March drabble dump, "aww" edition
Dean/Castiel, “What am I supposed to do when the best part of me was always you? / What am I supposed to say when I’m all choked up that you’re okay?” (Breakeven, The Script)
When Dean comes to, he's in a hospital surrounded by smiling faces. Someone's sent him a "bouquet" of beer bottles. The real flowers come from people who know him less well. There's sun coming in through the window and despite everything, it feels like a new day.
Bobby shouts at him for making them worry. Sam grabs his fist and holds on tight, won't let go. Castiel sits quietly in a chair by the bed, the beginning of a smile on his face. When Dean speaks to him, he nods, but he doesn't speak. His lips are tight and thin.
"Cas has been through a lot," Sam says. "He's been really quiet. It's kind of creepy."
"Cas? Creepy?" Dean scoffs, his sarcasm still perfectly healthy, even if the rest of him is all banged up. "My favorite angel stalker? No way."
As though to prove their point, Castiel doesn't respond at all to their conversation. He doesn't turn his head or even move his gaze.
"Yeah, OK," Dean admits, "that's kind of creepy."
"Come on, Sam," Bobby says abruptly, "let's go get some coffee."
"But I have--"
Bobby snatches the half-full cup out of Sam's hand and dashes it into the wastebasket. "Well, now you don't," he says. "So let's go."
Sam gets the point, and they leave the two alone.
Dean struggles to sit up. "All right," he says pointedly, "spill it. What's going on."
Castiel turns to face him. His lips part. And before a single sound can come out, tears spill over the brim of his eyes.
He's staring at Dean, silent, just crying, and Dean watches the flow of tears -- so many, held back for so long -- and finds he's holding his breath.
Castiel manages to croak out Dean's name.
"Hey, hey, dude, it's fine," Dean says dumbly. "I'm OK, it's all good, I--"
He doesn't go on because there's now an angel head on his shoulder, tears staining the hospital gown. Castiel shakes, and Dean puts an arm on his shoulder to steady him. His heart is racing nearly fast enough to send the nurses running. He swallows hard, feathers one hand into the base of Castiel's hair. "What... what is this about?" he forces out through the palpitations and the confusion.
"You're OK," whispers Castiel.
Dean gets a little choked up himself.
-
Dean, Sam, looking back on the good old days
Dean looks back sometimes on the good old days. When it was fighting and it was hurting, patching each other up in motel rooms, grimacing under the needle with nothing but the whiskey to make it all hurt a little bit less. When there were girls, and there was beer, and there were fights and slammed doors and creatures out there in the dark, but when you came right down to it, it was just them and the job.
Oh, they always had their tragedies. Searching for their father. Mourning their father. Running from destiny. Seeking a way out from a deal with the devil. But that was back before angels, and horsemen, and vessel, and the weight of literally the world riding on his shoulders.
God, he would go right back to those days in an instant if he could. Right back to the grief and pain and frustration of missing their dad, the burden he shouldered of a secret whispered in his ear, the distrust and fear of Sam's abilities. Never mind the angst. Never mind the frustration. He wanted those days back.
At least when Sam comes outside, brings him a beer and leans next to him on the trunk of the car, Sam says, "God, I miss the good old days. You know?" And Dean nods. At least Sam's there. At least they're miserable together.
-
Dean/Castiel, the search for God isn't going so well
"So. How's the search for God."
Dean means it as nothing more than a conversation starter, a way to approach the angel sitting in the back of the room unmoving. Sam's quieted down for now, and Dean's got his mouthful of air, his moment alone with the Lord. Now it's back to the urgent business of now. That is, waiting, and filling awkward silences.
But Castiel actually squirms in his seat, the trench coat that is his second skin shifting beneath him. "I'm... not making much progress," he admits, and he looks frustrated, almost self-pitying. "I'm starting to think--"
He cuts off, and his frown is dark. Darker, even, than the look of warning Dean's seen on his face countless times. This is Castiel doubting not just heaven but himself.
Dean knows what that's like. He comes over and hunches near the chair where Castiel's perched. "Hey," he says, his voice a guttural, forced growl. "If anyone can find him, you can. After all, you're one hell of a stubborn SOB."
Castiel looks at him, tilting his head, and opens his mouth to inquire. Then he gazes downward again, deciding not to speak.
"Is there, uh..." Dean feels like the king of stupid, not just for asking but for not having asked before. "Is there anything I can do to, you know, help?"
A small smile touches Castiel's face. "I wish I knew," he says, and his voice is so raw, so full of entirely human pain, that it actually steals Dean's breath for a minute. Knowing Cas hurts... actually makes him hurt a little less right now. As douchey as that is of him to think, he's kind of grateful.
"Hey, Cas," he says, "do you remember back, before everything, when you caught me praying? You said to me that prayer was a sign of faith. D'you remember?"
Castiel looks at him with blank, puzzled eyes, but he nods.
"You said it was a good thing."
"I remember." Pink lips barely part to say the words.
Dean huffs a sigh, settles against the wall next to Castiel and stretches out his legs. "D'you still think so?"
Now the puzzled look comes, all furrowed brows and squinting eyes. Castiel resembles nothing so much as a lost kitten when he looks like that, and Dean suppresses the urge to scratch him behind the ears. "I suppose... I do, yes."
Dean smiles. Just barely. "You think God hears prayers, wherever he is?"
"I don't--"
"Nah. Never mind." Dean waves a hand. His eyes catch Castiel's, though, and for an instant there's an iron rod of connection between them, surer and safer than the magic charms that hold them safe and untouchable here.
"Are you suggesting we pray?" Castiel asks. His voice is low and deliberate.
Dean brushes it off. "I don't know what I'm suggesting. I was just wondering, that's all."
"I would like it. If we pray."
Color is creeping into Castiel's cheeks.
Dean looks around. He can hear the whirring of the great fan above the panic room. "Well," he says with a shrug, "I guess Sammy's not here to give me hell about it, so why not?" He leaves out that he was just doing the same, above, in the open air. This is different. This is just providing some comfort to Castiel.
Still, when they kneel together on the cold basement floor, Dean feels damned comforted himself.
-
Dean/Castiel, secret whispers and gentle fingers
It comes to him just once in a while, when he's driving, say, and the radio's crooning soft Meat Loaf at him as Sammy sleeps in the back seat. An overstrained voice sings about motorcycles and girls and making out, and Dean smiles because he's lived that cliche, he made that cliche, but the paradise he found wasn't by the dashboard light.
It was by the light of a blinking neon sign outside the only motel in 10 miles either way. Next door was a gas station and convenience store; both were closed. Past that, farmland. And it came with the simplest touch-- fingers, tentative and gentle, closing over his.
Eyes, blue, holding his. "I want to tell you something."
Not I have to tell you something. Not We need to talk.
He wanted to tell Dean something.
What Castiel had leaned in and whispered, then, was of less consequence. That's what Dean remembers, that moment of seeing Castiel want something, want him for something. That moment still makes him catch his breath, still makes him feel warm and a little giddy, like a child. Flattered.
And when Castiel had pulled away, seeking approval in Dean's eyes, his fingers had remained, closed around Dean's hand.
-
an entry in Castiel's diary
Feb. 15, 2010
Sam has been in what Dean calls the "panic room" overnight. He's quiet now. I've been watching. I promised Dean I would stay here. With him gone, I can do little but sit here and write.
I am worried about Dean. I cannot follow him because of the sigils, and I'm not convinced his attitude right now is the best one. When I go upstairs I might ask Bobby to look for him. I dislike talking to Bobby. Every time I see him, I feel like he's waiting for me to give him back his legs.
My stomach is grumbling. This is a new experience for me. After eating the way I did, I'm afraid I may have triggered some physical reaction. Dean is right, I should take better care of this vessel. It's irritating, though. It has so many nagging needs. I don't really want to think about some of them.
Needs involving sleep, and food, and occasionally Dean other things, too, that I shouldn't care about. The longer I'm here, the more they grate at me. I wonder how long I will be able to ignore them.
I wonder a lot about the long-term ramifications of staying here. But there isn't time to worry about myself. It's burdensome enough wasting so much energy worrying about Sam and Dean. I spend more and more time on that every day.
Yet I don't think I'd take it away if I could.
-
a bit from one of Chuck's unpublished manuscripts
Lazarus Rising
Chapter 1
Dean awoke to blackness.
Blackness and nothing, where for so long there had been so much. So many screams. So much blood, so much pain. And now there was nothing. Not pain. Not relief. Just blackness.
That, and a stomach cramp. He was hungry.
He found a lighter in his pocket and looked around. Coffin. Of course. Just his luck.
Pushing at the lid, he at first couldn't move it. Then, his muscles rippling through his T-shirt-- had they buried him in a T-shirt? Unbelievable-- he managed to dislodge the wooden slat and choked on a flood of loosely packed soil.
For an instant he thought he'd woken up just to die of asphyxiation again. But no, the dirt gave way easily beneath his hands. His muscles groaning with the strain, he began to work his way up. It was only six feet to get through, and being buried alive was nothing compared to what he'd been through. So he started digging.
A few minutes later, a hand rose up out of the earth and clawed at the air.
Dean was alive again.
-
Dean, Sam, Castiel, Michael - "Angel-high"
It was like he was angel-high. He'd soared before, on drugs or the hunt or sex or the sheer visceral pleasure of being alive despite all odds, but this was a different feeling. This was the feeling of being redeemed, of having all the baggage that had hung on him for so very, very long wiped away. He was clean, purified, restored.
Jimmy Novak had said it was like being chained to a comet. He hadn't been wrong, but this was so much more than that. This was being wrapped up in the arms of Heaven.
Somewhere far away he could see Castiel's face crumple, hear Sam's shout and see the tears brimming in his eyes. But it was no longer possible for Dean to feel any regret, or anything but pure happiness.
Michael had promised him he'd never feel that empty, horrible, alone feeling ever again. And it was an offer he just couldn't refuse.
-
Castiel saves Dean from Hell before he says yes
He was tired. God, he was so fucking tired. Thirty years, without aging a day. Thirty years of being taken apart and put back together. He ached. He bled. He cried for everything he'd lost. For the memories that stayed just distinct enough to tease him. Once he'd been happy. Once he'd been human and whole. Those days were over. Long since over. He couldn't remember what it was like anymore.
He could smell the burning of his own flesh. They'd cut off his nose, of course, again, but the smell was still there. It was more than a smell, it was an experience. The only parts they left intact were one eye, one ear, and his mouth -- to see Alastair coming, to hear his offer, and to answer him.
"Good evening, Dean." The sneer, the slurred-together words. A razor blade glittering. It drew across the torn flesh at his thigh. Dean gasped and shuddered. "How was it today?"
Dean closed his one remaining eye. Any other day he would have had a snappy answer. But he didn't. He was just tired. He grunted. That was all Alastair would get.
"So, Dean," Alastair went on. His form was indistinct, not the black smoke or a human vessel but something beyond, something indescribably awful. Monstrous. "I have an offer for you."
The same words every time. "Come join me. Be the one carving. I'll teach you to create such exquisite pain. Such relief. Such pride. End the pain. Say yes."
Dean opened his mouth. He was so tired. His hope had long since died. He was ready. God save him, he was ready.
"He says no."
A savage growl of a voice. Dean's eye opened.
If this had been the physical plane, that eye would have been instantly burned out. The light he saw was searing, enveloping. The dark racks of Hell's torture chamber were illuminated. He saw something beautiful, something terrifying. And he saw Alastair and a thousand other demons take flight, besieging the unfamiliar creature, a literal battle between light and darkness.
But on darkness' home turf? What hope did light have?
Dean had no strength to break from his bonds. But that didn't seem to matter. His weakness didn't matter anymore. There was something there, something that had come there to save him. With strength he didn't have, with a body that wasn't real and that bled and frayed everywhere, he burst from the rack and launched himself at Alastair.
It made all the difference. In that split second where Alastair wasn't expecting it, where he turned and gasped, the creature flung off all the demons, grabbed Dean, and enveloped him in light. A whooshing of air, the frustrated cry of Alastair, and Hell was suddenly, mercifully gone.
-
Five Times Dean Doesn't Understand Why Cas Is Staring At Him... and One Time He Does
1) Dean swears he felt Castiel watching him before he'd ever met the guy. Before Castiel even had human eyes to watch him with.
In Hell he was a monster, a torturer, and the only comfort he had among those days of sadistic pleasure, like drinking bitter wine, was that nobody could see just how far he had fallen. Day after day he stripped and cut and bruised, glad that it was no longer him under the knife -- and that he did his dirty work in darkness.
But the feeling was there, too sharp and weighty to ignore. Dean stepped back from the rack, dropped his lash and his razor, and shouted to the fires that blazed across the sky. "Who are you?
"Why are you watching me?"
He had no answer. But at least now he had some hope. If someone was watching him, maybe the final judgment had not yet dropped. Maybe there was still a chance his story wasn't over.
2) He'd tried like hell, he really had. To think that his history didn't have to be, to have a chance to stop it -- as much as he didn't like the angel who'd sent him back here, it was a hell of an opportunity. He was all set to thank him.
Until he saw his mother kissing a yellow-eyed demon and he knew it was all for naught. Dean wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to punch something until he couldn't move his arms anymore.
And Castiel was there. Staring at him.
The platitudes he leveled at him -- about destiny, and being unable to stop fate -- didn't hurt quite as much as the stare. That this bastard of an angel didn't realize how deeply hurt Dean was, couldn't stop from judging him even in this devastating moment --
Well, fate was fate, apparently. So Dean dug his fingernails into his palms and just took it.
3) Fine. Fine. This was what it came down to, didn't it. Selling his soul to a Heaven he wasn't sure he liked all that much better than Hell, to save his brother from making a deal with a devil to feed his own addiction. "Now what?" he said.
"Now you wait," Castiel said. "And we call on you when the time is right."
But Castiel didn't disappear like he always did. He just kept staring. Amid the junked cars and the cold wind of midnight, he stood there, and he stared at Dean, and his eyes were dark and yearning.
For the life of him, Dean didn't understand what Castiel was thinking. He shook his head, looked at his shoes, and then turned on his heel to head back into the house.
4) By the time he understood the meaning of it all, it was too late. Lucifer was risen. The world was about to go to Hell in a deluxe handbasket. And Castiel was staring at him. Again.
"I did it. All of it. For you."
Some pissy rejoinder after that, and a demand for his necklace -- what the hell was that about? -- and the whole time Castiel's eyes on him, looking at him like a pariah or a murderer even as he explained how much he'd done for Dean's sake. What was in that stare, and why did Dean have to suffer so much beneath it? Brewing deep in him was the answer, but he pushed it down. He had enough conflicts of his own to worry about Castiel's, too.
5) Believe it or not, he had real trouble figuring out what that look on Castiel's face was about.
Women. Booze. Guaranteed sexing. If this wasn't the ideal way to spend your last night on earth, what was?
And it wasn't as though Castiel had said no. Or seen what Dean was up to and gotten up and walked out of there. He hadn't even refused a beer, which Dean was sure he was going to do. No, he just sat there, staring, wild-eyed, swallowing a lot.
It was damned funny, but that didn't mean Dean understood it. Sometimes life's little absurdities were just meant to be enjoyed. For one night, he gave up trying to figure Castiel out and just laughed.
and
1) He could feel Castiel's eyes on him again. Here in this basement, it was like being in Hell. His brother's screams a faint echo of the screams he'd heard for decades and been unable to stop. Had caused.
"He just needs to get it out of his system," Castiel offered, unhelpfully.
Dean looked back at him, for a split second, and understood perfectly. How badly Castiel wanted to help, and how certain he was that he couldn't. Dean had shut him down at every opportunity before. He'd lost the confidence to speak up. And that, more than anything, made Dean feel guilty as sin.
He went upstairs to get some air, angled his head and looked at the sky. He asked for God's help. And he hoped Castiel would be the one to hear him, to know that he was ready to accept.
And he waited to feel those eyes on him one more time.
-
Dean/Castiel, walking down the street at midnight
The subway stops running right about now, and the university is far enough away that there's only the occasional drunk student stumbling home from the bars. Along the sides of the street, the cars huddle sleepily in their spaces. One of the streetlights rattles as the wind picks up.
Dean sees Castiel draw his coat tighter around his form, and it surprises him. He didn't think Castiel could feel cold, but then again, he's seen Castiel do a lot of things lately that he never used to do. Like smile. And laugh. And even be sarcastic once in a while.
He's beginning to think it might be time.
Castiel raises a fist to his mouth and clears his throat, a soft, guttural noise against the quiet of the night. "It's strange," he said. "Out here this late. Not fighting a monster, just... walking."
"Yeah." Dean shoves his hands in his pockets, because he's not sure yet. "Yeah, it's weird. But not all bad, am I right?"
That smile, that shot of light in the dark. God, it's blinding. "I like it."
"It's called normal life. Don't get too used to it," Dean says with a rueful laugh. "In our line of work, it never lasts."
Castiel nods, and his eyes peer away to the horizon. "Our line of work," he says. "Am I a hunter now, as well?"
Dean is going to nod, but then a thought strikes him. "Nobody can tell you what you are but you," he said. "That's the plus side of being down here among us. You get to choose your own destiny."
He thinks for a second that Castiel's going to refute him, and he has his argument all lined up, just in case. But Castiel just keeps smiling. "That's the plus side," he says, a rumble of low laughter in his voice.
"What?" Dean frowns at him. "Why, what would you say it is?"
Castiel shrugs. "It's not a bad thing. Just... it wouldn't be my first choice."
"And what would? Hamburgers, I suppose."
They reach a corner. A car zooms by. There's no streetlight guarding this intersection, and the stop signs are shrouded in darkness. Castiel stops and turns to face Dean.
Dean's tempted to ask him to answer the question, but then his eyes meet Castiel's and he realizes he's getting the answer right now. He smiles ever so briefly. The smile's returned. In the dimness, Castiel's face is lit only at one angle, like a crescent moon.
It's time.
Dean removes his hands from his pockets. "We should cross," he says. Castiel nods.
They look briefly for oncoming cars and then make their way across the street. Halfway there, Dean takes Castiel's hand.
-
Dean/Castiel, "I believe in... kisses that last three days" (movie quote)
When it finally happens, Castiel's the one who doesn't want to wait. At the first few hungry kisses, he's rocking up against Dean's body, anxious and eager for the sensations that he's heard of, witnessed, but never experienced before this moment.
Dean is the one who slows him down. Pushes up from the wall Castiel's leaned him against, puts his hands on Castiel's chest and just gently separates them. His lips are red and swollen and he's breathing hard. "Wait," he rasps. "Cas, wait."
Castiel's eyes are wide. "Is it because of this vessel?" he says. "Because it's a man's--"
"No, no." Dean reaches out, runs palms over Castiel's face. "Cas, it's not that at all. I'm... I'm really glad." His voice breaks.
"If I were a woman you'd be taking me to bed." He sounds almost petulant.
"Correction." Now Dean's eyebrows furrow inward, and that knowing smile is on his face. "If I were leaving you tomorrow and never seeing you again, I'd take you to bed."
An oh escapes Castiel. He hasn't thought of it like that before. He doesn't know why his heart is pounding.
"You," Dean drawls, pulling him back against the wall, "you I want to kiss for days."
"Oh-h," says Castiel, louder. There's an ache in the rumble of it.
"We have time," Dean says, leaning his forehead against Castiel's and twining their fingers together. "Cas, we have so much time. And I really don't want to screw this up."
Castiel nods. "Then kiss me," he whispers, voice thin, body aching, but fully alive. "Kiss me for days, Dean."
They come together, and they don't part ever again.
-
Peter/Nathan, slow dance
It's started because Peter is going to the prom, and he's really not so great around girls to begin with but he's petrified of dancing. Still, Patty said yes, and that means Peter needs to learn to dance. So Nathan says "c'mon, I'll be the girl," and Peter puts his hands on Nathan's shoulders and Nathan says "no, no, down."
Now they're dancing like they have a bubble between them. Peter's arms are locked out, they're so straight. Nathan grabs him and pulls him close. "You want her to think you like her, not that you're scared to touch her," he chides. Peter gives a resolute sigh, like it's the worst thing in the world, but sooner or later he gets the hang of it.
Peter's arms are skinny and too light around Nathan's waist. His breath is hot against the simple brown jacket Nathan wears to make himself look in his 30s while he's still a twentysomething. It probably looks like there are two decades, not just one, that separate the two of them. Lucky no one's looking, thinks Nathan with a huff of laughter.
The heavy breath falls on Peter's ears, and Peter shivers all over.
Nathan doesn't realize why he's just shuddered. "Cold?"
Peter shakes his head vehemently. "The opposite," he murmurs into Nathan's shoulder.
"You're so funny, Pete," Nathan says. He doesn't know why, but just now he feels an urge to drop a kiss on the crown of Peter's head. So he does. Peter gives a gasp, and his hands tighten on Nathan's waist. Nathan looks down, Peter's head comes up, and they're just an inch from each other.
Nathan smiles. "Think you'll do OK?" he asks.
Peter's heart is in his throat. He knows something now he never realized before, and it's changing him. But he swallows it, smiles, and nods. That truth can come out another day. "I'll be fine," he says.