fic: solitude
Title: solitude
Author: puchuupoet
Word Count: ~1600
Characters: Dean, Cas
Rating: pg
Heads-up: Spoilers for eps previous to 7.03
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened, completely fictional.
Notes: Inspired by cafe-de-labeill's Advent calender artwork and Oh, Starling's God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Thanks to playthefool for the beta and feedback ♥
Dean finally wakes up when the front door slams shut, the sour taste of breathing with an open mouth staining his tongue. His forearm is still covering his eyes, and his shoulder cracks when he slowly moves it off his face. The ceiling's stained with blots of yellow, god knows what sort of liquid, but it's the same ceiling he stared at before he fell asleep. At least the world hasn't ended during his nap. Little Christmas miracles and all that.
There's an odd glow to the room though, and with a groan Dean rolls himself into a sitting position. Dean's almost surpised that no one has seriously tried to take him out during the holidays, with the way he drinks. This year more than usual, but he'd rather not admit to that. It's hard enough to meet Sam's narrowed gaze these days, even if his brother is more curious than accustatory.
A glace around the motel room shows that the earlier door slam was an exit on Sam's part, although not before leaving a few things behind for Dean. There's a small tree on the table by the window, scattered with small white lights, a single present underneath it. Everything else in the room is in place: the other bed made, duffels on the floor by Dean's boots.
Dean rolls his shoulders before getting up, thankful for the thick socks he has on. Another benefit of shopping during this time, despite the crowds: craploads of sales for stocking up and splurging on. He appreciates the chill on the rest of his body though, the cool air forcing him awake. There's been a downswing in activity lately, or maybe Sam's just driving to avoid it, but Dean's spent the past couple of weeks in a fog, his body going through the motions for him.
He shuffles towards the tree, letting the miniscule lights guide him. He cautiously sits down on the table, waiting until he knows for sure it can take his weight. Shoving the curtain aside, Dean presses his forehead against the glass. It's dark outside, but the parking lot lights show that it's snowing, the flakes coming down in a constant haze of white. The Impala's gone, and Dean has to force himself to care, which worries him more than the car's absence.
There's a small index card tucked on top of the package, Dean scribbled on it. Dean picks it up, flipping it over to read it.
Took the car to stock up before the big storm hits. Text if you want anything special. And open your present.
Dean picks up the present, the curtain falling back into place when he leans forward. He rips the newspaper off, curious as to what Sam could have picked up for him without him knowing. There's a second box within the first one, this one held tightly together with duct tape, and Dean grins as he wrestles with it.
He finally get the second box open, and when he lifts the lid his breath catches in his throat. There's a small face looking back up at him, pink cheeked and a small curl of hair dipping out from the furred hood. When Dean removes the figure he sees that it's an angel, the small wings unfolding once free from the box. The gown billows out in soft folds, tiny hands clasped together in prayer, and a tinsel halo shimmers above its head on a wire frame.
Dean's grip on it tightens as he stares at it, and he's reminded of the tan trenchcoat still folded in the back of the Impala's trunk. He almost wishes Sam was here, just so Dean could ask him what the fuck he was thinking, giving him this, but the energy leaves him almost as quickly as it hit, and he slumps back against the glass.
"It's not fucking fair," his voice cracks in the darkness. "Such a dumbass." And he wishes Cas was around still, so he could apologize. For not being there, for being there too late, for every dumb fucking thing they both did to get to this point. "Dammit, Cas."
The angel's robes encircle a cone, and Dean places it on the top of the tree. It sits there perfectly, as if it was made for that tree, and Dean shoves the curtain out of the way again. The lot's practically empty, save for a few cars and trucks at the far end, but the Impala's still gone. The sight's been a familiar one to Dean for some twenty-odd years now, ever since his dad left him alone in charge of Sam. A sudden sense of aloneness clenches at Dean's chest, and he reaches up to the angel, his hand settling on the robes. They're made of a soft fabric, the hood and sleeves ringed with some sort of fur, and Dean unconsciously strokes at it, petting the fibers into place.
Solitude during the holidays is nothing new to Dean, but whenever his face has been pressed to the window like this, it's been with the expectation of someone arriving home after a long trip. This time, though. Dean's index finger drags over the angel's wing, hesitating at the tip before dropping back down to rest on his thigh.
Dean stands suddenly, the movement causing the table and tree to shake. The holidays are made for memories, and memories are why alcohol was invented. The bottle's still on the kitchenette counter, Sam having learned that there's no use in trying to hide it anymore. Dean knows he's the only one drinking at this point, so he just tips the bottle up, taking a long drink until his throat can't take it, and he drops the bottle down, coughing at the burn. He takes two more drinks from the bottle, until his throat's too numb to burn at the taste.
Slumped against the refrigerator, Dean's pretty sure he can't get any lower, unless his legs decide to suddenly give out on him. He eyes the bottle cautiously before twisting the cap back on, pretty sure he won't need any more for the time being. He doesn't like this dependency, hasn't for at least the past few years, but he doesn't know anything else that can work as well on him as the liquor does.
He waits a few minutes, back pressed against the fridge, until he can feel the liquor in his fingertips and toes. Reassured that one shot's enough, Dean heads back towards his bed, the tree a warm blur to his right.
A sharp knock on the door catches him off-guard, his toe dragging in the carpet, almost causing him to fall. Sam has a key, and no one else knows he's here. Dean mentally counts up the days they've been here in his head, pretty sure that they're paid up until the end of the week.
The peephole is fogged over when Dean looks through it, and the figure on the other side is a blur. Dean cautiously opens the door, not bothering with the chain dangling to the side. The cold air hits him hard, the wind having picked up speed since he last glanced out the window. The flakes are sharp pinpricks against his skin, and Dean shields his face against them, his eyes glancing down against the onslaught. "Yeah?"
"Dean."
The voice sends a sharp chill racing down Dean's spine, and his gaze moves up over familiar territory. The slacks are threadbare and worn, and the edges of the tan coat are frayed and muddied brown. Dean has to remind himself to breathe when his eyes lock with stark blue ones, and he braces himself against the doorframe.
"Cas..."
He doesn't move when Dean says his name, and Dean grips at the wooden doorframe. "How do I know it's really you? If you even still exist?"
Castiel reaches into his pocket, rummaging for something. He holds his fist out, and Dean hesitates a moment before extending an open palm. A recognizable weight drops into his hand, and Dean's fingers instinctively close around it.
"No." Dean's not ready for this. He's too drunk, too alone right now. He's come to terms with the past as best he can, and he's not ready for his past to come confront him like this.
"I didn't know any other way to convince you of my authenticity."
"How long have you had it?"
Castiel's eyes drop to his shoes, and there's an uncertainty there that Dean hasn't seen in a long time. His body moves before his mind's able to start overthinking things, the alcohol urging him on. His fingers bump against cold stiff fabric, and he grips and tugs, pulling Castiel off-balance. The angel falls against Dean, hands scrabbling for purchase against Dean's shirt, and Dean just pulls him closer.
"How long?" His voice is harsh, the words clipped short.
"Ever since..." Castiel's touch is hesitant against Dean's sides, and Dean wraps one of his arms around Castiel's waist, his fingers still clenched tight around the amulet.
"You dumbass angel, or whatever the hell it is you are now." Dean buries his face in Castiel's neck before he can keep talking. Why'd you do it? When did I first fail you?
"Yours." Castiel's voice takes on a sudden confidence, and it takes Dean a moment to realize what he's admitting. He starts to pull back, to look Castiel in the eye, but then Castiel's running fingers through Dean's hair, holding him in place. "I'm yours, if you'll have me."
All Dean is capable of is grabbing onto the trenchcoat and pulling Castiel inside.
Author: puchuupoet
Word Count: ~1600
Characters: Dean, Cas
Rating: pg
Heads-up: Spoilers for eps previous to 7.03
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened, completely fictional.
Notes: Inspired by cafe-de-labeill's Advent calender artwork and Oh, Starling's God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Thanks to playthefool for the beta and feedback ♥
Dean finally wakes up when the front door slams shut, the sour taste of breathing with an open mouth staining his tongue. His forearm is still covering his eyes, and his shoulder cracks when he slowly moves it off his face. The ceiling's stained with blots of yellow, god knows what sort of liquid, but it's the same ceiling he stared at before he fell asleep. At least the world hasn't ended during his nap. Little Christmas miracles and all that.
There's an odd glow to the room though, and with a groan Dean rolls himself into a sitting position. Dean's almost surpised that no one has seriously tried to take him out during the holidays, with the way he drinks. This year more than usual, but he'd rather not admit to that. It's hard enough to meet Sam's narrowed gaze these days, even if his brother is more curious than accustatory.
A glace around the motel room shows that the earlier door slam was an exit on Sam's part, although not before leaving a few things behind for Dean. There's a small tree on the table by the window, scattered with small white lights, a single present underneath it. Everything else in the room is in place: the other bed made, duffels on the floor by Dean's boots.
Dean rolls his shoulders before getting up, thankful for the thick socks he has on. Another benefit of shopping during this time, despite the crowds: craploads of sales for stocking up and splurging on. He appreciates the chill on the rest of his body though, the cool air forcing him awake. There's been a downswing in activity lately, or maybe Sam's just driving to avoid it, but Dean's spent the past couple of weeks in a fog, his body going through the motions for him.
He shuffles towards the tree, letting the miniscule lights guide him. He cautiously sits down on the table, waiting until he knows for sure it can take his weight. Shoving the curtain aside, Dean presses his forehead against the glass. It's dark outside, but the parking lot lights show that it's snowing, the flakes coming down in a constant haze of white. The Impala's gone, and Dean has to force himself to care, which worries him more than the car's absence.
There's a small index card tucked on top of the package, Dean scribbled on it. Dean picks it up, flipping it over to read it.
Took the car to stock up before the big storm hits. Text if you want anything special. And open your present.
Dean picks up the present, the curtain falling back into place when he leans forward. He rips the newspaper off, curious as to what Sam could have picked up for him without him knowing. There's a second box within the first one, this one held tightly together with duct tape, and Dean grins as he wrestles with it.
He finally get the second box open, and when he lifts the lid his breath catches in his throat. There's a small face looking back up at him, pink cheeked and a small curl of hair dipping out from the furred hood. When Dean removes the figure he sees that it's an angel, the small wings unfolding once free from the box. The gown billows out in soft folds, tiny hands clasped together in prayer, and a tinsel halo shimmers above its head on a wire frame.
Dean's grip on it tightens as he stares at it, and he's reminded of the tan trenchcoat still folded in the back of the Impala's trunk. He almost wishes Sam was here, just so Dean could ask him what the fuck he was thinking, giving him this, but the energy leaves him almost as quickly as it hit, and he slumps back against the glass.
"It's not fucking fair," his voice cracks in the darkness. "Such a dumbass." And he wishes Cas was around still, so he could apologize. For not being there, for being there too late, for every dumb fucking thing they both did to get to this point. "Dammit, Cas."
The angel's robes encircle a cone, and Dean places it on the top of the tree. It sits there perfectly, as if it was made for that tree, and Dean shoves the curtain out of the way again. The lot's practically empty, save for a few cars and trucks at the far end, but the Impala's still gone. The sight's been a familiar one to Dean for some twenty-odd years now, ever since his dad left him alone in charge of Sam. A sudden sense of aloneness clenches at Dean's chest, and he reaches up to the angel, his hand settling on the robes. They're made of a soft fabric, the hood and sleeves ringed with some sort of fur, and Dean unconsciously strokes at it, petting the fibers into place.
Solitude during the holidays is nothing new to Dean, but whenever his face has been pressed to the window like this, it's been with the expectation of someone arriving home after a long trip. This time, though. Dean's index finger drags over the angel's wing, hesitating at the tip before dropping back down to rest on his thigh.
Dean stands suddenly, the movement causing the table and tree to shake. The holidays are made for memories, and memories are why alcohol was invented. The bottle's still on the kitchenette counter, Sam having learned that there's no use in trying to hide it anymore. Dean knows he's the only one drinking at this point, so he just tips the bottle up, taking a long drink until his throat can't take it, and he drops the bottle down, coughing at the burn. He takes two more drinks from the bottle, until his throat's too numb to burn at the taste.
Slumped against the refrigerator, Dean's pretty sure he can't get any lower, unless his legs decide to suddenly give out on him. He eyes the bottle cautiously before twisting the cap back on, pretty sure he won't need any more for the time being. He doesn't like this dependency, hasn't for at least the past few years, but he doesn't know anything else that can work as well on him as the liquor does.
He waits a few minutes, back pressed against the fridge, until he can feel the liquor in his fingertips and toes. Reassured that one shot's enough, Dean heads back towards his bed, the tree a warm blur to his right.
A sharp knock on the door catches him off-guard, his toe dragging in the carpet, almost causing him to fall. Sam has a key, and no one else knows he's here. Dean mentally counts up the days they've been here in his head, pretty sure that they're paid up until the end of the week.
The peephole is fogged over when Dean looks through it, and the figure on the other side is a blur. Dean cautiously opens the door, not bothering with the chain dangling to the side. The cold air hits him hard, the wind having picked up speed since he last glanced out the window. The flakes are sharp pinpricks against his skin, and Dean shields his face against them, his eyes glancing down against the onslaught. "Yeah?"
"Dean."
The voice sends a sharp chill racing down Dean's spine, and his gaze moves up over familiar territory. The slacks are threadbare and worn, and the edges of the tan coat are frayed and muddied brown. Dean has to remind himself to breathe when his eyes lock with stark blue ones, and he braces himself against the doorframe.
"Cas..."
He doesn't move when Dean says his name, and Dean grips at the wooden doorframe. "How do I know it's really you? If you even still exist?"
Castiel reaches into his pocket, rummaging for something. He holds his fist out, and Dean hesitates a moment before extending an open palm. A recognizable weight drops into his hand, and Dean's fingers instinctively close around it.
"No." Dean's not ready for this. He's too drunk, too alone right now. He's come to terms with the past as best he can, and he's not ready for his past to come confront him like this.
"I didn't know any other way to convince you of my authenticity."
"How long have you had it?"
Castiel's eyes drop to his shoes, and there's an uncertainty there that Dean hasn't seen in a long time. His body moves before his mind's able to start overthinking things, the alcohol urging him on. His fingers bump against cold stiff fabric, and he grips and tugs, pulling Castiel off-balance. The angel falls against Dean, hands scrabbling for purchase against Dean's shirt, and Dean just pulls him closer.
"How long?" His voice is harsh, the words clipped short.
"Ever since..." Castiel's touch is hesitant against Dean's sides, and Dean wraps one of his arms around Castiel's waist, his fingers still clenched tight around the amulet.
"You dumbass angel, or whatever the hell it is you are now." Dean buries his face in Castiel's neck before he can keep talking. Why'd you do it? When did I first fail you?
"Yours." Castiel's voice takes on a sudden confidence, and it takes Dean a moment to realize what he's admitting. He starts to pull back, to look Castiel in the eye, but then Castiel's running fingers through Dean's hair, holding him in place. "I'm yours, if you'll have me."
All Dean is capable of is grabbing onto the trenchcoat and pulling Castiel inside.