FILLED: Untitled - Dean, Cas, Sam; gen; PTSD; non-specific spoilers for 8.17; part 2/4spitsparksMarch 30 2013, 07:37:28 UTC
“Hey, man,” he says, because he's not not pleased to see him, “what's shaking?”
Castiel frowns a bit and replies, “You summoned me. I should be asking you … what's shaking.”
Dean chuckles. “Please. Please always ask me that.”
He settles himself on the motel bed, thinks, See, I can do this, and lifts his chin in Sam's direction: shoot. Their current hunt's proving a substantial bitch, and they're pretty much banking on Cas providing a celestial knowledge-drop. Sam's even written out and numbered a series of questions he wants answered, something Dean was fully prepared to mock him about until he realised that Sam never used to do that. His brother's not acting like heir to the nerd throne because he wants to - he's writing stuff down because he needs to remember things properly to make connections. It makes Dean cold to think about the way Sam's changing, and he distracts himself by picking furiously at a splotch of mud caked into his jeans.
“Dude, are you even listening?”
Dean jerks, head coming up to meet Sam's gaze. His brother's crammed into a table and chair by the window, knees ridiculously hunched, and he's taken a break from scribbling to call Dean out, though his expression is leaning more towards worry than annoyance.
“I'm listening,” says Dean, “sorry. Something about a spell, right? Hocus pocus, et cetera. Newts! Someone mentioned newts.”
Sam's radiating full on worry now, but it's Castiel who speaks up.
“You're incorrect, Dean. Nobody mentioned newts. Do you feel all right?”
He's across the room before Dean has a chance to react, still a foot away, but closer than Dean's allowed him since … Too close, that's the point. Too close and too tall like this, blue eyes unreadably lit.
Dean shoots upright just as Castiel reaches out to touch his face. The angel's hand catches his shoulder accidentally and Dean stumbles, grabs instinctively at the nearest thing … at Castiel, whose eyes are perfectly normal and painfully decipherable.
“Sorry,” Dean mutters, meaning it, before he lets go and wipes at the sweat that's broken out on his forehead. “You guys are nearly done, right? I've gotta take a leak, so, till next time, yeah? Stay frosty, Cas.”
Sam's and Cas's joint voices strike his back, but he closes the bathroom door against them, hangs over the sink. His reflection, when he bullies himself into meeting it, is pale and pathetically wide open.
“Get your crap together, Dean,” he whispers to himself. “The hell's wrong with you?”
“I think I know.”
Dean practically melts, legs shaking unreliably. Breathing hard, he glares in the mirror at Castiel, who is watching him carefully.
FILLED: Untitled - Dean, Cas, Sam; gen; PTSD; non-specific spoilers for 8.17; part 3/4spitsparksMarch 30 2013, 07:40:48 UTC
“You're afraid I'll hurt you again. I don't blame you. But Dean, you were right when you said it wasn't me. It wasn't. I won't harm you.”
Palms showing as if he's approaching a wounded animal, Castiel steps up to Dean's side. Dean blinks rapidly and ducks his head, but not before he sees the dejected look his reaction causes. Guiltily, he forces his body to stillness, sucks thinly at the air. A moment passes, two, and then Castiel's warm fingers wrap his nape. The touch is brief, followed instantly by the flap of departing wings.
“Dean?” Sam's knock is tentative. “When you're ready, man, we, uh, we got a lead.”
“I'm ready.”
Dean throws open the door, pushes gently past Sam and starts throwing together equipment. He can feel Sam's eyes on him, but his brother says nothing, just skims a hand across Dean's back before starting to gather his own things.
-
Cas flutters in with annoying regularity after that. Sometimes Sam is around, other times he's not, but every time Dean flinches slightly and every time Cas pretends stoically not to notice. It's worse when Sam's not there and Castiel seems to realise that, reserves his touches for the occasions the younger hunter is in spitting distance.
That's the other thing he's doing - touching. All the goddamn time. Little grazes of his arm against Dean's, lingering contact when he passes things or takes them from Dean's hands. Dean swears Sam keeps placing his beer just out of reach, allowing Cas the opportunity to beatifically slide it over.
One time, Cas even holds Dean's jacket for him while he slips into it. Sam giggles at that one. Bitch.
Dean feels weak and idiotic, but nobody's calling him on it, in fact, nobody's explicitly addressing anything they're doing. Dean hates that he's their focus (Sam should be, stupid world), but he thinks maybe it's helping.
Their hunt's dragging, but he still manages to take a header down a flight of stairs during a routine interview. The upside is he doesn't start to shake 'til Cas heals the break in his left arm, and that's only because he's fallen to his knees with pain and the angel's standing over him.
-
“Dean, hey, hey, you gotta wake up, okay? You gotta come back. DEAN.”
It's easier to stay where he is, leaden and swallowed by black, but Sam's voice is insistent. Dean wages war against his heavy eyelids, battles until Sam's shaggy head swims into view. He can't help the sharp groan that leaves his lips and his head drops back, thunks against … a tree? The hunt. He remembers now. Deep, deep in the forest. Freakin' mother of an idea.
“Look at me, Dean. C'mon, you can do it.”
Sam face is tight with panic, and Dean wants badly to reassure him. He tries to trace the collar of Sam's jacket but only succeeds in lolling forwards, stares confusedly at the spread of Sam's hands across his stomach and the bright red ribbons that keep bursting through.
FILLED: Untitled - Dean, Cas, Sam; gen; PTSD; non-specific spoilers for 8.17; part 4/4spitsparksMarch 30 2013, 07:42:44 UTC
“Dean, I have to call Cas, okay, and you're already in shock, that's why I'm telling you. I'm gonna call Cas and I'll stay right here while he heals you, all right? Dean.”
“Hmm,” Dean slurs, “s'okay, Sammy.”
“I'm right here, bro, I'm right -”
He fades out again, stirs wetly at the sound of crunching leaves. A figure kneels beside him, murmurs something in a low, familiar rumble. A palm rests against his cheek.
“Easy,” Sam hisses from somewhere to his right, but Dean doesn't flinch. The touch is cool and dry, nothing to be afraid of. He turns into it, mouth opening soundlessly.
Grace fills him.
He must pass out, because when he wakes Sam is a few metres away adding sticks to a rotten-smelling fire, and Cas - Cas is next to him, still cradling his face. He smiles when Dean doesn't move, waits quietly for him to blink away the disorienting crawl of near-death.
Re: FILLED: Untitled - Dean, Cas, Sam; gen; PTSD; non-specific spoilers for 8.17; part 4/4geckoholicMarch 30 2013, 13:35:03 UTC
Ohhh. :D This was great, and I adore your Dean voice. Also, this made me giggle: “Hey, hey, not that one,” says Sam, snatching an obit out of Dean's hands. “Or that one. Dean, wow, quit being useful.” Hehe.
Re: FILLED: Untitled - Dean, Cas, Sam; gen; PTSD; non-specific spoilers for 8.17; part 4/4nad_no_ennasSeptember 15 2013, 02:24:28 UTC
I think this is one of my favorite Dean/Cas fics ~ever~. I'd wondered how Dean and Cas' relationship would have been affected by the beating, and this is the perfect response. Thank you so much!!
Castiel frowns a bit and replies, “You summoned me. I should be asking you … what's shaking.”
Dean chuckles. “Please. Please always ask me that.”
He settles himself on the motel bed, thinks, See, I can do this, and lifts his chin in Sam's direction: shoot. Their current hunt's proving a substantial bitch, and they're pretty much banking on Cas providing a celestial knowledge-drop. Sam's even written out and numbered a series of questions he wants answered, something Dean was fully prepared to mock him about until he realised that Sam never used to do that. His brother's not acting like heir to the nerd throne because he wants to - he's writing stuff down because he needs to remember things properly to make connections. It makes Dean cold to think about the way Sam's changing, and he distracts himself by picking furiously at a splotch of mud caked into his jeans.
“Dude, are you even listening?”
Dean jerks, head coming up to meet Sam's gaze. His brother's crammed into a table and chair by the window, knees ridiculously hunched, and he's taken a break from scribbling to call Dean out, though his expression is leaning more towards worry than annoyance.
“I'm listening,” says Dean, “sorry. Something about a spell, right? Hocus pocus, et cetera. Newts! Someone mentioned newts.”
Sam's radiating full on worry now, but it's Castiel who speaks up.
“You're incorrect, Dean. Nobody mentioned newts. Do you feel all right?”
He's across the room before Dean has a chance to react, still a foot away, but closer than Dean's allowed him since … Too close, that's the point. Too close and too tall like this, blue eyes unreadably lit.
Dean shoots upright just as Castiel reaches out to touch his face. The angel's hand catches his shoulder accidentally and Dean stumbles, grabs instinctively at the nearest thing … at Castiel, whose eyes are perfectly normal and painfully decipherable.
“Sorry,” Dean mutters, meaning it, before he lets go and wipes at the sweat that's broken out on his forehead. “You guys are nearly done, right? I've gotta take a leak, so, till next time, yeah? Stay frosty, Cas.”
Sam's and Cas's joint voices strike his back, but he closes the bathroom door against them, hangs over the sink. His reflection, when he bullies himself into meeting it, is pale and pathetically wide open.
“Get your crap together, Dean,” he whispers to himself. “The hell's wrong with you?”
“I think I know.”
Dean practically melts, legs shaking unreliably. Breathing hard, he glares in the mirror at Castiel, who is watching him carefully.
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Palms showing as if he's approaching a wounded animal, Castiel steps up to Dean's side. Dean blinks rapidly and ducks his head, but not before he sees the dejected look his reaction causes. Guiltily, he forces his body to stillness, sucks thinly at the air. A moment passes, two, and then Castiel's warm fingers wrap his nape. The touch is brief, followed instantly by the flap of departing wings.
“Dean?” Sam's knock is tentative. “When you're ready, man, we, uh, we got a lead.”
“I'm ready.”
Dean throws open the door, pushes gently past Sam and starts throwing together equipment. He can feel Sam's eyes on him, but his brother says nothing, just skims a hand across Dean's back before starting to gather his own things.
-
Cas flutters in with annoying regularity after that. Sometimes Sam is around, other times he's not, but every time Dean flinches slightly and every time Cas pretends stoically not to notice. It's worse when Sam's not there and Castiel seems to realise that, reserves his touches for the occasions the younger hunter is in spitting distance.
That's the other thing he's doing - touching. All the goddamn time. Little grazes of his arm against Dean's, lingering contact when he passes things or takes them from Dean's hands. Dean swears Sam keeps placing his beer just out of reach, allowing Cas the opportunity to beatifically slide it over.
One time, Cas even holds Dean's jacket for him while he slips into it. Sam giggles at that one. Bitch.
Dean feels weak and idiotic, but nobody's calling him on it, in fact, nobody's explicitly addressing anything they're doing. Dean hates that he's their focus (Sam should be, stupid world), but he thinks maybe it's helping.
Their hunt's dragging, but he still manages to take a header down a flight of stairs during a routine interview. The upside is he doesn't start to shake 'til Cas heals the break in his left arm, and that's only because he's fallen to his knees with pain and the angel's standing over him.
-
“Dean, hey, hey, you gotta wake up, okay? You gotta come back. DEAN.”
It's easier to stay where he is, leaden and swallowed by black, but Sam's voice is insistent. Dean wages war against his heavy eyelids, battles until Sam's shaggy head swims into view. He can't help the sharp groan that leaves his lips and his head drops back, thunks against … a tree? The hunt. He remembers now. Deep, deep in the forest. Freakin' mother of an idea.
“Look at me, Dean. C'mon, you can do it.”
Sam face is tight with panic, and Dean wants badly to reassure him. He tries to trace the collar of Sam's jacket but only succeeds in lolling forwards, stares confusedly at the spread of Sam's hands across his stomach and the bright red ribbons that keep bursting through.
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“Hmm,” Dean slurs, “s'okay, Sammy.”
“I'm right here, bro, I'm right -”
He fades out again, stirs wetly at the sound of crunching leaves. A figure kneels beside him, murmurs something in a low, familiar rumble. A palm rests against his cheek.
“Easy,” Sam hisses from somewhere to his right, but Dean doesn't flinch. The touch is cool and dry, nothing to be afraid of. He turns into it, mouth opening soundlessly.
Grace fills him.
He must pass out, because when he wakes Sam is a few metres away adding sticks to a rotten-smelling fire, and Cas - Cas is next to him, still cradling his face. He smiles when Dean doesn't move, waits quietly for him to blink away the disorienting crawl of near-death.
“Hey,” says Dean, gravelly and tired.
“Hello, Dean,” says Cas. “What's shaking?”
END.
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