SPN FIC: Thursday
Title: Thursday
Spoilers: season 6
Genre: h/c, AU
Summary: Castiel didn’t come around much anymore.
Warnings: Spoilers and speculation for Season 6, broken!sam
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Author’s Note: I noticed a distinct lack of Castiel in the For Keeps ‘verse, so I tracked him down and asked him why he doesn’t come play, and he explained and it turned into this very short (like, 700 words) drabble. In the For Keeps timeline this installment takes place...well...you'll see.
It was the morning after and Dean was stiff and sore from sitting on the floor all night, curled protectively around Sam as his pained whimpers gave way to silent shudders. The sun was beginning to peek through the thin curtains and Dean’s voice was dry from overuse. He had been calling for Castiel since Sam stopped responding to him, but that was hours ago, and if it hadn’t been for Sam’s solid weight in his lap, against his chest, on his shoulder, Dean might have been inclined to throw a punch.
Or try to.
Or just threaten to, you know, to get his point across
.
He settled for growling, “So, what? Was the line busy?"
"There is nothing I could have done.” Castiel replied softly, kneeling gracefully before the tangle of blankets and limbs that was the Brothers Winchester. Only the very top of Sam’s head was visible, tucked securely beneath Dean’s chin, the rest of him hidden by the gaudy purple bedspread from Dean’s bed. Purple, with orange and brown flowers. Even Castiel, who was generally impartial to such mortal concerns, was put off by the ugly thing. He tilted his head, studied the lump that was Sam the way one might study a peculiar canvas or sculpture. “The wall-“
“It’s gone.”
“ And Sam?”
"Alive.”
“And?”
“Alive.”
Castiel leaned forward and moved to pull the blanket down. He paused and glanced up at Dean, “May I?”
Dean nodded wordlessly, shifted to rest his cheek against the top of Sam's head. He whispered, "Its okay, Sammy."
But it wasn't okay. Sam tensed in Dean’s arms as Castiel peeled the blanket away, like stripping a caterpillar of its cocoon far too early. He flinched when Castiel’s fingers trailed across his forehead, turned away and burrowed deeper into the safe spot against Dean’s collarbone. Castiel pressed two fingers against the crease between Sam’s brows and Sam shook, tried to jerk out of Castiel’s reach, tried to curl into something smaller than anything he could ever hope to be.
Dean pulled him back and Castiel pulled away, pulled his hand against his chest as though it had burned. Dean glared over Sam’s tangled hair, “What did you do?”
"Nothing.” Castiel shook his head, his expression one of pure devastation. “He can sense me.”
“Sense you?”
"That I am an angel.” A hand, then an arm, emerged from Sam’s nest. The hand tangled in Sam’s hair and tugged and Dean gently rubbed the wrist with his fingers, trying to make the fist release its grip.
“No offense, Cas, but I don’t think he likes it. ”
“He is terrified.” Castiel agreed, “He is waiting for me to hurt him.”
“Why would he…oh.”
“Yes.” Castiel rose to his feet, backed smoothly away from Sam’s broken form, Dean’s bad impression of glue, “Oh.”
Sam’s knuckles were white as his fingers twisted and scratched at his scalp. Dean pulled at them half-heartedly, “What are we supposed to do, Cas?”
Castiel couldn’t tell if Dean was referencing Sam’s newfound angel-phobia or the entire situation as a whole. It occurred to him that he had not been summoned so fervently so that he may ask questions, but so that he could answer them. He tried to address both concerns, to, what was it Bobby said once? Cover all his bases. Castiel’s uncertainty must have shown through in the way he stammered uncharacteristically, because Dean didn’t say anything for awhile afterwards, and when Castiel departed, a little bit later, but still well before afternoon, it was a long time before Dean called him again.
“Perhaps…perhaps with time….”
Spoilers: season 6
Genre: h/c, AU
Summary: Castiel didn’t come around much anymore.
Warnings: Spoilers and speculation for Season 6, broken!sam
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Author’s Note: I noticed a distinct lack of Castiel in the For Keeps ‘verse, so I tracked him down and asked him why he doesn’t come play, and he explained and it turned into this very short (like, 700 words) drabble. In the For Keeps timeline this installment takes place...well...you'll see.
It was the morning after and Dean was stiff and sore from sitting on the floor all night, curled protectively around Sam as his pained whimpers gave way to silent shudders. The sun was beginning to peek through the thin curtains and Dean’s voice was dry from overuse. He had been calling for Castiel since Sam stopped responding to him, but that was hours ago, and if it hadn’t been for Sam’s solid weight in his lap, against his chest, on his shoulder, Dean might have been inclined to throw a punch.
Or try to.
Or just threaten to, you know, to get his point across
.
He settled for growling, “So, what? Was the line busy?"
"There is nothing I could have done.” Castiel replied softly, kneeling gracefully before the tangle of blankets and limbs that was the Brothers Winchester. Only the very top of Sam’s head was visible, tucked securely beneath Dean’s chin, the rest of him hidden by the gaudy purple bedspread from Dean’s bed. Purple, with orange and brown flowers. Even Castiel, who was generally impartial to such mortal concerns, was put off by the ugly thing. He tilted his head, studied the lump that was Sam the way one might study a peculiar canvas or sculpture. “The wall-“
“It’s gone.”
“ And Sam?”
"Alive.”
“And?”
“Alive.”
Castiel leaned forward and moved to pull the blanket down. He paused and glanced up at Dean, “May I?”
Dean nodded wordlessly, shifted to rest his cheek against the top of Sam's head. He whispered, "Its okay, Sammy."
But it wasn't okay. Sam tensed in Dean’s arms as Castiel peeled the blanket away, like stripping a caterpillar of its cocoon far too early. He flinched when Castiel’s fingers trailed across his forehead, turned away and burrowed deeper into the safe spot against Dean’s collarbone. Castiel pressed two fingers against the crease between Sam’s brows and Sam shook, tried to jerk out of Castiel’s reach, tried to curl into something smaller than anything he could ever hope to be.
Dean pulled him back and Castiel pulled away, pulled his hand against his chest as though it had burned. Dean glared over Sam’s tangled hair, “What did you do?”
"Nothing.” Castiel shook his head, his expression one of pure devastation. “He can sense me.”
“Sense you?”
"That I am an angel.” A hand, then an arm, emerged from Sam’s nest. The hand tangled in Sam’s hair and tugged and Dean gently rubbed the wrist with his fingers, trying to make the fist release its grip.
“No offense, Cas, but I don’t think he likes it. ”
“He is terrified.” Castiel agreed, “He is waiting for me to hurt him.”
“Why would he…oh.”
“Yes.” Castiel rose to his feet, backed smoothly away from Sam’s broken form, Dean’s bad impression of glue, “Oh.”
Sam’s knuckles were white as his fingers twisted and scratched at his scalp. Dean pulled at them half-heartedly, “What are we supposed to do, Cas?”
Castiel couldn’t tell if Dean was referencing Sam’s newfound angel-phobia or the entire situation as a whole. It occurred to him that he had not been summoned so fervently so that he may ask questions, but so that he could answer them. He tried to address both concerns, to, what was it Bobby said once? Cover all his bases. Castiel’s uncertainty must have shown through in the way he stammered uncharacteristically, because Dean didn’t say anything for awhile afterwards, and when Castiel departed, a little bit later, but still well before afternoon, it was a long time before Dean called him again.
“Perhaps…perhaps with time….”