The Intimacy Meme
The Intimacy Meme
(Shamelessly taken from... all the rest's and modified!)
Intimacy is the glue of any relationship, albeit romantic or friendship. It's getting to the root of humanity, and expanding upon ourselves and letting others in.
Rules:
1. Post with your character.
2. Go to rng and roll from 1-6.
3. Post to others.
4. Profit
Scenes:
1. First Kiss. ( Read more... )
(Shamelessly taken from... all the rest's and modified!)
Intimacy is the glue of any relationship, albeit romantic or friendship. It's getting to the root of humanity, and expanding upon ourselves and letting others in.
Rules:
1. Post with your character.
2. Go to rng and roll from 1-6.
3. Post to others.
4. Profit
Scenes:
1. First Kiss. ( Read more... )
[Sleep has been just one of a long list of things Castiel has been having trouble getting used to since going mortal. The idea of just... Lying in bed with one's eyes closed and eventually slipping into unconsciousness is.. unsettling, to put it mildly. It's taking some getting used to, and some nights he's able to manage it without much effort, just slides into the bed Bobby and the Winchesters had set up for him at the end of the house and stops for a while.
Tonight isn't one of those nights.
They have the rings. Four rings, just as Gabriel had suggested, and tomorrow, Sam's saying yes. Castiel is stretched out on his back, hands resting on his stomach, rising and falling with his breath as he stares at the fan on the ceiling like he has been for longer than he'd like. They're probably going to die tomorrow. He's sure Lucifer knows they're coming, what they're planning and they're probably going to die. His mind doesn't seem to want to stop, pieces of thoughts, regrets swirling around like smoke that refuses to clear no matter how much he mentally swats at it. So many regrets; he's been around for a very long time... But there are two that stand out above all others, maybe because they're so recent, or maybe because they're just the worst, the most shameful.
He can't do anything about Anna- she's gone, and even if she wasn't he's sure she'd never trust him again- but the other matter... Perhaps he can still...
Frowning, he pushes himself up out of the bed, swings his legs over and shivers as his feet touch the cold floor. It creaks as he pads across the room, through the door and down the hall. He cringes at the noise- he's not used to this kind of announcement of his presence- but he supposes it doesn't matter; if the creaking doesn't wake Dean, the knock on his door probably will.]
Dean.
[It's low, hushed, but Dean's a hunter. Castiel is sure he can hear it.]
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[Cas isn't the only one with trouble sleeping. On the best of days, he gets maybe five hours. Once you take a jaunty trip to hell, you can pretty much kiss dreamless sleep goodbye. Hard to avoid the things you shove down into your subconscious when you can't control the way they play out at night.
He can deal with it, though. It's not exactly new, and it's not exactly impossible. Unpleasant, sure, but hell, when's life ever been pleasant for him? Normally, he'd at least put forth his best effort. Not tonight. So not tonight.
Sam's saying yes. One of three thing is going to happen. Option A, they all die. The end. Flat out dead as fuck, and Lucifer rules the world. At least they won't be there to see it. Option B- and the worse one, in his opinion- shit goes down like Zachariah made him see it. He turns into a vengeful, empty, hollow dick. Bobby dies. Cas gets fucked up on pills and sex. They spend their remaining years in the fucking apocalypse, and Dean slowly poisons everyone around him. Fun times had by all.
Or, Option C. Sam is successful. He takes control. Him and Lucifer tumble together into the cage, and Dean gets to spend the rest of his life knowing Sam's being stripped part, Sam's fucking soul is being raped day after day by the fucking devil.
Yeah, no, excuse him if he isn't exactly concerned with his beauty rest.
Soft footsteps pad down the hall outside his room, the floor squeaking so quietly, it's practically inaudible. The house is silent, though, and Dean's ears are keen, so he picks up on it. His brow furrows in the darkness, deepens when it stops outside of his room, and then there's Cas, pushing his door open. The angel's never been good about sleeping through the night, so Dean isn't really all that surprised. He hopes Cas isn't here for some ridiculous attempt at making him feel better about this whole thing, he's liable to punch the guy in the face. Now that he's human, it might actually be satisfying and not, you know, break his hand.
He shifts, sits up on his elbows and squints. Barely makes out his shape in the doorway.]
Hey. You alright?
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[Once upon a time, Castiel probably could have fixed that. For the night, at least, just a press of cool fingertips to his forehead and Dean might have been granted a dreamless sleep, a night free of memories of hell.
Castiel shares those dreams, now that he sleeps, though they aren't concrete, just flashes of images; bone and sinew and the suffocating frigidity that encompasses most of what he can recall of his time there. There's nowhere further from God than the depths of Hades... Most humans, to Castiel's knowledge, perceive fire, but to angels, it's like being pitched into an endless expanse of frozen wasteland. He honestly doesn't know how he'd survived.
What he does know, however, is that Dean's dreams are far worse than his own, and so he doesn't mention them.
He hovers awkwardly at the door for a split second before striding in- assuming Dean's greeting to be all the invitation he needs- and settling himself at the end of his friend's bed. He still hasn't quite gotten the hang of personal space. Truth be told he isn't really trying anymore, if he ever was.]
No. [If it's a bit blunt, well... He doesn't see the point of wasting time or words to protect his pride. He wouldn't be here if he were alright.] Did I wake you?
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He's got a feeling, after tonight, after he lets Sam throw himself into the Pit, those dreams are only going to be worse. And... they probably won't be far from reality. He's supposed to save his brother. Protect Sam.
Has anybody ever failed anything more thoroughly? Sam is going to hell. Fucking nice one, big bro. Not only is he allowing this, hell, he's practically giving Sam the final push.
He sits up, sheets falling down, pooling around his waist as he pushes himself up against the headboard. Draws his knees up and apart, rests his elbows on them. If he's got a problem with Cas and invading the space at the foot of his bed, he doesn't show it. Strange as it may sound, he's actually used to waking up to Creepy McAngelpants hovering in that general area. The difference is, he kinda almost asked for permission this time.
Well, go figure. He believed in angels, but he didn't believe in miracles.
He sighed, passed a tired hand over his face.]
Nah. Couldn't sleep. [His hand drops.] This the normal 'the world's fucked up and we're all gonna die' kinda not alright, or is there something else going on?
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While Dean's getting comfortable, Castiel is... Not. He's not moving at all save the rising and falling of his shoulders and the knitting together of his brows. Dean's given him an opening, he just needs to take it... But it seems this is more difficult than he'd imagined. He hadn't actually thought of anything to say, any place to start, and he's actually surprised at Dean's willingness to listen- God knows he has enough on his plate already.
Sighing, he picks a hand up and runs it through his hair in a surprising unstilted, almost human way. It hasn't even been that long and already he seems to be picking up on little things that make him feel less and less what he used to be. He isn't quite sure how he feels about that, and he folds his hands in his lap to keep from doing it again.]
Perhaps a bit of both. I need to... talk. To you.
[He looks down, studies him fingernails in the dark as if he can actually see them.]
I need to tell you something.
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Meet Dean: Negative Nancy.
He furrows his brow and patiently waits for Cas to continue. For all of two seconds.]
Well, take your time, not like it's the end of the world or anything.
[Pardon the sarcasm, it's late and he's flipping his shit. He doesn't particularly mean to take it out on Cas, but the fact that he did is a little worrisome considering his train of thought from a moment ago. He sighs a deep, heavy thing and kicks the blankets off. Twists, swings his legs over and lets them touch down so that they're sitting shoulder to shoulder.
Let's try that again.]
Sorry. I just-... What's up?
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He scowls at Dean even though he's aware the other man can't see him- at least he's assuming he can't, since Castiel can barely make out his face from a few feet away- more out of habit than anything else. He will take his time, thanks. He's just... Not sure how he wants to go about this. There's a twisting in his stomach that's foreign and uncomfortable every time he thinks about opening his mouth.
This was an awful idea. He should go back to his room, tell Dean he doesn't have anything to say after all and just go--
But then Dean's shifting, moving so that their shoulders are touching and Castiel can feel the heat and solidness of his body bleeding onto his skin even through the cotton of his borrowed t-shirt, and he can't. He came in here for a reason, because... Because Dean deserves to know. Sam too, although Castiel has a sneaking suspicion that he already does- Sam's intelligent, and more importantly he doesn't have the blinders where a certain fallen angel is concerned...
No, Dean has to know. Before--]
The panic room. I--[What's the expression? Like ripping off a band-aid? It takes him a few seconds, but eventually out it comes, quiet, almost inaudible... He's sure Dean catches it anyway.] I let Sam out.
[As soon as it leaves his mouth he wishes he hadn't said it... But there's no going back now, he supposes. He's so grateful for the dark it's astounding, not that he's even managing to look Dean in the face even now. The uncomfortable rolling of his stomach, far from being relieved, only intensifies. That seems counterintuitive; he doesn't think he'll ever understand how human emotions work.]
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A second passed.
No such luck.
Anger flooded him in one single fell swoop and he shoved off of the bed, rounded on the former angel, eyes wide.]
You- you let him- what the hell, Cas?!
[Sam might have had a chance. He might have been able to make it, fight it off, and they might have--
And now Sam was going to burn in hell. His little brother, his only family, the brother he was supposed to protect was going to spend fucking eternity as Satan's bitch.
And Dean was going to be alone.
And they were going to die tomorrow.
His voice picked up an octave as he plowed on, heedless of the fact that Bobby was downstairs trying to sleep, that it was well past midnight, that Cas was giving himself an anxiety attack over this.]
Damn it, Cas, if you weren't such a fucking hammer, none of this-
[His mouth snapped shut, the glare lasted another second, and then he turned, shoulders stiff, headed for the door in a rapid gate.
And stopped in the frame.
And just... stood there a second, leaning his forehead against the wood.
God damn it.]
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And then Dean's shoving off the bed, whirling to face him, and he doesn't have to see his face- he hears everything he needs to know in his voice.
It's what he'd expected, though that does nothing to make him feel any better about it at all. Dean turns, heads toward the door and for a horrible second Castiel is sure he's going to leave, and that's going to be the end of this, and they're going to go to their deaths tomorrow with this the final exchange between them. He supposes it's what he deserves, better, really, considering he'd half expected Dean to throw a punch or two...
It isn't what Dean deserves, though. He should at least have an explanation, and so when he stops, leans his head against the door frame, Cas continues. He won't deny he'd been a hammer, as Dean so succinctly puts it- there's no point. It'd been true, in that moment more than ever. He shudders slightly, takes a shallow, shaky breath, and plows on because 'now or never' has never applied more.]
It was my punishment. For siding with you and your brother in the first place. It was the condition of my release from Heaven, my chance to prove my obedience.
[He doesn't mean it as an excuse, a justification- when it came down to it he'd had a choice, even if it hadn't felt like it at the time. Only an explanation, since Dean had asked why.
He doesn't mention the fact that if it hadn't been him, it would have been another angel, not yet and maybe not ever... It's true, but that doesn't mean he was right to help them along.]
I'm sorry, Dean.
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[The words were out of his mouth before he could even register that he was saying them, and he let them stand for a second before he heaved out a sigh. Smacked his hand against the paneling of the door frame quietly.]
Just. Give me a minute.
[He was pissed. He was allowed to be pissed, he had a right to be pissed, considering everything that happened after Cas let Sam out.
He was looking for a reason to be pissed. Because shit, being pissed was so much easier, and shoving the blame off on Cas would be so damn easy.
Except, he's the Righteous Man, isn't he? The righteous douchebag who took up the sword in Hell and spilled innocent blood all over the god damn floor. Dad lasted a hundred years without breaking, and Dean trotted his happy ass down there and gave up after thirty.
And Sam, well, Sam finished the job. Brought forth the big man himself. Nobody made him do it- and if Cas hadn't come along, some other angel dick would have at some point, just to keep the fuck train on the rails.
So they were all pretty equally responsible for the end of the goddamn world. He let out a snort. Welcome to the family, Cas, just in time to see it circle the drain. He really ought to punch him. Damn, it would feel so good to punch him.
They were all going to die tomorrow.
Sam was going to Hell tomorrow.
He shoved off the door, eyes on the ground at first until he brought them up to fix the angel with a hard gaze. ]
Let's get something straight here. What you did? Was not okay. You don't... do that. You don't fuck with people like that, you don't go behind your friends' backs, you don't sneak around with a secret, and you sure as hell don't drop it in their laps the night before the world's gonna go up like a freaking roman candle. [He brought up a finger, pointed it and let the words hang for a second to press his point. A beat.] And if you ever do anything stupid like that again, I will kick your ass. Do you understand me?
[And he could, too, now that Cas couldn't go all Bones of Steel on him.]
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He nods, sits quietly in the dark as Dean thunks his head against the doorframe again.
Of course Dean's angry, and of course he has the right to be. Castiel has the urge to say something but doesn't, instead waiting it out, giving Dean space. The last thing he wants is to make this any worse. He doesn't imagine that's possible, but he's learned, if nothing else, that it can always be worse and so he really doesn't want to press his luck.
He knows all of them had played their part in this, and he's aware he's not the only one at fault here, but that wasn't what this was about. It was the fact that he hadn't said anything- and the fact that'd he blamed the Winchesters outright- that had been gnawing at him. What he'd done was wrong, and he recognizes that, but that hadn't been what had sent him in here in the first place. He still isn't sure he'd made the right choice, telling Dean now...
Time passes, enough that Castiel is sure it'd been a mistake, but eventually Dean does turn around. Fixes him with that hard stare, and Castiel knows he's about to get the Dean equivalent of a talking-to. Part of him is indignant about it- he is was an angel, and now he's going to be scolded like a child?- but the other, more rational part of his mind is thinking that it's more than deserved.
It's humbling. It should be.
He could have done without the finger in the face, but he's not about to say anything about it. He lets everything sink in- and notes the fact that Dean hasn't asked him to leave or thrown him bodily from Bobby's home- before nodding slowly, though he can't quite meet Dean's eyes.]
Yes. I understand.
[He's well aware that given his current state, it's far from an empty threat. Sighing, he shifts uncomfortably on the bed.]
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Which is also the part that would have given up on Sam if Bobby hadn't set his ass straight and told him he was acting like a goddamn fool. It's the part that, if he were to give into it, would slowly change him and turn him into a gigantic, cold, closed-off dick.
It's conflicting, because Cas looks... well, he looks seriously beat up about it.
The rest of him would like to point out that they're gonna fucking die tomorrow, and going out like this...
Nah. No. Nope, this wasn't how it was gonna be. He squeezed his eyes shut, blew out a breath while common sense fought it out with his temper- not an easy battle, for sure. He needed something to focus on, something to chill him out before he went Bruce Lee on Cas's face. Because he's here now, isn't he? He's sinking with this ship straight to the bottom, when he's had a thousand opportunities to turn tail and run.
The words that leave his mouth are barked and pissed off.]
You ever learn how to clean a gun?
[Because, frankly, he doubts Cas is going back to sleep any time soon, and neither is he. And if the angel did intend to crawl back into bed, well, he's just pissed enough to make him sleep deprived.
Misery loves company, and if he can't sleep, Cas isn't going to, either.]
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It takes Castiel a few seconds for it to sink in that the words coming out of Dean's mouth, while clearly short and still very angry, aren't any variation of Get Out. It takes him a bit longer to process that he's... Asking him about firearms. He cocks his head to the side.]
No. Why?
[It's a complete non sequitur, at least to Castiel, who doesn't quite grasp changing the subject just yet... But as he hadn't exactly thought things through all the way, and is at a complete loss as to where this conversation was going to go if it didn't involve being punched in the face, he supposes he's just going to have to follow Dean's lead.
There's no way he's sleeping any time soon, none at all, and considering the fact that he's mortal now, gun cleaning seems like a useful skill to learn. Provided they don't get killed tomorrow, of course.]
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Shook his head and moved over to the dresser beside the bed. Grabbed the duffel bag and moved back to the bed, all without eye contact. Stiff and tense while he tried to get over his temper. Doing something mechanical and methodical would help, and he strongly suspected it might help Cas as well. He flopped down indian-style, patted the spot beside him, and started tugging pistols out.
If he heard Cas's question, he decided not to answer it.]
Take out the clip, then check the chamber. Plenty of jackoffs have lost appendages by being careless and shooting themselves in the junk. That's not something you wanna experience, trust me. Pay attention, disassembling can take some getting used to.
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Dean pats the bed, and Castiel takes that to mean he's supposed to move, and so he does, shifting and mirroring Dean's position on top of the mussed blankets. After pulling out what seems to be many more guns than Castiel would have imagined fitting in that bag, Dean chooses one, pressing something on the side and ejecting the clip. Picking up the piece that's fallen out, he studies it carefully, squinting and turning it over in his hand.]
This is the clip?
[He imagines he should probably put some effort into learning proper names as well as the steps to taking the thing apart. He points to the grip, frowning.]
And that's the chamber?
[Castiel speaks a number of languages... Gun terminology is not one of them.]
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No, this is the chamber. Bullet goes in here, and pressure forces it out. If you catch the latch, it slides off.
[He passed over another handgun, slightly smaller, and a rag with it.]
Here. Now you, show me.
[When he looked up, it wasn't floppy brown hair, but raven bedhead, blue eyes rather than hazel, and the moment was gone. The pain in his chest was sharp, and his eyes dropped down to the gun in his hand. He set it gently on the bed.
Sam might be six foot twelve and a million pounds of muscle, but that's not who Dean was losing tomorrow. Dean was losing a dorky, frustrating kid with a bowl-cut that kept asking him to give the rest of his sandwich to stray dogs.
Son of a bitch.]
Sam's gonna die, Cas.
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