a subtle, aching tone.
soft and bright
Dean/Cas. ~800 words. Happens somewhere in the middle of season six.
He's alone in a dark motel room, Sam having gone off to the library to research something he'd only half-explained to Dean while probably actually confusing him even more. He's somewhere between asleep and awake when he registers the sound of light raindrops on the ground outside. And then there's a sound he'd mistake for the wind if the room wasn't suddenly brighter somehow; it's more of a sensation than anything else, like an invisible flame radiating warmth across the entire room. He's pretty sure that part is a dream, but then he's fully awake, and something's still definitely in the room with him.
He rolls over quickly towards the window, eyes opening wide.
"Cas?" he whispers, recognising the silhouette against the curtains.
"Hello, Dean." His voice is really fine, especially for him. His face is still turned away.
Dean sighs. He doesn't move to turn on the lights, but just sits up at the edge of the bed, rubs a hand across his face.
"You okay?" he says to the shadowed figure, and maybe he'd be less gentle in daylight. Or more worried maybe.
"I'm fine." He turns around finally. And he doesn't look the best Dean's ever seen him, but it doesn't appear to be a physical thing anyway. Maybe it's worse this way. Physical war wounds heal, after all.
He sits on the bed an arm's length away from Dean.
"It's just...hard right now," he says.
"Yeah, I bet it is." And Dean could never really understand it, having to kill your own kind, your own family, but he can imagine. He's seen enough people die, felt responsible enough for a lot of them, seen the pain of all the souls he'd tortured in the pit.
"How do you do it, Dean?"
"Do what?"
"How do you always know what the right thing is?"
He looks up at Dean now, and he reminds him so much of a child asking for answers no one can ever give him. (And Dean's seen that before. He's seen it with Sam. He's been that kid, wanting to scream up at the sky and ask what was the point of all the evil and death and destruction, what was the fucking point of any of it. Only there was no one to ask those questions.) Dean feels kind of useless.
"I don't," he says honestly. "I just...I guess I just try to do what I can to help those who can't help themselves. Protect who I can. I learnt a long time ago that you can't save everyone. Not even if you're, well, you."
"I guess not. So what about you?"
"Me?"
"No one protects you. You don't even protect yourself. You still don't think you deserve to be saved." Cas smiles sort of sadly at that.
"That was one of the first things you ever said to me." He feels wistful suddenly.
"Back when you didn't believe in angels." And Dean has to smile too at that.
"Everything was simpler then. I kind of miss those times, actually."
"Yeah, me too."
Dean looks across at him curiously.
"I miss when things were simpler too," he clarifies, softly. Dean can see the memories behind his eyes, more memories and more time than he could probably ever fathom.
"Well, it's not all bad," Dean says eventually. "I mean, even with the apocalypse and the total shit storm, there's been bright spots."
"There has?"
"Yes," Dean says firmly. He looks directly at him for the first time, and he sees something change on his face. Sees something crack, then soften, then almost burn.
He moves forward slightly, and it feels like there's a magnetic force drawing Dean's eyes to his face even as he feels more exposed than he's ever been under Cas's too-bright, too-blue gaze.
He can't move away either when Cas is right inside his space, and he leans into it immediately when Cas's lips ghost over his.
It feels way too short when he pulls away, eyes still shut. Dean's eyes are wide open, searching. Cas's face looks peaceful now, and he feels like that itself is an accomplishment. His eyes open, and he doesn't smile though, just looks a little uncertain, a little lost. (He realises vaguely that the rain's stopped. And it's so quiet.) Dean thinks he's probably about to disappear when he reaches a hand out on instinct and rests it over Cas's on the bed. Cas looks up at him again, gives a tiny smile.
"I'll see you soon, Dean," he says, and then Dean's only looking at thin air. He curls his still-extended hand into the mattress.
He falls asleep almost immediately. There's something calming still in the room, like a presence, otherworldly but not malevolent in the slightest. He dreams about bright shapes and trying to catch raindrops that look like liquid light. They run out of his hands and flow in rivulets for as far as he can see. There's a sun somewhere out in the distance that looks like it's melting.
When he wakes up, he can still taste something soft and bright and indescribable on his lips.
Dean/Cas. ~800 words. Happens somewhere in the middle of season six.
He's alone in a dark motel room, Sam having gone off to the library to research something he'd only half-explained to Dean while probably actually confusing him even more. He's somewhere between asleep and awake when he registers the sound of light raindrops on the ground outside. And then there's a sound he'd mistake for the wind if the room wasn't suddenly brighter somehow; it's more of a sensation than anything else, like an invisible flame radiating warmth across the entire room. He's pretty sure that part is a dream, but then he's fully awake, and something's still definitely in the room with him.
He rolls over quickly towards the window, eyes opening wide.
"Cas?" he whispers, recognising the silhouette against the curtains.
"Hello, Dean." His voice is really fine, especially for him. His face is still turned away.
Dean sighs. He doesn't move to turn on the lights, but just sits up at the edge of the bed, rubs a hand across his face.
"You okay?" he says to the shadowed figure, and maybe he'd be less gentle in daylight. Or more worried maybe.
"I'm fine." He turns around finally. And he doesn't look the best Dean's ever seen him, but it doesn't appear to be a physical thing anyway. Maybe it's worse this way. Physical war wounds heal, after all.
He sits on the bed an arm's length away from Dean.
"It's just...hard right now," he says.
"Yeah, I bet it is." And Dean could never really understand it, having to kill your own kind, your own family, but he can imagine. He's seen enough people die, felt responsible enough for a lot of them, seen the pain of all the souls he'd tortured in the pit.
"How do you do it, Dean?"
"Do what?"
"How do you always know what the right thing is?"
He looks up at Dean now, and he reminds him so much of a child asking for answers no one can ever give him. (And Dean's seen that before. He's seen it with Sam. He's been that kid, wanting to scream up at the sky and ask what was the point of all the evil and death and destruction, what was the fucking point of any of it. Only there was no one to ask those questions.) Dean feels kind of useless.
"I don't," he says honestly. "I just...I guess I just try to do what I can to help those who can't help themselves. Protect who I can. I learnt a long time ago that you can't save everyone. Not even if you're, well, you."
"I guess not. So what about you?"
"Me?"
"No one protects you. You don't even protect yourself. You still don't think you deserve to be saved." Cas smiles sort of sadly at that.
"That was one of the first things you ever said to me." He feels wistful suddenly.
"Back when you didn't believe in angels." And Dean has to smile too at that.
"Everything was simpler then. I kind of miss those times, actually."
"Yeah, me too."
Dean looks across at him curiously.
"I miss when things were simpler too," he clarifies, softly. Dean can see the memories behind his eyes, more memories and more time than he could probably ever fathom.
"Well, it's not all bad," Dean says eventually. "I mean, even with the apocalypse and the total shit storm, there's been bright spots."
"There has?"
"Yes," Dean says firmly. He looks directly at him for the first time, and he sees something change on his face. Sees something crack, then soften, then almost burn.
He moves forward slightly, and it feels like there's a magnetic force drawing Dean's eyes to his face even as he feels more exposed than he's ever been under Cas's too-bright, too-blue gaze.
He can't move away either when Cas is right inside his space, and he leans into it immediately when Cas's lips ghost over his.
It feels way too short when he pulls away, eyes still shut. Dean's eyes are wide open, searching. Cas's face looks peaceful now, and he feels like that itself is an accomplishment. His eyes open, and he doesn't smile though, just looks a little uncertain, a little lost. (He realises vaguely that the rain's stopped. And it's so quiet.) Dean thinks he's probably about to disappear when he reaches a hand out on instinct and rests it over Cas's on the bed. Cas looks up at him again, gives a tiny smile.
"I'll see you soon, Dean," he says, and then Dean's only looking at thin air. He curls his still-extended hand into the mattress.
He falls asleep almost immediately. There's something calming still in the room, like a presence, otherworldly but not malevolent in the slightest. He dreams about bright shapes and trying to catch raindrops that look like liquid light. They run out of his hands and flow in rivulets for as far as he can see. There's a sun somewhere out in the distance that looks like it's melting.
When he wakes up, he can still taste something soft and bright and indescribable on his lips.