dean/castiel: oh every city's seen the setting sun: (1/1)
title; oh every city’s seen the setting sun (so c’mon, lay your halo down)
author; fiveto_midnight
rating; r
fandom; supernatural
warnings; some blood, language
genre(s); apocafic
character(s); dean, castiel, chuck, risa,
pairing(s); dean/castiel
word count; 1.265
spoilers; through 5.04
disclaimer; nope, don’t own a thing here.
notes; this was inspired by cormac mccarthy’s amazing novel the road (and for those who read it, you'll probably notice small things from it, in here), and was basically written in economy class out of sheer boredom, haha. i’ve basically returned to being on a complete zombie/post-apocalypse kick after reading that, and I really recommend reading it! as for this, I don’t really know what to say, it speaks for itself, I suppose.
summary; dean lifts a loose flap of the dirty grey mask covering his face, scratches his chin, feeling his nails catch in the eleven o’clock shadow grown seemingly permanently there. outside the snow fall has eased over into ashes, and the grey, wet slush that results thickens over the road.
A wind whines around the corners of the city. They bunk out in an old abandoned building in the middle of the city that looks like God’s lone wrath had reigned down upon it. Chairs and furniture littered, wallpaper peeled and gray except for the odd spot where it is still its original green.
Dean lifts a loose flap of the dirty grey mask covering his face, scratches his chin, feeling his nails catch in the eleven o’clock shadow grown seemingly permanently there. Outside the snow fall has eased over into ashes, and the grey, wet slush that results thickens over the road.
It’ll be a right bitch ploughing the truck through it back to camp.
Dean sniffles, his head is pounding. Not many of them have managed to miss out on a cold this year.
The door groans open on hinges that are half defeated by corrosion.
“At this hour, I doubt even a Croat chooses to show up. I had to steal Chuck’s snowboarding glasses right off him to even get in here,” Cas remarks, casually sliding up the path over the floor that’s been cleared.
Dean thinks he talks entirely too much these days, but he doesn’t answer, or even say anything. Cas doesn’t seem to give a shit either way.
“Winter’ll be shit cold,” Cas states, juggling swears on his tongue Dean still won’t accept he uses.
“We’ll stay here till after four, after that it’ll be too dark outside to go back,” Dean says. He wills his voice to be hard, instead of tired. He’s not feeling tired.
But maybe that’s the problem.
“Dean,” Cas is leaning against a turned over on its side table, speckled with mold. Dean doesn’t know how it hasn’t fallen apart yet, despite the fact that Cas is as thin as a fucking stick.
It’s not like any of them are anything else.
“No Cas, half an hour, that’s not negotiable.”
“You didn’t hear me out.”
“Well I didn’t need to. We’re not leaving until we absolutely have to.”
Cas has stopped studying his gun, not any longer playing with the hammer and staring down the barrel as though it’s a damn toy and not a weapon, instead looking up. But Dean pushes past him, targeting the door.
Their fingertips briefly connect when Cas slips a cigarette down Dean’s pocket. He tries to slap it away, but doesn’t succeed.
The sky is heavy with foreboding and grey and by the sidewalk Risa is patrolling with her leather jacket wound tightly around her shoulders, her automatic steadied under her armpit. Chuck is drawing maps in the wet ashes.
He sometimes wishes they hadn’t been each on his own, in all this shit.
Nothing happens for days.
Dean is restless. He’s on the edge whenever Chuck communicates with the military in stutters and silences that stretches on for far too long each time.
“Yessir. Wh-what’s happening on the front?”
Dean is usually the one to take care of communications between Camp Chitaqua and the base in Kansas, but he drunk far too much last night, and with Risa nagging you, there is just nothing to do. Especially not while you’re hung over.
Dean stretches out on the bed and buries his head in his pillow that is damp with sweat and also cold with it. Chuck’s whiny voice is bouncing between the walls in the cottage and makes it unable to go back to sleep.
He looks around through bleary eyes, sees how daylight is barely spread out through the clouds, sees his clothes and knife set and an empty Jack Daniels bottle spread out over the fucking pshycadelic carpet that is red with vomit green/yellow swirls on.
It’s from Cas, of course it is.
He gets up but doesn’t miss the leak in the roof nor the orange cap with the small white pills on his bedside table.
“Fucker,” Dean curses as he stumbles into the jeans from yesterday, still feeling half drunk and not cut out for this and like Cas has done something that’s unforgivable.
Like ever even thinking of falling for Dean.
He pushes past Risa and Chuck who are argue about supplies but abruptly silences when Dean emerges from the door.
He’s shirtless and the cold knocks the breath out of him but he pushes it all away as he makes his way over to Cas’ cottage.
The fucker is already leaning against the doorway, shadow indistinguishable amongst the smoke that furls in the air, the look on his face like he already fucking knew Dean was coming.
And of course he would know that.
Dean slams him up against the wall, grips his sides and can feel how his nails catch at the stairs of ribs winding themselves up his thin torso.
Cas’ grin is fearless and his chuckle is black, but he says “Our fearless leader is, as always, really fucking stubborn, isn’t he just,” like he doesn’t have any faith left.
With good reason.
“Shut up,” Dean growls, gripping Cas’ sides harder, before he kisses him hard. He wants to physically knock the wind out of Cas, make him step down from that high horse he’s gotten onto since he fell (which in context is just fucking ironic, it catches Dean off guard.)
Cas’ tongue is filthy on Dean’s, twisting and lapping while the former angel winds himself around Dean like a wine grappling onto a wall.
Dean thinks he should feel warm but he’s just feeling cold and something twists in the bottom of his stomach, wriggling like a worm and he knows things are about to go down.
Dean doesn’t know how the fuck it happened, but it did.
The smoke is black and rotten and burnt wood is piling on the snow and ashes and underneath it all, the asphalt, searing and already torn. It’s so much worse than anything Dean’s ever had down his throat, but his mindset is set on forth forth forth.
He’s holding out one arm and the other is cradling his nose and burn chapped lips as he continues to crawl on his knees forward, his mask discarded somewhere a long time ago.
Woodchips digs into his knees, so does glass, catching and breaking the skin and leaving bloodied trails from the door towards the end of the hallway that’s a straight inferno of hellfire.
Cas meets him half way, he’s discarded his gun in the kitchen, but strapped underneath some gauze wound around the back of his hand and across his palm, is Ruby’s demon knife.
Somehow, Dean manages to get up and wind his arm around Cas’ waist, and they both simultaneously kick down the door and collapse coughing up half a lung each outside.
Dean’s precise and skilled enough with a knife to shave in a cracked mirror. But now, his hands are shaking. Shaking so badly he feels frustration up in the back of his head, throbbing fast and relentless, as the burnt ends of Cas’ hair becomes jagged with Dean’s unsteady cut.
“Damnit,” he curses, and stands abruptly.
Cas remain still on the floor, gaze awash with something otherworldly and god, he be damned, knows what.
Dean paces, something he feels he hasn’t done for five years now.
They sit in silence when he eventually reigns himself in, Cas sliding his fingers over his new gun, pulling back the hammer, letting his palm broaden out over the barrel, study the smooth transitions from wood to metal.
Dean severs burnt piece of hair after burnt piece of hair while his palms ache with cuts from glass and woodchips.
“Someone once said they thought the world was going to end in fire,” Cas says.
“No, they didn’t,” he replies.
author; fiveto_midnight
rating; r
fandom; supernatural
warnings; some blood, language
genre(s); apocafic
character(s); dean, castiel, chuck, risa,
pairing(s); dean/castiel
word count; 1.265
spoilers; through 5.04
disclaimer; nope, don’t own a thing here.
notes; this was inspired by cormac mccarthy’s amazing novel the road (and for those who read it, you'll probably notice small things from it, in here), and was basically written in economy class out of sheer boredom, haha. i’ve basically returned to being on a complete zombie/post-apocalypse kick after reading that, and I really recommend reading it! as for this, I don’t really know what to say, it speaks for itself, I suppose.
summary; dean lifts a loose flap of the dirty grey mask covering his face, scratches his chin, feeling his nails catch in the eleven o’clock shadow grown seemingly permanently there. outside the snow fall has eased over into ashes, and the grey, wet slush that results thickens over the road.
A wind whines around the corners of the city. They bunk out in an old abandoned building in the middle of the city that looks like God’s lone wrath had reigned down upon it. Chairs and furniture littered, wallpaper peeled and gray except for the odd spot where it is still its original green.
Dean lifts a loose flap of the dirty grey mask covering his face, scratches his chin, feeling his nails catch in the eleven o’clock shadow grown seemingly permanently there. Outside the snow fall has eased over into ashes, and the grey, wet slush that results thickens over the road.
It’ll be a right bitch ploughing the truck through it back to camp.
Dean sniffles, his head is pounding. Not many of them have managed to miss out on a cold this year.
The door groans open on hinges that are half defeated by corrosion.
“At this hour, I doubt even a Croat chooses to show up. I had to steal Chuck’s snowboarding glasses right off him to even get in here,” Cas remarks, casually sliding up the path over the floor that’s been cleared.
Dean thinks he talks entirely too much these days, but he doesn’t answer, or even say anything. Cas doesn’t seem to give a shit either way.
“Winter’ll be shit cold,” Cas states, juggling swears on his tongue Dean still won’t accept he uses.
“We’ll stay here till after four, after that it’ll be too dark outside to go back,” Dean says. He wills his voice to be hard, instead of tired. He’s not feeling tired.
But maybe that’s the problem.
“Dean,” Cas is leaning against a turned over on its side table, speckled with mold. Dean doesn’t know how it hasn’t fallen apart yet, despite the fact that Cas is as thin as a fucking stick.
It’s not like any of them are anything else.
“No Cas, half an hour, that’s not negotiable.”
“You didn’t hear me out.”
“Well I didn’t need to. We’re not leaving until we absolutely have to.”
Cas has stopped studying his gun, not any longer playing with the hammer and staring down the barrel as though it’s a damn toy and not a weapon, instead looking up. But Dean pushes past him, targeting the door.
Their fingertips briefly connect when Cas slips a cigarette down Dean’s pocket. He tries to slap it away, but doesn’t succeed.
The sky is heavy with foreboding and grey and by the sidewalk Risa is patrolling with her leather jacket wound tightly around her shoulders, her automatic steadied under her armpit. Chuck is drawing maps in the wet ashes.
He sometimes wishes they hadn’t been each on his own, in all this shit.
Nothing happens for days.
Dean is restless. He’s on the edge whenever Chuck communicates with the military in stutters and silences that stretches on for far too long each time.
“Yessir. Wh-what’s happening on the front?”
Dean is usually the one to take care of communications between Camp Chitaqua and the base in Kansas, but he drunk far too much last night, and with Risa nagging you, there is just nothing to do. Especially not while you’re hung over.
Dean stretches out on the bed and buries his head in his pillow that is damp with sweat and also cold with it. Chuck’s whiny voice is bouncing between the walls in the cottage and makes it unable to go back to sleep.
He looks around through bleary eyes, sees how daylight is barely spread out through the clouds, sees his clothes and knife set and an empty Jack Daniels bottle spread out over the fucking pshycadelic carpet that is red with vomit green/yellow swirls on.
It’s from Cas, of course it is.
He gets up but doesn’t miss the leak in the roof nor the orange cap with the small white pills on his bedside table.
“Fucker,” Dean curses as he stumbles into the jeans from yesterday, still feeling half drunk and not cut out for this and like Cas has done something that’s unforgivable.
Like ever even thinking of falling for Dean.
He pushes past Risa and Chuck who are argue about supplies but abruptly silences when Dean emerges from the door.
He’s shirtless and the cold knocks the breath out of him but he pushes it all away as he makes his way over to Cas’ cottage.
The fucker is already leaning against the doorway, shadow indistinguishable amongst the smoke that furls in the air, the look on his face like he already fucking knew Dean was coming.
And of course he would know that.
Dean slams him up against the wall, grips his sides and can feel how his nails catch at the stairs of ribs winding themselves up his thin torso.
Cas’ grin is fearless and his chuckle is black, but he says “Our fearless leader is, as always, really fucking stubborn, isn’t he just,” like he doesn’t have any faith left.
With good reason.
“Shut up,” Dean growls, gripping Cas’ sides harder, before he kisses him hard. He wants to physically knock the wind out of Cas, make him step down from that high horse he’s gotten onto since he fell (which in context is just fucking ironic, it catches Dean off guard.)
Cas’ tongue is filthy on Dean’s, twisting and lapping while the former angel winds himself around Dean like a wine grappling onto a wall.
Dean thinks he should feel warm but he’s just feeling cold and something twists in the bottom of his stomach, wriggling like a worm and he knows things are about to go down.
Dean doesn’t know how the fuck it happened, but it did.
The smoke is black and rotten and burnt wood is piling on the snow and ashes and underneath it all, the asphalt, searing and already torn. It’s so much worse than anything Dean’s ever had down his throat, but his mindset is set on forth forth forth.
He’s holding out one arm and the other is cradling his nose and burn chapped lips as he continues to crawl on his knees forward, his mask discarded somewhere a long time ago.
Woodchips digs into his knees, so does glass, catching and breaking the skin and leaving bloodied trails from the door towards the end of the hallway that’s a straight inferno of hellfire.
Cas meets him half way, he’s discarded his gun in the kitchen, but strapped underneath some gauze wound around the back of his hand and across his palm, is Ruby’s demon knife.
Somehow, Dean manages to get up and wind his arm around Cas’ waist, and they both simultaneously kick down the door and collapse coughing up half a lung each outside.
Dean’s precise and skilled enough with a knife to shave in a cracked mirror. But now, his hands are shaking. Shaking so badly he feels frustration up in the back of his head, throbbing fast and relentless, as the burnt ends of Cas’ hair becomes jagged with Dean’s unsteady cut.
“Damnit,” he curses, and stands abruptly.
Cas remain still on the floor, gaze awash with something otherworldly and god, he be damned, knows what.
Dean paces, something he feels he hasn’t done for five years now.
They sit in silence when he eventually reigns himself in, Cas sliding his fingers over his new gun, pulling back the hammer, letting his palm broaden out over the barrel, study the smooth transitions from wood to metal.
Dean severs burnt piece of hair after burnt piece of hair while his palms ache with cuts from glass and woodchips.
“Someone once said they thought the world was going to end in fire,” Cas says.
“No, they didn’t,” he replies.