, after a blank moment, shook himself and wrenched his gaze back to the hot beverage, wrapping his too-thin fingers around the ceramic and sipping, eyes sliding closed in something very like bliss.
“Ah-God, it’s been…I don’t even know.”
Cas smiled and repeated his earlier inquiry.
“Do you think you could manage some toast? Some dry toast?”
Dean hummed, clearly lost in a haze of caffeinated ecstasy, and Cas wondered if he’d even heard the question.
___________________________________________
Note: I may still try to make this into something complete. I don't know. I have a pretty good idea of a structure, but I want it to be less than 5000 words and I'm afraid what I'm thinking of now is much, much too long. So we'll see.