Fic: Sweat
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: FRM, for violence
Characters: Dean, Cas
Setting: 4.16, On the Head of a Pin
Summary: Fear and anger both burn slow.
22. Sweat
Say it.
Castiel narrows his eyes. "Why."
Dean thumbs the blade edge, testing. Signs words with it curled in his hands.
Because I want to know what it sounds like.
"No."
No? What do you mean, 'no'? Righteous fury. He gives all his words sharp edges and a flash of steel.
"I mean 'no,' Dean."
He throws the blade down, watching it catch light off all its angles as it skitters across the floor. It must be loud, clattering. Castiel's eyes follow it.
This is bullshit, he says, because it is. I'm big enough to make decisions like whether we should save a fucking town or not when it's a god damned seal, and you won't tell me one fucking word? Fuck you.
He means: I hate you I hate you I hate you. He does. He hates Cas, so much that it froths up underneath his skin, all blistering heat and pent-up rage. He hopes angels can read minds. Chew on that, you fucker.
He says, This is such bullshit.
Castiel's hand stretches out, like he might try to grab Dean's arm, but stops short. He draws it back near his body slowly.
"You… fixate."
Dean turns away so he doesn't have to know what else Cas is going to say, even though he'll have to hear it. No more words follow, though, maybe because Cas knows Dean isn't listening, maybe not. Dean busies his hands with the tools on the table, checking and cleaning and stowing safely. He likes to keep everything sharp. Alistair taught him that. And his dad.
"Dean," Castiel says. In a tone of voice Dean doesn't know how to interpret.
No, okay? He doesn't turn around. I don't want to talk about it.
He steals a glance. Cas's face is as expressionless as always, but his eyes are on the silver dagger Dean threw to the ground.
He has vicious nightmares. Not hellfire, but mundane, brutal violence--the kind that makes him think maybe there's something wrong with him.
He dreams about upending tables in a diner because his food comes out cold. Turning all the other hunters in the world to werewolves to make an indestructible army. Filling Sam's ears with hot oil so that he doesn't have to listen to Ruby anymore and they can be deaf together. Castiel hands him the Colt and Dean aims it back at him right between the shoulder blades, pulls the trigger on every single round.
He wakes up in a cold sweat. In the other bed, Sam is watching him with pitying furrows in his brow and his big, watery apologetic eyes. He doesn't understand that this isn't Hell--that Dean could maybe deal with Hell better, now, than he knows how to deal with this mindless, raging violence.
Dean pulls on his shoes and grabs the car keys.
He drives out of town, weaves off the highway and through the backroads until he reaches someplace far enough out that he loses the city lights. He kicks open both the passenger and driver doors and stretches out on the seat, lying on his back and looking up at the sky. The Milky Way is out, and something else that could be an airplane or a satellite or the space station. Lots of stars. And space, more of it than he knows what to do with, stretching in all directions.
It's cold, and he shivers.
What's wrong with me? he asks himself, hands dancing in the dark. He says it aloud to himself, even though he can't hear the words and knows they come out deformed and misshapen. "What's wrong with me?"
Castiel's hands are warm against either side of Dean's face, drawing his chin slightly upward as though the angel were bestowing a blessing upon him.
Dean knows that this isn't how things were a moment ago. He'd been dreaming something else, something unpleasant, but Castiel has cleared it away and cast it from his mind.
It's nice. Peaceful. Dean's tired, and he closes his eyes for half a beat before realizing. He pushes back, knocking Castiel's hands away and climbing to his feet, furious. Don’t touch me, man. Back off.
Cas obliges. He steps back, looking Dean over with a critical eye.
"You haven't been sleeping well."
Yeah. Dean turns away. He adds, even though Cas can't see it, No shit.
"It's not Hell, though."
Nope. Just same-old same-old. So you can flap your little wings and go back to whatever perch you've been manning. All's good here.
"Dean." That's Castiel's condescending voice. Dean knows.
He rolls his shoulders in a shrug. Yeah? So? Sometimes people have bad dreams, and nobody else has an angel to hold their hand. Dean'll manage just fine without divine intervention. He doesn't need or want Heaven's help.
Castiel sighs. Dean turns his head and sees him hanging his head, staring at his tax-accountant shoes. He looks up at Dean and says, "You're fixating."
Everybody's gotta psychoanalyze.
He squares his shoulders and marches into Cas's personal space. What the hell is that supposed to mean? It's just a bit of pent-up aggression. We're in between jobs and I haven't killed anything lately. I'm not 'fixating' on anything.
"I apologize. It's my fault. I should never have asked you to--"
Dean yanks his eyes away, flapping his hands, yadda yadda yadda, you're sorry, I know.
He doesn't want to talk about it. There's nothing to talk about, and even if there was something to talk about (which there's not), he really, really wouldn't want to talk about it. So he figures the talking thing doesn't have to happen.
But Castiel grabs his arm this time--which is weird, they've never touched except for the forehead thing--and turns him so that Dean can see.
"Words only have the power you give them, Dean." He stares down at Castiel, feeling the hand at his elbow pressing just-too-hard, still warm even through the clothes. He tries to ease out of that grip but Castiel holds on tighter, intent on this. "You are nothing like Alistair."
He had expected, maybe, something different. A chill to run down his spine, or his bones and teeth to ache in sympathy, maybe. Something. He wanted that word, that sound, to carry with it all of the everything that Alistair was--every fucked up minute of it. Something oppressive and dangerous and cutting. He wanted it to weigh, sink like a stone to the very bottom.
He should know by now that words never really sound like what they mean.
He dreams of Alistair with blood running out his mouth, hooking claws underneath his ribcage and pulling. The chains vibrate like a second heartbeat, an only heartbeat when his finally goes, thrum thrum thrum.
Dean spits in his face, and Alistair smiles and claws his eyes out.
Rating: FRM, for violence
Characters: Dean, Cas
Setting: 4.16, On the Head of a Pin
Summary: Fear and anger both burn slow.
22. Sweat
Say it.
Castiel narrows his eyes. "Why."
Dean thumbs the blade edge, testing. Signs words with it curled in his hands.
Because I want to know what it sounds like.
"No."
No? What do you mean, 'no'? Righteous fury. He gives all his words sharp edges and a flash of steel.
"I mean 'no,' Dean."
He throws the blade down, watching it catch light off all its angles as it skitters across the floor. It must be loud, clattering. Castiel's eyes follow it.
This is bullshit, he says, because it is. I'm big enough to make decisions like whether we should save a fucking town or not when it's a god damned seal, and you won't tell me one fucking word? Fuck you.
He means: I hate you I hate you I hate you. He does. He hates Cas, so much that it froths up underneath his skin, all blistering heat and pent-up rage. He hopes angels can read minds. Chew on that, you fucker.
He says, This is such bullshit.
Castiel's hand stretches out, like he might try to grab Dean's arm, but stops short. He draws it back near his body slowly.
"You… fixate."
Dean turns away so he doesn't have to know what else Cas is going to say, even though he'll have to hear it. No more words follow, though, maybe because Cas knows Dean isn't listening, maybe not. Dean busies his hands with the tools on the table, checking and cleaning and stowing safely. He likes to keep everything sharp. Alistair taught him that. And his dad.
"Dean," Castiel says. In a tone of voice Dean doesn't know how to interpret.
No, okay? He doesn't turn around. I don't want to talk about it.
He steals a glance. Cas's face is as expressionless as always, but his eyes are on the silver dagger Dean threw to the ground.
He has vicious nightmares. Not hellfire, but mundane, brutal violence--the kind that makes him think maybe there's something wrong with him.
He dreams about upending tables in a diner because his food comes out cold. Turning all the other hunters in the world to werewolves to make an indestructible army. Filling Sam's ears with hot oil so that he doesn't have to listen to Ruby anymore and they can be deaf together. Castiel hands him the Colt and Dean aims it back at him right between the shoulder blades, pulls the trigger on every single round.
He wakes up in a cold sweat. In the other bed, Sam is watching him with pitying furrows in his brow and his big, watery apologetic eyes. He doesn't understand that this isn't Hell--that Dean could maybe deal with Hell better, now, than he knows how to deal with this mindless, raging violence.
Dean pulls on his shoes and grabs the car keys.
He drives out of town, weaves off the highway and through the backroads until he reaches someplace far enough out that he loses the city lights. He kicks open both the passenger and driver doors and stretches out on the seat, lying on his back and looking up at the sky. The Milky Way is out, and something else that could be an airplane or a satellite or the space station. Lots of stars. And space, more of it than he knows what to do with, stretching in all directions.
It's cold, and he shivers.
What's wrong with me? he asks himself, hands dancing in the dark. He says it aloud to himself, even though he can't hear the words and knows they come out deformed and misshapen. "What's wrong with me?"
Castiel's hands are warm against either side of Dean's face, drawing his chin slightly upward as though the angel were bestowing a blessing upon him.
Dean knows that this isn't how things were a moment ago. He'd been dreaming something else, something unpleasant, but Castiel has cleared it away and cast it from his mind.
It's nice. Peaceful. Dean's tired, and he closes his eyes for half a beat before realizing. He pushes back, knocking Castiel's hands away and climbing to his feet, furious. Don’t touch me, man. Back off.
Cas obliges. He steps back, looking Dean over with a critical eye.
"You haven't been sleeping well."
Yeah. Dean turns away. He adds, even though Cas can't see it, No shit.
"It's not Hell, though."
Nope. Just same-old same-old. So you can flap your little wings and go back to whatever perch you've been manning. All's good here.
"Dean." That's Castiel's condescending voice. Dean knows.
He rolls his shoulders in a shrug. Yeah? So? Sometimes people have bad dreams, and nobody else has an angel to hold their hand. Dean'll manage just fine without divine intervention. He doesn't need or want Heaven's help.
Castiel sighs. Dean turns his head and sees him hanging his head, staring at his tax-accountant shoes. He looks up at Dean and says, "You're fixating."
Everybody's gotta psychoanalyze.
He squares his shoulders and marches into Cas's personal space. What the hell is that supposed to mean? It's just a bit of pent-up aggression. We're in between jobs and I haven't killed anything lately. I'm not 'fixating' on anything.
"I apologize. It's my fault. I should never have asked you to--"
Dean yanks his eyes away, flapping his hands, yadda yadda yadda, you're sorry, I know.
He doesn't want to talk about it. There's nothing to talk about, and even if there was something to talk about (which there's not), he really, really wouldn't want to talk about it. So he figures the talking thing doesn't have to happen.
But Castiel grabs his arm this time--which is weird, they've never touched except for the forehead thing--and turns him so that Dean can see.
"Words only have the power you give them, Dean." He stares down at Castiel, feeling the hand at his elbow pressing just-too-hard, still warm even through the clothes. He tries to ease out of that grip but Castiel holds on tighter, intent on this. "You are nothing like Alistair."
He had expected, maybe, something different. A chill to run down his spine, or his bones and teeth to ache in sympathy, maybe. Something. He wanted that word, that sound, to carry with it all of the everything that Alistair was--every fucked up minute of it. Something oppressive and dangerous and cutting. He wanted it to weigh, sink like a stone to the very bottom.
He should know by now that words never really sound like what they mean.
He dreams of Alistair with blood running out his mouth, hooking claws underneath his ribcage and pulling. The chains vibrate like a second heartbeat, an only heartbeat when his finally goes, thrum thrum thrum.
Dean spits in his face, and Alistair smiles and claws his eyes out.