748. it's always darkest before dawn
HURT & COMFORT RP [EXPANDED 2.0]
Hurt/Comfort - Hurt/comfort is a fan fiction genre that involves the physical pain or emotional distress of one character, who is cared for by another character. The injury, sickness or other kind of hurt allows an exploration of the characters and their relationship.
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Move out- Shut up, voice in his head. Reasonable, sensible voice. If it were anybody else coming up to him, asking him for advice on the situation, that would be his solution. Move out, get away from it, stop subjecting yourself to something that's never gonna happen, you're just going to stretch it out and make it worse, and then it'll hurt in the end when it all comes crashing down. People spend years flopping around over other people. Dean is not one of those people.
He just... happens to be very bad at letting people go. That doesn't mean it's the same thing.]
Touche.
[The look he shoots Cas at the question can't even really be put into words- Are you seriously asking me if I, Dean Winchester, want a cup of tea? He decides to let the look do all the sarcasm for him, and falls back on a nicer response.]
No, thank you. Think I'll pass on that.
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Suit yourself.
[He steps back inside, padding as silently as possible over to the kitchen to turn the water on. Turn your nose up all you want, Dean. Tea is amazing.
He turns the coffee pot on, too, because he's awesome like that and is pretty sure Dean's gonna need to up his intake at least threefold to survive the day; there's nothing shittier than being exhausted at work.
Shivering slightly, he decides that now is probably a good time to get a shirt or a hoodie or a maybe even snowsuit. Meandering back into his room- quietly, so that he doesn't wake the sleeping ball of energized death curled up on the couch- he digs up one of his thickest shirts and a sweater best described as a drug rug; from Mexico- he's really into the whole authenticity thing. He also tugs on a pair of fluffy woven socks-- grandma image be damned, it's fucking cold. Satisfied that that the threat of freezing to death has now been dealt with, he makes his way back into the kitchen, tiptoeing past the couch to lean against the counter with a sigh.
There's a choice to be made here: bring Dean some coffee and leave, go inside and smoke a bowl or two, or take his wonderful, warm, soothing tea and sit out there with him until he either talks, comes inside, or pushes him off the fire escape. Whichever comes first.
Who's he kidding? Of course he's gonna sit out there with him. He's curious, of course, he's no saint, but more than that he's actually kind of worried. If it'd been about Sam, Dean probably would have said something... Maybe Bobby or Ellen? He really doesn't know. It's not that he's privy to every detail of Dean's life, but they're friends and they live together so he imagines if it was something important he'd tell him. He hopes he'd tell him, anyway. Aside from one or two glaring examples to the contrary- namely the nature of his feelings and the shady-ass trips to attempt to reconcile with his family- he's been straight with Dean. So he's a bit of a hypocrite... Who isn't?
Maybe he's reading too much into it. Maybe he's just too tired to sleep.
Maybe he met some girl.
Fuck.
The teapot starts screeching as if on cue to the undeniable twinge of (unreasonable) jealousy, and he switches it off quickly, eyes darting over to the couch where Colt's still happily asleep, snuffling into his paws. Crisis averted, he drops a teabag into his mug and fills it, pushing it off to the side to steep while he screws around with the coffee machine. It's one of those fancy ones with too many dials and buttons and blinking lights... So complicated, tea is so much easier to deal with...
He figures it out eventually though, and after a few minutes of digging around looking for sugar- because he knows that's how Dean takes it and if he's gonna play maid he's gonna do it right, dammit- the coffee's done, his tea's done and he heads out to the fire escape with both, stepping into his shoes as he goes. He knocks on the window frame as he steps outside.]
Room service.
[He extends the coffee to Dean and settles himself against the railing.]
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He knows that's not the case. Hell, he probably knew when he brought Colt home- he hasn't been making a friendship, he's been making a family. He's been bedding down, setting up ties, staking his claim. Roping Cas in with more and more connections in the hopes that he wouldn't be able to disentangle himself. A dog- a mutual dog- a puppy. God, if he moves out, who gets the dog? Cas loves that dog. He loves that dog. Stupid fucking god damn dog.
And then, god bless him, Cas comes back out wearing the ugliest fucking sweater he's ever seen, in those ugly fucking socks, with tousled hair and a cup of coffee, and Dean just wants to dip him low like in the diner and kiss him until he drops that mug and it falls however many stories to the ground and shatters in an alley.
He accepts it. Drinks it. It's perfect. That's just... there's no question to it, Cas knows him so well, he knows how to make Dean's perfect cup of coffee.
He fights down the pain in his chest, because that cup of coffee is just... it's like pulling the trigger.]
I think I should move out.
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He's about to comment on the view, just to cut the tense silence that he's only just noticing, but then Dean saves him the trouble while simultaneously causing his stomach to drop to somewhere around his knees.
Did he hear that right? Because he thinks Dean's just said I think I should move out, but that can't be right, it just-- What.]
What? Why?
[He has to have heard him wrong. Everything's been going so well, they get along, neither of them has burned the place down yet, as far as he know the rent's covered... They have a puppy for fuck's sake.
This is so far out of left field he actually can't form a coherent thought past What?
He can't look Dean in the eye, either, and so he stares at his tea, watches the steam rise and disappear into the air that feels about a thousand times colder now.]
Is my coffee that bad?
[He means for it to be light, flippant, even, but despite his best efforts, it just comes out miserable, and he hates himself a little bit for being so transparent. He doesn't... It just figures that as soon as he gets comfortable, feels what he imagines are the stirrings of genuine happiness for the first time since his estrangement with his family, he goes and fucks it up somehow.
He would. Of course he would. That's just what he does.
He wonders if it's the smoking... But Dean'd never complained about it, never asked him to stop... And it's not like he surprised him with it, he'd told him up front, thinking it only fair...
Fuck, he just... Fuck.]
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And, shit, he doesn't have an excuse prepared just like he didn't have one for why he was sitting out on the fire escape. He's usually a pretty good liar, but not with Cas- has he lied to Cas? Not really. Not in a long time. Though- well, kind of every day was a lie, considering his feelings, but nothing so pointed as this?
What could he even say that would compare to being in love? What is a comparable move-out worthy reason? And he's not going to pin this on Cas- that's just not even- feelings or no, Cas is his friend, and, frankly, the best roommate he's ever had. He doesn't deserve some lame excuse, some bullshit answer made to pin the blame on him. Nope, this is all Dean.
Which doesn't put him any closer to finding an excuse, so he gropes for words for a second, eyes on the floor of the fire escape.]
You're coffee's fucking perfect. That's the problem.
[Well... sort of. In a roundabout way. It's the little things, really. It strikes him, then, that he's being a fucking coward. He's being the biggest god damned coward in the history of coward-dom.
Tell him the truth.
The fact of the matter is, he's going to have to move out anyway, right? And Cas is already hurt by the declaration- quite right, too, they're friends, and now he's springing this shit without warning? He'd feel like shit if Cas told him he had to move out, wouldn't he? And he doesn't have an alternative excuse, does he?
He should just tell the truth. He should just say it, say it like a man, own up to it like his Dad taught him to, take the rejection and go back inside and start packing, because that's what he's going to have to do anyway, and at least this way Cas gets the truth, and he gets closure, and it can be like a fresh... thing.
Right. Awesome.
Now just... open your mouth and say that.]
I.... lofffpt. Look. Okay. It's.
[Shit. Okay. Back-up plan. He stood up, curled his hands around the cold ass bars of the fire escape, and furrowed his brow. Closed his eyes rather than staring at the view. Hyper aware of Cas, standing against the railing two or three feet to his right.]
I want to fuck you. [...Okay, so far so good. We can work with that. Now, reign it in a little, cowboy.] But- see okay, that's not the problem- I want to fuck you and call you the next day, except that we live together, so it's more like I want to fuck you and take you out to brunch or something, and then go to work and come home to you and the god damn stupid fucking dog and cuddle on the couch- and fuck you for judging me, okay, that shit is comfortable and if you don't cuddle you're a god damned Nazi communist, and nobody likes those, so shut the fuck up. Well, I mean, I guess Hitler did, but that's really not where this conversation was supposed to go- I just mean- shit- fuck- I don't know- but it's only getting worse, because I could live with just wanting to fuck you- Hell, I'd probably already see if you were game, except you're the best friend I've ever had so- Jesus Christ this is the worst conversation I've ever had.
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His coffee's perfect. What does that even mean?
Drumming his fingers along the edge of his mug, he looks off into the town, at the ground, to the side, anywhere but Dean because... Because if he looks at Dean he won't be able to stay pissed, and for the time being, anger is really the only thing separating him from an even worse kind of meltdown.
He's staring silently and resolutely at a stray piece of yarn sticking out of one of his socks when Dean speaks again, and he almost shrugs it off, excuses himself and goes inside to smoke the most epic of bowls, smoke himself into a coma, maybe... But he doesn't. Because he does look over at Dean at the sound of his voice and fuck, well, he's really screwed now.
He tries to keep his face as impassive as possible, though he's sure he's failing, and gets ready for the mother of all bullshit explanations.
That's not what he gets.]
I-- Dean... What.
[His mouth starts moving before his brain even gets a chance to process all of that. And his first thought, the first thing that comes to his mind is fuck, how dense can I possibly be?
He's a good looking guy. He's had no shortage of people interested in him, and thus far no problems with being able to spot that interest from a mile away- the pleasure thing, he's into it, and it's a handy skill to have, gauging a person's interest. And so the fact that Dean-- That he... How could he possibly miss it? He only spends a huge portion of his day with the guy on most days, and a good chunk of time and brain power thinking about him when they're not together... There's no way he should have missed something so obvious as I want to fuck you.
And that's not even touching the other, much more important revelation here, like the fact that everything he's ever wondered, wished, or fantasized about has pretty much just spilled out of Dean's mouth in an admission that's not really a confession so much as word vomit.
He's pretty sure there was something about Nazis in there, but he can't be positive because he's too busy focusing on the fact that Dean's just told him that not only does he want to fuck, he wants to cuddle on the couch with their puppy. He wants to come home to him. He wants to call him back, and as someone who's well-versed in the art of one night stands, that... That means something. It means he's not the only one who's-- Well, you get the point.
He's also pretty sure he's been staring blankly into Dean's face for the past minute or so. Fuck, he should really say something. Something witty, something smart, something--]
Uh...
[...Something with actual words would be good, come on now.]
I don't-- [Suck it up, let's go, before you miss your one and only chance, jackass-- He swallows thickly, attempts to wet his dry lips with his tongue.] I'm not really seeing... Where the problem is. With any of that.
[His ears are fucking burning, his heart's thudding away in his chest, and his fingers are clenched so tightly against his mug he thinks it's either going to shatter or his knuckles will pop clear out of his skin. Fuck.]
I'm not a Nazi communist.
[He... Hopes that gets the point across. No, I'm not judging you. Yes, I want to lay around on the couch with you. Let's fuck and go get brunch. Things he wants to say but can't make the words come out, and so he takes a step closer instead, uncurls and hand from his as yet unbroken mug to curl in the sleeve of Dean's hoodie.]
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Cas was looking at him like he was fucking retarded, which only really served to make him feel even more fucking retarded. His heart beat fast and hard against his chest, hyper-aware and still somehow surreal in a way that only happened when he was freaking out. He kind of wanted to punch himself for it- it was only Cas, he was only losing Cas, it wasn't that imperative, it wasn't that big of a deal. Except that it was. Still, this was pathetic- if you don't calm down right this fucking second and stop looking so pitiful-
And then that gravelly voice cut in, with his name, with hesitancy, with I don't-. Yeah. He gets that. That's why he's moving out, isn't it? It wasn't like he expected a freaking ride on the joy train before being gently let down. Jesus, he's moving out, shit, this was worse than they thought, and the dog- what are they going to do with the dog?
He cocked his head away an inch or two- not because he was being a giant pansy, but in case he turned into one, he'd like to leave with a little of his dignity- whatever was left of it, anyway.
I'm not really seeing... where the problem is. With any of that.
Wait...
What?
His brain blanks out in about .5 seconds, brows furrow incredulously as his stupid, sluggish brain tries to wrap around that statement. It starts with, well, the problem is that it's not going to go away, it's going to get worse, and he doesn't do that pining bullshit, he may be a pathetic sap, but he's not a freaking teenage girl-
A hand wraps around his wrist, rigid from gripping the railing so tightly.]
Wait- what--
[Just... the most genuinely uncomprehending face he's ever pulled. Dean's just so delightfully slow to wrap his brain around this, mostly because he never pictured having this conversation, let alone it going... well... like this.]
You- you get what I'm saying, right? Just so we're on the same page, here- with like... feelings and gay moments and... Martha Stewart Home Living-esque shit?
[He means serious... things. Not just fucking on the couch.
Well, yes, fucking on the couch. And the table, the bedroom, shower, floor, elevator, hallway- Christ, the back seat of the Impala. Not Cas's bed, though, because those hippy beads kill his erection cold.
Well, okay, maybe Cas's bed, too.]
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Maybe Dean'd just written it off as that stoner staring thing he does sometimes when he's really baked. That has to be it, because damn, he'd thought it'd been pretty obvious.
That face is still there, and fuck if Cas doesn't want to lean forward, kiss that confusion away...
He doesn't, though, because talking should probably happen first. God, first, look at him go, just assuming things, assuming that because he'd thrown it out there it's all going to be smooth sailing from here on out... Right, because that's how his life goes.
He's so busy spiraling into despair- because he's just so good at doing that when he hasn't smoked a joint or five- that he doesn't really register Dean's hand around his wrist until he's started speaking, and when he does, he can't tell if it's a warning, a request to unclench his fingers from the warm soft fabric of the hoodie, or just... He doesn't know. And so he's just gonna leave his hand where it is.
A small smile curves his lips, he can't help it. The words "Martha Stewart Living" need to never come out of Dean's mouth ever again, it's too much.]
I-- Yeah. Yeah no, I get it. I'm... I want that. With you. So...
[They're really having this conversation, aren't they? His mind just... Almost can't handle it. They're having this conversation and unlike just about every other serious conversation he's ever had, it doesn't look like it's going to end with him being tossed out on his ass or estranged from people he cares about. Imagine that. Shock and awe.
He won't turn down fucking on any and all available surfaces, but that pretty much goes without saying. They will have to make it to Cas's bed someday; he has a pillow top and a heated blanket, come on, it's pretty much the greatest bed in existence. You'll just have to learn to love the beads, Dean.]
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And Cas was... Cas. Despite his narcissistic tendencies, Dean's got one hell of an inferiority complex. Why anybody would love him is just... man, it's beyond him.
Except that Cas apparently does- holy fucking- are you- is this seriously happening? Is the universe punking him right now? Because if so, this isn't a fucking funny joke. If he gives in to this and it gets taken away from him in the next step like everything always does, he's going to have a serious bone to pick with the universe, because this is...
It comes in waves, that dawning realization and the corresponding acceptance- trickles in slowly at first that this is actually happening, and then rushes over him and floods through his chest like he's having a heart attack- except an amazing, wonderful heart attack. Not the burger inducing kind- though that's probably not far off, thanks to his diet.]
So- wait. Let me get something straight, here.
[He pauses a second, cocking his head, pulls his hand away to motion between the two of them.]
All this time... we could have been having sex?
[Best.
Roommate.
Ever.
And- excuse him, how, exactly, did he not know about this godly heaven of a bed Cas owns? Pillow top and a heated blanket, and Dean's been curling up like a friggin' cat trying to generate some warmth because he's too Manly (read: lazy) to go out and buy a decent comforter and sheet set? This is the epitome of bullshit. Deangland is going to have to branch out and try to steal Casfrican territory or something. Plant the flag in Cas's bed.
...Innuendo acceptable, apparently.]
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[Cas's bed is the best kept secret in the state. It's the perfect place to exist really, and Cas is privately of the opinion that it should be deemed the eighth- or is it ninth now? He can't remember- wonder of the world. The only reason he doesn't spend every waking second baked out of his mind and laying in it is the fact that until now, it'd been in there and Dean's been out here. And so clearly he might be open to an invasion of that territory, especially if it comes in the form of Dean planting his flag. No, really. Dean's flag would be welcomed with open arms. Cas is more than willing to have his bed become an occupied nation.
Not that he's going to let his nation fall quietly... But he imagines when the invaders storm the beaches it will probably be enjoyable for all parties involved.]
Lot of missed opportunities...
[Bed war politics aside, Cas thinks they're going to have to start making up for lost time, and so he steps closer, right up into Dean's space, and slides a hand up the back of his neck before leaning in to press a surprisingly chaste kiss to his lips with a soft hum. His still-warm mug of tea is clenched in his hand between them, heating his chest through his garish sweater, and as nice as it is, he knows he probably shouldn't try to push for more than this, as much as he wants to. It's late, really, really late and he doesn't wanna be the reason Dean drops a car on top of himself at the garage tomorrow for lack of sleep. Because that would happen. That's how his life goes.
But until that time when he's inevitably screwed, he's going to enjoy this. He's actually still at a loss for how this happened, how it's actually happening, and he swears to whatever god it is that's responsible if this turns out to be an incredibly vivid, amazing dream he's going to be pissed. He's a hippy, peace and love and all that, and it takes a lot to get him angry... But that'd do it. If he wakes up in his wonderful bed and this turns out to have been his mind torturing him, he's going to have a problem.
It doesn't feel like a dream, though. Well it does, but there are a few key differences that having him leaning in the direction of Is Really Happening: the cold, for one-- even out on the fire escape of his subconscious, his mind would never let it be this cold. It's really fucking cold. And secondly, and more obviously, if this were a dream, they'd be wearing far, far fewer clothes... As much as he likes the way Dean looks in that hoodie. No, this might actually be real. Unbelievable.]
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And then, a pair of lips press against his own. Considering him and Cas are the only ones on the balcony, he's reasonably certain Cas is kissing him. Holy Jesus fuck shit wow yes awesome, good. It's good, because despite having been the one to bring up this conversation, he couldn't quite steel himself and get up the balls to cross the distance himself. Clearly, that isn't an issue.
It's gentle, it's chaste, and it's amazing, and his mind gets totally wiped- this time in a good way. For a second, instead of thinking, he just feels- soft, gentle pressure gently moving, and he moves back, pressing in just a little, deepening, strengthening. The scary part, though, is that it isn't about sex. This kiss has absolutely nothing to do with sex at all, and so when he pushes closer, it's for purely emotional reasons.
God, he's turning into a fucking girl. This is ridiculous. He's a friggin' soccer mom. This is like a romance novel, and he's a friggin' soccer mom. Shit.
Which doesn't stop him from bringing his arms up, wrapping them around Cas's shoulders and holding on tight. Because he's always wanted to, and now he can- and Jesus isn't that awesome? That's just so freaking awesome, that this is actually happening. Cas's mug is hot and hard against his ribs, and he wants to nudge it out of the way and chuck it off the landing because who the hell drinks tea, anyway? Coffee drinkers are sane, reasonable people that leave their mugs sitting where they can be knocked over- but firmly out of the way.
Despite the cold, the mug, the (eugh) emotions, the fact that it's three thirty in the morning and they're on a fucking fire escape, he's pretty sure he could just... stay there and kiss Cas exactly like this forever.
Shit. He has to go to work tomorrow. Today. Whatever. Fuck- because right now would be a really opportune time to learn Cas's bed and... other parts of him. That's not going to happen today, though. They have plenty of time. And, not for the first time, Dean's going to be staring at the clock all day at work, waiting to get back to this dorky, gay apartment.]
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Cas hums against Dean's lips as he presses forward, deepening the kiss and it's even better- as ridiculous as this thought even is- because he knows it's not about sex. How could it be, when he knows Dean's not irresponsible enough to forgo sleep entirely when he needs to be at work in a few hours? Cas is, hell, if it were just himself he'd be screwing he'd be all for it, he could just camp out in the back at the shop and that'd be that. But Dean... Dean thinks about things like that, has too much respect, would never even think of going into work half asleep because he'd spent the night fucking on the couch...
And even though Cas would love to pull him inside, make this the best night either of them has had in a good long time, the thought that it's not going to happen because Dean wouldn't wanna go into work like that, and Cas doesn't want to turn him into a slacker, well... It's endearing. It's one of the reasons Cas can summon up for this... this being a good idea, other than the way it makes him feel, jittery and warm and relaxed in a way that's usually reserved for chilled out smoking time.
Dean's arms wrap around his shoulders, and it's so warm despite the chill that Cas thinks he could probably just stay out here like this indefinitely. He manages to disentangle the hand with the mug, pulls it out from between them and wraps it around Dean's waist as his other hand brushes fingers through his hair. Fuck, this is nice, do they really have to--
Yeah, yeah they do. He breaks the kiss- as painful as it is to do so, because fuck if Dean's lips don't feel as good as they look- and leans his forehead into Dean's, a lopsided kind of smile tugging at his lips.]
It's pretty late, we should probably-
[Go back inside? Go to bed? Together? Not together? Dammit, he hadn't really thought that one through...]
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Normally, he'd be freaking out. Shit, they already live together, that's sort of a precarious god damned situation, isn't it? What if things go wrong? What if they don't mesh, what if Cas changes his mind or shit goes down or Dean screws up like he always screws up? They live together already, they've skipped a step, they've gone straight into the phase with the most consequences if things go south. Except... well, he's not sure what it is, but he doesn't feel afraid. He just... it feels like... maybe, for once, it's actually going to work out.
Oh, god. Wow. Shit. That's.
Fucking terrifying.
Amazing.
Arms wrap around his waist, fingers thread through his hair, and the flutter in his chest effectually neutralizes any air he may have had left in his lungs. Cas pulls back, but not completely, and it's a nice little world they create, foreheads pressed together in the dark, in the warmth combating cold- body heat and the thrill of something new. Something... starting.
Yeah, okay, granted this next step was a little awkward, but fuck, who cares? Just charge on past that the Dean Winchester way.
He beams a cocky, narcissistic grin and has the audacity to wink.]
One step at a time, cowboy, some of us can't fall asleep on their desks tomorrow. Damn hippies.
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He makes a face that's half annoyance... Or at least mock annoyance, considering that'd been his conclusion as well: not tonight. His hand slides down to Dean's shoulder and he pulls away a bit more, leans up against the railing. He's secretly grateful for that patented Dean way of plowing through the awkwardness, not that he'd ever admit to it. He smirks, shrugging his shoulders.]
Can't blame a guy for trying.
[It's only half serious; he has to agree with the idea that because the situation is... different is one way to put it, they probably shouldn't rush things. As much as he'd like to. As much as his bed would be way nicer with Dean in it.
There's time for that later, though, especially considering he's actually letting himself think that maybe this could work. He drums his fingers against his mug, smirk sliding into a grin and then a yawn, because damn is it late.]
Hippies need to sleep too, apparently. 'M going in. Night, Dean.
[And speaking of things he'd like to do... He'd really like to reel Dean in again, back up a few steps and just... But no. It's definitely time for bed. He flashes Dean a smile- a tired, but most definitely genuine smile- and heads inside.]
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