Losyngerie in the Devilles mouth (10/?)whit_meruleMay 18 2012, 02:58:01 UTC
Why had neither Sam nor Dean ever thought of just sitting down and chatting with Bobby? Treating him like they used to, like a person?
Sam snuck a peek over his book at Castiel and Bobby, heads bent together casual and peaceful in the corner.
This was the fourth time this week. And each time Castiel left, Bobby looked stronger. Not vengeful-spirit stronger, just… more solid, less pale, more comfortable with reality, readier to laugh.
Sam found himself lingering, a little too long to be casual, on the shadowed curve of Castiel’s jaw, and the softness at the corner of his mouth. Contentment, if that was what it was, looked good on him. Maybe it was infectious. When Castiel was around the room seemed... warmer, somehow. Less harsh around the edges.
Sam had been so careful not to ask Castiel for help with the Leviathans, not to ask him to fight, that it had never occurred to him to ask him about this smaller and dearer problem. Or maybe he’d been scared to - asking an angel for help with a ghost, after all, sounded like it would end up even more brutally efficient than burning the flask. But, healing illnesses of a spiritual nature, that was what Castiel had said about his life as Emmanuel, when Sam had coaxed it out of him.
And later, just as himself, harmony and communication.
Well, it wasn’t a bad philosophy, when things weren’t trying to chomp them. As things stood, Sam would rather not harmonise with Leviathans. But, hey, so long as Castiel was keeping Bobby from going all counterpoint on Dick…
Lucifer pointed carefully over Sam’s shoulder at his book. “That’s a fundamental misconception.”
Sam turned his head just far enough to shoot him an enquiring look.
The devil rested his chin on Sam’s shoulder, sharp and vivid as bone (and when had he become solid enough for that?). “Why would a demon turn up just because you stuck hyssop in the fire instead of wormwood? It’s all just timber. If you want Crowley, you’re going to have to offer something he wants.”
“Yeah, well.” Sam smiled a bit, half disdainful and half easy, and pitched his voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “Sorry if I’m not going to take your advice on dealing with demons.”
Lucifer’s long, cool fingers skated down his forearm without rustling the cloth, then traced their fastidious spidery way over the bones of his hand. Sam could see the faint dip and drag of the skin under the tips of his fingers, and was that an illusion? Was that his own skin responding to it?
“I thought you wouldn’t,” Lucifer murmured back, breath hot and damp on Sam’s neck.
Sam shivered, and elbowed him in the ribs.
Then Dean’s duffle hit the floor by the door, and Dean said, heavy and resigned, “Cas.”
Why had neither Sam nor Dean ever thought of just sitting down and chatting with Bobby? Treating him like they used to, like a person?
Sam snuck a peek over his book at Castiel and Bobby, heads bent together casual and peaceful in the corner.
This was the fourth time this week. And each time Castiel left, Bobby looked stronger. Not vengeful-spirit stronger, just… more solid, less pale, more comfortable with reality, readier to laugh.
Sam found himself lingering, a little too long to be casual, on the shadowed curve of Castiel’s jaw, and the softness at the corner of his mouth. Contentment, if that was what it was, looked good on him. Maybe it was infectious. When Castiel was around the room seemed... warmer, somehow. Less harsh around the edges.
Sam had been so careful not to ask Castiel for help with the Leviathans, not to ask him to fight, that it had never occurred to him to ask him about this smaller and dearer problem. Or maybe he’d been scared to - asking an angel for help with a ghost, after all, sounded like it would end up even more brutally efficient than burning the flask. But, healing illnesses of a spiritual nature, that was what Castiel had said about his life as Emmanuel, when Sam had coaxed it out of him.
And later, just as himself, harmony and communication.
Well, it wasn’t a bad philosophy, when things weren’t trying to chomp them. As things stood, Sam would rather not harmonise with Leviathans. But, hey, so long as Castiel was keeping Bobby from going all counterpoint on Dick…
Lucifer pointed carefully over Sam’s shoulder at his book. “That’s a fundamental misconception.”
Sam turned his head just far enough to shoot him an enquiring look.
The devil rested his chin on Sam’s shoulder, sharp and vivid as bone (and when had he become solid enough for that?). “Why would a demon turn up just because you stuck hyssop in the fire instead of wormwood? It’s all just timber. If you want Crowley, you’re going to have to offer something he wants.”
“Yeah, well.” Sam smiled a bit, half disdainful and half easy, and pitched his voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “Sorry if I’m not going to take your advice on dealing with demons.”
Lucifer’s long, cool fingers skated down his forearm without rustling the cloth, then traced their fastidious spidery way over the bones of his hand. Sam could see the faint dip and drag of the skin under the tips of his fingers, and was that an illusion? Was that his own skin responding to it?
“I thought you wouldn’t,” Lucifer murmured back, breath hot and damp on Sam’s neck.
Sam shivered, and elbowed him in the ribs.
Then Dean’s duffle hit the floor by the door, and Dean said, heavy and resigned, “Cas.”
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*posts a couple more, though it still stops halfway through a conversation, so you might prefer thsi cliffie*
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