from the inside out, SPN fic.
Title: From the inside, out.
Characters: Castiel, Dean, Sam.
Spoilers: There's nothing specific, but I guess it's post 4x22.
Rating: PG13.
AN: All that’s left is everything.
You sit in the back seat of the Impala, blunt fingernails dug into the seat. Sam is paying for gas [ding-dongs, flavoured milk and you know what I mean by reading material, Sammy, don’t make me say it in front of the angel]. Dean is fiddling with a knife and singing under his breath.
“Cas?”
“Yes?”
“Nothin’.” Dean looks at you, through the rear view mirror. You don’t have to look up, to know. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the words to the song.”
Dean hides his laughter, tucked in behind a snuffle. You turn your head to him, to hear better. “Right, but. I thought you might have more dumbass questions stored. What’s that smell, how much wood would a woodchuck chuck, who is the Pillsbury Dough Boy?”
“I believe you already answered the last.”
“There’s nothing going on? You know.” Dean points his knife to the ceiling. “At the top floor?”
You sit and contemplate. It’s hot, the seat is slippery, your boots are scuffing marks on the carpet. Dean will yell, later. Sam will buy him pie. You will say sorry, and you will mean it.
“I don’t believe so. At least, nothing that should worry us here.”
You know the things Dean wants to ask. He’s asked before. Do you want to go back, can’t we help you get back, what’s going on, why are you still here? This time though, he nods. A smirk ghosts over his face. You see it. “Okay. Good.”
Sam returns; a loud creak and slam of the door, a shuffle and pop of paper and plastic. Dean holds up a magazine, the word TIME splashed across the front in red. He frowns, one, two, three curved lines in his forehead. “You’re funny, Sam. A regular Bob Hope.”
“You said reading material.” Unlike his brother, Sam does not hide his smirk.
Dean throws the magazine over his shoulder. It nests with all the other rubbish you stopped taking care of. “So, Spencer, Tennessee,” Dean says, turning the key in the ignition. You feel the car rumble, up through your feet and into your stomach. It’s a close feeling, like skin and life. “Population 1,713.”
You buckle your belt. Sam takes out his laptop. “Not forgetting the Troll with a fetish for cat ladies,” he says, glancing at Dean. Dean, who hasn’t left him.
Them.
“Right. Population 1,714.”
“I don’t like cats.” You say it because it’s true, but mostly because you can.
Dean laughs, surprised, but Sam throws a worried look over his shoulder. “Everything okay?” he asks Dean.
“Sure, Sammy. Ding dongs, milk, a four page spread on the Life and Times of Barack Obama. We’re zen.”
Dean pulls out onto the highway. You wind the window down, one turn, two turn, enough so that it hits against your eyelids. You feel cold and it warms you. You listen to Sam and Dean, the ebb and flow of their talking, water and air and cloud. You listen and listen and listen.
“It’s quiet,” you say to yourself.
You’ve heard that’s what peace on earth sounds like.
Characters: Castiel, Dean, Sam.
Spoilers: There's nothing specific, but I guess it's post 4x22.
Rating: PG13.
AN: All that’s left is everything.
You sit in the back seat of the Impala, blunt fingernails dug into the seat. Sam is paying for gas [ding-dongs, flavoured milk and you know what I mean by reading material, Sammy, don’t make me say it in front of the angel]. Dean is fiddling with a knife and singing under his breath.
“Cas?”
“Yes?”
“Nothin’.” Dean looks at you, through the rear view mirror. You don’t have to look up, to know. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the words to the song.”
Dean hides his laughter, tucked in behind a snuffle. You turn your head to him, to hear better. “Right, but. I thought you might have more dumbass questions stored. What’s that smell, how much wood would a woodchuck chuck, who is the Pillsbury Dough Boy?”
“I believe you already answered the last.”
“There’s nothing going on? You know.” Dean points his knife to the ceiling. “At the top floor?”
You sit and contemplate. It’s hot, the seat is slippery, your boots are scuffing marks on the carpet. Dean will yell, later. Sam will buy him pie. You will say sorry, and you will mean it.
“I don’t believe so. At least, nothing that should worry us here.”
You know the things Dean wants to ask. He’s asked before. Do you want to go back, can’t we help you get back, what’s going on, why are you still here? This time though, he nods. A smirk ghosts over his face. You see it. “Okay. Good.”
Sam returns; a loud creak and slam of the door, a shuffle and pop of paper and plastic. Dean holds up a magazine, the word TIME splashed across the front in red. He frowns, one, two, three curved lines in his forehead. “You’re funny, Sam. A regular Bob Hope.”
“You said reading material.” Unlike his brother, Sam does not hide his smirk.
Dean throws the magazine over his shoulder. It nests with all the other rubbish you stopped taking care of. “So, Spencer, Tennessee,” Dean says, turning the key in the ignition. You feel the car rumble, up through your feet and into your stomach. It’s a close feeling, like skin and life. “Population 1,713.”
You buckle your belt. Sam takes out his laptop. “Not forgetting the Troll with a fetish for cat ladies,” he says, glancing at Dean. Dean, who hasn’t left him.
Them.
“Right. Population 1,714.”
“I don’t like cats.” You say it because it’s true, but mostly because you can.
Dean laughs, surprised, but Sam throws a worried look over his shoulder. “Everything okay?” he asks Dean.
“Sure, Sammy. Ding dongs, milk, a four page spread on the Life and Times of Barack Obama. We’re zen.”
Dean pulls out onto the highway. You wind the window down, one turn, two turn, enough so that it hits against your eyelids. You feel cold and it warms you. You listen to Sam and Dean, the ebb and flow of their talking, water and air and cloud. You listen and listen and listen.
“It’s quiet,” you say to yourself.
You’ve heard that’s what peace on earth sounds like.