Supernatural Fic: Snow
Title: Snow
Characters/Pairings: pre-Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG
Warning/Spoilers: Set in S6, Angst, Pre-slash
Summary: “Do you enjoy snow, Dean?”
Author's Notes: Unbeta'd - all mistakes are my own.
“It’s snowing.”
Dean opens an eye from where he’s resting, a hand tucked beneath his head and bare feet attempting to grasp the thin stark sheets of the motel bed. He’s tired, his vision blurry and lids heavy but he takes in the lit outline of Cas' silhouette standing in front of the window. The stale yellow light of the street lamps outside spill in through the muddied glass, only broken by the flurry of white falling down freely and Castiel’s figure, shoulders oddly relaxed and head tilted up.
“Huh,” he says noncommittally and closes his eyes again, letting out a sigh when he finally manages to cover himself. He should probably turn on the thermostat, realizing just how cold it is in the room but he’s already in bed, and Sam is out like a light. It’s been a long hunt this time, stretching into two continuous days with little time to sleep. So he only tightens the hold of his covers and bites against the chill, opting to suffer for a few minutes rather than getting up again and padding across the cold carpeted floor.
He’s almost gone and into the arms of sleep when Castiel’s voice pulls Dean out again.
“Do you enjoy snow, Dean?”
Dean grunts. “Sure, Cas,” he says dismissively and turns onto his side.
Castiel speaks again, this time his voice is slow, inquiring and careful, “What do you enjoy most about it?”
It takes Dean all of his will not to heave out the largest, most frustrated sigh that the angel would most likely not even understand. But he answers Cas anyway, hoping it would shut the other up and allow Dean some sleep. “I don’t know. I’ve never really played -”
And Dean stops there. Because it’s true: he has never played in the snow before. Maybe he has, when he used to live in Kansas with his mother and John and Sammy in the house, too young to be out in the cold that isn’t really a cold at all because Kansas is hardly known for it’s chills. But he wouldn’t remember. He can hardly remember anything except the heat, the burning of fire rising from the ground and baby Sam clutched against his chest, screaming and crying. Young Sammy, who’s afraid of clowns and could be completely enthralled by cartoons. Now he’s killing without a second, questioning thought. And it’s almost like Dad’s screamed demand to don't look back, now, Dean, go! when a wall of hot holy fire descends onto him and Hell - he’s there again, he’s right back there with the suffering and the pain and -
“You should play in the snow.” Cas is no longer by the window. Instead, he’s standing right at the edge of Dean’s bed, his knees just shy of touching the spilled sheets. His shadow paints over the wrinkles made by Dean's form, and it’s Castiel’s darkened figure and shining eyes that Dean sees when he opens his eyes. Cas’ voice is a quiet whisper but it’s steady and Dean can almost feel how low the tone dips, until it settles in his gut and spreads out something hot and peculiar all the way to the tips of his cool, numb fingers.
Sam’s loud snort brings Dean back and he catches a quick glance at his still sleeping brother, face slack and hair fanned out beneath his head, and who Dean's afraid isn’t really his brother anymore.
He closes his eyes - tight - and opens them again.
Dean looks back at Cas and gives him a raised brow. “What? Now?” he manages to say, propping himself up on his elbow and out of almost-warm covers. The burn of his memories and the odd moment that can only - and always - be induced by Cas is pushed away by the biting cold of the room. He shivers, and sucks in a breath from the sting. “It’s the middle of the night, Cas.”
Cas doesn’t say anything, only tilts his head and looks at Dean with the same squinted stare he always gives him that makes him think Cas is the biggest and oldest child to ever exist - or makes Dean think he’s said something stupid, something dumb, or done something useless that Castiel can’t quite understand the purpose of.
Sometimes Castiel looks at him like that and Dean doesn't know what to think.
Finally, Cas opens his mouth and straightens his neck. “I’ve come to understand,” he starts, still whispering, and sits so the mattress creaks and his hip slides right against Dean’s, “that snow is both enjoyed and disdained by humans.” Dean shifts a little, but not away and watches the way Cas’ face catches the light as he turns back to the window. His skin is washed in white that even the dark bruises under his eyes are gone, replaced by the blue shine gifted by the snow outside. The stubble that runs along Castiel’s jaw disappears into the exposed expanse of stretched neck and it takes Dean a moment, and for Cas to look down and back at him with wide, sad eyes, to remember that the other is sitting too close. And that Dean is no longer cold, except his breath is coming out heavy and his palms are just a little damp and his elbow quivering from the prolonged weight of holding himself up. Cas looks at him and Dean can’t help but look right back.
“I’m happy you enjoy the snow,” Castiel continues and places a hand upon Dean’s shoulder. “Even though you have never had the chance to play in it.”
And then Dean blinks and Cas is gone. The faint fluttering echo of wings is followed by Sam’s steady snoring, and Dean’s elbow gives and he falls back onto his hard pillow with a sigh, his eyes rolling at the weird unquestionable typicality of what is distinctly Cas. His skin under his shirt aches where Castiel had touched him.
But the ache is a pleasant one and it spreads. Like Cas’ low whispered voice. Like the snow that piles outside and blankets the world. Like the wonder that begins in Dean’s thoughts about the angel that went through Hell to save a human, and who watches snow and asks Dean about it while sitting too close until it’s like he’s being burnt at the hip. And it’s like the comforting heat that envelops his entire body until it brings him to sleep so that all Dean dreams of is laughing and playing in snow.
Characters/Pairings: pre-Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG
Warning/Spoilers: Set in S6, Angst, Pre-slash
Summary: “Do you enjoy snow, Dean?”
Author's Notes: Unbeta'd - all mistakes are my own.
“It’s snowing.”
Dean opens an eye from where he’s resting, a hand tucked beneath his head and bare feet attempting to grasp the thin stark sheets of the motel bed. He’s tired, his vision blurry and lids heavy but he takes in the lit outline of Cas' silhouette standing in front of the window. The stale yellow light of the street lamps outside spill in through the muddied glass, only broken by the flurry of white falling down freely and Castiel’s figure, shoulders oddly relaxed and head tilted up.
“Huh,” he says noncommittally and closes his eyes again, letting out a sigh when he finally manages to cover himself. He should probably turn on the thermostat, realizing just how cold it is in the room but he’s already in bed, and Sam is out like a light. It’s been a long hunt this time, stretching into two continuous days with little time to sleep. So he only tightens the hold of his covers and bites against the chill, opting to suffer for a few minutes rather than getting up again and padding across the cold carpeted floor.
He’s almost gone and into the arms of sleep when Castiel’s voice pulls Dean out again.
“Do you enjoy snow, Dean?”
Dean grunts. “Sure, Cas,” he says dismissively and turns onto his side.
Castiel speaks again, this time his voice is slow, inquiring and careful, “What do you enjoy most about it?”
It takes Dean all of his will not to heave out the largest, most frustrated sigh that the angel would most likely not even understand. But he answers Cas anyway, hoping it would shut the other up and allow Dean some sleep. “I don’t know. I’ve never really played -”
And Dean stops there. Because it’s true: he has never played in the snow before. Maybe he has, when he used to live in Kansas with his mother and John and Sammy in the house, too young to be out in the cold that isn’t really a cold at all because Kansas is hardly known for it’s chills. But he wouldn’t remember. He can hardly remember anything except the heat, the burning of fire rising from the ground and baby Sam clutched against his chest, screaming and crying. Young Sammy, who’s afraid of clowns and could be completely enthralled by cartoons. Now he’s killing without a second, questioning thought. And it’s almost like Dad’s screamed demand to don't look back, now, Dean, go! when a wall of hot holy fire descends onto him and Hell - he’s there again, he’s right back there with the suffering and the pain and -
“You should play in the snow.” Cas is no longer by the window. Instead, he’s standing right at the edge of Dean’s bed, his knees just shy of touching the spilled sheets. His shadow paints over the wrinkles made by Dean's form, and it’s Castiel’s darkened figure and shining eyes that Dean sees when he opens his eyes. Cas’ voice is a quiet whisper but it’s steady and Dean can almost feel how low the tone dips, until it settles in his gut and spreads out something hot and peculiar all the way to the tips of his cool, numb fingers.
Sam’s loud snort brings Dean back and he catches a quick glance at his still sleeping brother, face slack and hair fanned out beneath his head, and who Dean's afraid isn’t really his brother anymore.
He closes his eyes - tight - and opens them again.
Dean looks back at Cas and gives him a raised brow. “What? Now?” he manages to say, propping himself up on his elbow and out of almost-warm covers. The burn of his memories and the odd moment that can only - and always - be induced by Cas is pushed away by the biting cold of the room. He shivers, and sucks in a breath from the sting. “It’s the middle of the night, Cas.”
Cas doesn’t say anything, only tilts his head and looks at Dean with the same squinted stare he always gives him that makes him think Cas is the biggest and oldest child to ever exist - or makes Dean think he’s said something stupid, something dumb, or done something useless that Castiel can’t quite understand the purpose of.
Sometimes Castiel looks at him like that and Dean doesn't know what to think.
Finally, Cas opens his mouth and straightens his neck. “I’ve come to understand,” he starts, still whispering, and sits so the mattress creaks and his hip slides right against Dean’s, “that snow is both enjoyed and disdained by humans.” Dean shifts a little, but not away and watches the way Cas’ face catches the light as he turns back to the window. His skin is washed in white that even the dark bruises under his eyes are gone, replaced by the blue shine gifted by the snow outside. The stubble that runs along Castiel’s jaw disappears into the exposed expanse of stretched neck and it takes Dean a moment, and for Cas to look down and back at him with wide, sad eyes, to remember that the other is sitting too close. And that Dean is no longer cold, except his breath is coming out heavy and his palms are just a little damp and his elbow quivering from the prolonged weight of holding himself up. Cas looks at him and Dean can’t help but look right back.
“I’m happy you enjoy the snow,” Castiel continues and places a hand upon Dean’s shoulder. “Even though you have never had the chance to play in it.”
And then Dean blinks and Cas is gone. The faint fluttering echo of wings is followed by Sam’s steady snoring, and Dean’s elbow gives and he falls back onto his hard pillow with a sigh, his eyes rolling at the weird unquestionable typicality of what is distinctly Cas. His skin under his shirt aches where Castiel had touched him.
But the ache is a pleasant one and it spreads. Like Cas’ low whispered voice. Like the snow that piles outside and blankets the world. Like the wonder that begins in Dean’s thoughts about the angel that went through Hell to save a human, and who watches snow and asks Dean about it while sitting too close until it’s like he’s being burnt at the hip. And it’s like the comforting heat that envelops his entire body until it brings him to sleep so that all Dean dreams of is laughing and playing in snow.