SPN Fic: Popcorn
Title: Popcorn
Characters: Castiel, Dean
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Word count: 1154
Spoilers: Set mid-S4, so general references to that season's overarching plot (no spoilers for any specific episodes).
Summary: Written for the current hoodie_time h/c comment-fic meme, for this prompt by juppschmitz: "Dean is hurt somehow. How is ompletely up to the author. Can be as mild as a headache or a lifethreatening injury. (Except - no sniffles/sneezing, I'd really like there to be actual hurting.) Cas is there for Dean in his quietly compassionate way (like at the end of On The Head Of A Pin.)"
Notes: First Cas POV. Originally posted anonymously.
The wind swept up from the valley like a swarm of souls rushing to escape the abyss.
It was more than an idle fancy: he could smell the individual atoms that had once made up the population of the rural basin, hot and pungent in his nostrils, each an urgent memory of flesh, heart, liver, spleen. The smoke that billowed over the crossed spars of blackened pines held the base material of a thousand human bodies. Ash drifted silently on the lapels of his coat.
Before his eyes, the swathe of flames melted into folds of cloth. The stench of burning gave way to a faint odor of salt and synthetic butter.
Dean Winchester lay amidst a chaos of floral comforters and blood-flecked sheets, his bed strewn with glimmering scraps of foil and plastic. A paper vessel stamped with red and yellow images nestled in the crook of his elbow, rustling as he drew handfuls of softly crackling white matter from it to palm them vigorously into his mouth. Castiel noted the neat square of medical gauze taped across his left shoulder, the amber bottle of liquor placed conveniently on the table beside the book of the Lord, the lurid bruises impressed on the man's cheek and knuckles. He stood still, waiting for Dean to grow aware of his presence, but his green eyes were trained intently on the screen of the television set, where Castiel could make out a number of humans crawling through a hole in the ground. Dean seemed unusually concerned with the well-being of the electronic images.
He waited.
The scent of smoke grew stronger.
“Holy friggin' crap!”
Castiel ignored the meaningless exclamation, drawing nearer to the bed to examine the dressing on Dean's shoulder. This, he reflected, was a possibility he hadn't reckoned for. Much depended on the state of this righteous man's physical form. The severity of the wound could mean success or failure for Heaven, a thousand more lives lost to add to those whose ashes he tasted on his lips. Castiel gently touched the bandage, foreboding.
“You're injured,” he observed aloud.
“You're kidding,” Dean replied.
“No,” Castiel assured him, perplexed.
“Well, thank God you told me,” Dean grumbled. “I was wonderin' why my shoulder felt like some halfwit ginormitron plugged it with a goddamn silver bullet. Good to know,” he slurred, raising the bottle towards Castiel before taking a sloppy swallow. Castiel frowned.
“A - ginormitron?”
“Sam,” Dean corrected irritably. “We were on the trail of a werewolf out in Kensington, went down last night to take care of the sonofabitch.” He stuffed another handful of popcorn into his mouth, wincing as he shrugged one-shouldered. “Turns out I look a lot like a werewolf in the dark,” he mumbled, chewing.
“Where is he now?” Castiel inquired, but Dean's attention had returned to the television set, from which the tinny sound of motorcycle engines now issued, a harsh buzzing against the soft air that filled the room.
“Sam? Went back to finish the bastard. Stranded me here in sucky-room-service land. Left me to take all the calls coming through on the red phone to Paradise.” His fingers scrabbled absently at the edge of the bandage. “Man,” he informed Castiel, “ you stink.”
“You shouldn't tamper with the bandage, Dean,” Castiel told him calmly, ignoring the mention of the infernal miasma rising from his garments.
“Shut up,” Dean returned listlessly, glazed eyes still fixed on the moving pictures dancing behind the glass pane. Castiel watched the subtle fluctuations of the television's light across his battered face. Though he'd voiced no complaint, a tenseness lingered in the young man's brow that spoke of suffering far more eloquently than any uttered words.
“You're in pain.” Dean shrugged again, the line of his mouth tightening.
“Let me give you some advice, Cas,” he said without looking up. “Sam ever offers to dig a bullet outta your shoulder, you tell him no thanks.” Castiel considered the scenario skeptically.
“I doubt I'll ever require medical attention from your brother.”
“Well, don't say I didn't warn you.” Castiel opened his mouth to speak again, to explain to Dean the catastrophe that had brought him to this cluttered room, to list the seals that had fallen since their last meeting, to ask him how certain he was that his brother was truly out hunting for a werewolf, but before he could begin, Dean thrust out a hand, forestalling his words.
“Shh,” he commanded sharply. Castiel followed his intense gaze to the television, where a figure on a motorcycle was racing across an expanse of green fields alongside a long fence of crossed timbers. As they watched in the silence imposed by Dean's warning finger, the rider rose into the air, soaring over the top of the wooden barrier. The tiny image landed on the other side, accompanied an enthusiastic cheer of approval from Dean, who raised his bottle once more and swilled the alcohol within with renewed glee.
Castiel seated himself on the second bed and studied the dilapidated human across from him, bemused and troubled. Dean was a collection of errors: skin overheated and clammy, muscles bundled tight beneath the surface, nerves hitched into uncomfortable arrays of ill use. Already a ledger of old injuries had begun to etch itself across the surface of his body; Castiel could see raw scars tracing their regretful pattern along his bare, unshaven legs. And beneath the exterior flaws surged a morass of doubt and torment so bleak that Castiel wondered how long the soul that held it would remain worth saving. He marveled that the man propped on the bed before him, chewing idly on his lower lip and groping unsuccessfully in the empty grease-stained package, bore so little resemblance to the hideous, broken thing he had dragged from the pit.
“Dude, if you're just gonna sit there and leer at me … ” Dean wadded up the paper bag and tossed it at Castiel's head. “At least go make some more popcorn.”
Castiel looked at the crumpled pouch in his lap.
“I don't know how.”
“Just go get that box off the table,” Dean directed, rolling his eyes. “I'll walk you through it.”
Trust to Dean to put the plans of Heaven on hold for butter-infused cereal. Castiel had the feeling he would never quite understand the priorities humans clung to, always more illogical and troublesome in times of catastrophe. When reason and action were called for above all, man sought pleasure and indolence.
It was senseless, Castiel reflected as he pressed the buttons Dean's cranky voice indicated (“No, down one - no, over - the one that says Popcorn, ya moron”). But perhaps, after all, a righteous man deserved whatever senselessness he craved.
If only for a little while.
Characters: Castiel, Dean
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Word count: 1154
Spoilers: Set mid-S4, so general references to that season's overarching plot (no spoilers for any specific episodes).
Summary: Written for the current hoodie_time h/c comment-fic meme, for this prompt by juppschmitz: "Dean is hurt somehow. How is ompletely up to the author. Can be as mild as a headache or a lifethreatening injury. (Except - no sniffles/sneezing, I'd really like there to be actual hurting.) Cas is there for Dean in his quietly compassionate way (like at the end of On The Head Of A Pin.)"
Notes: First Cas POV. Originally posted anonymously.
The wind swept up from the valley like a swarm of souls rushing to escape the abyss.
It was more than an idle fancy: he could smell the individual atoms that had once made up the population of the rural basin, hot and pungent in his nostrils, each an urgent memory of flesh, heart, liver, spleen. The smoke that billowed over the crossed spars of blackened pines held the base material of a thousand human bodies. Ash drifted silently on the lapels of his coat.
Before his eyes, the swathe of flames melted into folds of cloth. The stench of burning gave way to a faint odor of salt and synthetic butter.
Dean Winchester lay amidst a chaos of floral comforters and blood-flecked sheets, his bed strewn with glimmering scraps of foil and plastic. A paper vessel stamped with red and yellow images nestled in the crook of his elbow, rustling as he drew handfuls of softly crackling white matter from it to palm them vigorously into his mouth. Castiel noted the neat square of medical gauze taped across his left shoulder, the amber bottle of liquor placed conveniently on the table beside the book of the Lord, the lurid bruises impressed on the man's cheek and knuckles. He stood still, waiting for Dean to grow aware of his presence, but his green eyes were trained intently on the screen of the television set, where Castiel could make out a number of humans crawling through a hole in the ground. Dean seemed unusually concerned with the well-being of the electronic images.
He waited.
The scent of smoke grew stronger.
“Holy friggin' crap!”
Castiel ignored the meaningless exclamation, drawing nearer to the bed to examine the dressing on Dean's shoulder. This, he reflected, was a possibility he hadn't reckoned for. Much depended on the state of this righteous man's physical form. The severity of the wound could mean success or failure for Heaven, a thousand more lives lost to add to those whose ashes he tasted on his lips. Castiel gently touched the bandage, foreboding.
“You're injured,” he observed aloud.
“You're kidding,” Dean replied.
“No,” Castiel assured him, perplexed.
“Well, thank God you told me,” Dean grumbled. “I was wonderin' why my shoulder felt like some halfwit ginormitron plugged it with a goddamn silver bullet. Good to know,” he slurred, raising the bottle towards Castiel before taking a sloppy swallow. Castiel frowned.
“A - ginormitron?”
“Sam,” Dean corrected irritably. “We were on the trail of a werewolf out in Kensington, went down last night to take care of the sonofabitch.” He stuffed another handful of popcorn into his mouth, wincing as he shrugged one-shouldered. “Turns out I look a lot like a werewolf in the dark,” he mumbled, chewing.
“Where is he now?” Castiel inquired, but Dean's attention had returned to the television set, from which the tinny sound of motorcycle engines now issued, a harsh buzzing against the soft air that filled the room.
“Sam? Went back to finish the bastard. Stranded me here in sucky-room-service land. Left me to take all the calls coming through on the red phone to Paradise.” His fingers scrabbled absently at the edge of the bandage. “Man,” he informed Castiel, “ you stink.”
“You shouldn't tamper with the bandage, Dean,” Castiel told him calmly, ignoring the mention of the infernal miasma rising from his garments.
“Shut up,” Dean returned listlessly, glazed eyes still fixed on the moving pictures dancing behind the glass pane. Castiel watched the subtle fluctuations of the television's light across his battered face. Though he'd voiced no complaint, a tenseness lingered in the young man's brow that spoke of suffering far more eloquently than any uttered words.
“You're in pain.” Dean shrugged again, the line of his mouth tightening.
“Let me give you some advice, Cas,” he said without looking up. “Sam ever offers to dig a bullet outta your shoulder, you tell him no thanks.” Castiel considered the scenario skeptically.
“I doubt I'll ever require medical attention from your brother.”
“Well, don't say I didn't warn you.” Castiel opened his mouth to speak again, to explain to Dean the catastrophe that had brought him to this cluttered room, to list the seals that had fallen since their last meeting, to ask him how certain he was that his brother was truly out hunting for a werewolf, but before he could begin, Dean thrust out a hand, forestalling his words.
“Shh,” he commanded sharply. Castiel followed his intense gaze to the television, where a figure on a motorcycle was racing across an expanse of green fields alongside a long fence of crossed timbers. As they watched in the silence imposed by Dean's warning finger, the rider rose into the air, soaring over the top of the wooden barrier. The tiny image landed on the other side, accompanied an enthusiastic cheer of approval from Dean, who raised his bottle once more and swilled the alcohol within with renewed glee.
Castiel seated himself on the second bed and studied the dilapidated human across from him, bemused and troubled. Dean was a collection of errors: skin overheated and clammy, muscles bundled tight beneath the surface, nerves hitched into uncomfortable arrays of ill use. Already a ledger of old injuries had begun to etch itself across the surface of his body; Castiel could see raw scars tracing their regretful pattern along his bare, unshaven legs. And beneath the exterior flaws surged a morass of doubt and torment so bleak that Castiel wondered how long the soul that held it would remain worth saving. He marveled that the man propped on the bed before him, chewing idly on his lower lip and groping unsuccessfully in the empty grease-stained package, bore so little resemblance to the hideous, broken thing he had dragged from the pit.
“Dude, if you're just gonna sit there and leer at me … ” Dean wadded up the paper bag and tossed it at Castiel's head. “At least go make some more popcorn.”
Castiel looked at the crumpled pouch in his lap.
“I don't know how.”
“Just go get that box off the table,” Dean directed, rolling his eyes. “I'll walk you through it.”
Trust to Dean to put the plans of Heaven on hold for butter-infused cereal. Castiel had the feeling he would never quite understand the priorities humans clung to, always more illogical and troublesome in times of catastrophe. When reason and action were called for above all, man sought pleasure and indolence.
It was senseless, Castiel reflected as he pressed the buttons Dean's cranky voice indicated (“No, down one - no, over - the one that says Popcorn, ya moron”). But perhaps, after all, a righteous man deserved whatever senselessness he craved.
If only for a little while.