of motel rooms and the bible in the drawer.
Title: Of motel rooms and the Bible in the drawer.
Author: tricky_slip
Disclaimer: I own absolutly nothing. Sadly.
Rating: PG-13
Genre/ Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Word Count: 1,027
Spoilers: Through season 4. Nothing recent.
Notes: I got my groove back! I haven't been able to write much of anything in a really long time, so when I sat down today and couldn't stop writing, it was the best feeling in the world. Thank you Kripke, for creating Castiel and giving me my muse back.
Summary: "Sometimes he can feel the cool press of metal resting like sin against his palm."
.
Sunlight pours like water through the cheap motel blinds, casting a haze over the still room and it's occupants. Sometimes Dean doesn't hate living in these rooms as much as he should. He knows there will always be one waiting for him at the end of long hunt, a makeshift home he carved out for himself years ago, and that's all he's ever really needed. Two lumpy beds, one ratty old television set, and a worn out bible in the nightstand are all he needs to sleep at night.
He knows Sammy hates it, can't really blame him much. His brother had the luxury of a solid home for 4 years, one that didn't move across the country from room to cheap room, and anyone would miss that. But he also knows that the fight they are fighting is more important than a comfy bed and a welcome mat. He knows that if they win this war, Sammy will finally be able to have that again, and Dean will finally be able to understand what home really means.
Dean hears the soft rustling of air throughout the room, and knows it's not just him and his little brother anymore. It's no surprise when a gentle hand rests on his shoulder, or when that same hand sends a blanket of warmth covering his body.
He's come to expect this reaction whenever Castiel is around.
"There is work to be done, Dean."
Rolling over on the lumpy bed, he sees exactly what he was expecting. Soft blue eyes look down at him from a warrior's face, and he knows why motel rooms feel a little bit warmer with this presence in them.
"There's always work to do. Doesn't mean I feel like doing it."
He swears there's a hint of a smile on the angel's face, resting just below the surface.
"Fine, fine. I'll wake Sammy and then we'll be your little puppets for the day."
As he makes a move to get out of bed and rouse his still sleeping brother, the angel's hand grasps a little bit tighter to his frame.
"No." Castiel simply says, with no further explanation as to why he apposes Sammy being conscious.
"Alright, but he's not that good to us asleep, you know. He may be psychic boy wonder, but he ain't that great."
"You misunderstand me. This is not for him to do, but for you alone."
And with that they are gone, no longer talking just inside that little motel room, but in the middle of what Dean will always know as the home he wishes he could have had.
Lawrence, Kansas in the spring was a sight to see. Back before all of this began, the Winchester home had been on the outskirts of the city, hugging the countryside with a big open lawn and green for miles. And here, 26 years later, it's the same as it was.
"Why would you bring me here?" Dean can barely whisper out, still trying to understand how he had gone from the cold start of spring in upper Wisconsin to the rolling warmth of his long destroyed home.
"You are here, Dean, because you have to remember what it is you are fighting for." Castiel says with an edge to his voice he barely let any living soul hear, let alone his charge. "You fight, and you do it well, but without conviction of purpose. You fight because I ask you to do so, and I am grateful for that. But I pray more than anything for you to understand that there will be an end to this someday. I raised you from Hell for more than just Heaven's needs."
Dean breathes in the cool familiar air of his childhood, and forgets for a moment that he is in the presence of an Angel of the Lord.
"God, I miss this place."
The hand that never left his shoulder finds the place it's mark had left in his skin. It's a knowing touch, possessive almost in it's need. Castiel's soft blue eyes sweep over the place Dean dreams of, and a silent prayer is sent to Heaven.
"When your part is over in this war, you will find home again. This is my promise, Dean Winchester. All that you have lost to this cause will be restored. Have faith."
And for the first time in all his years, Dean felt the seeds of something far greater than himself sowing deep inside his soul.
With that, he feels the air start to move around him and his angel, pulling them back to that quiet motel room with the bible tucked safely in the drawer, his brother still sleeping on a lumpy mattress and not caring at all. The sun pours in the window and he realizes that Castiel is no longer at his side, gripping his mark and praying for a charge he never thought he'd have.
And Dean, he's stuck thinking about something he can't quite explain, what he never thought he'd want and what he's had all along but never knew are rolled tightly together in his mind, making him hope for the first time in years.
He knows it won't be easy, knows there are more than one foe out to there waiting for them to fall, to start believing Hell still flows through his veins. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he swears he can feel the cool press of metal resting like sin against his palm. But when cool licks of something he's come close to recognize as grace tingles through an angels mark on his shoulder, he thinks maybe hope isn't that far a stretch.
And that's one thing he can't dispute, one thing he really doesn't even have the right too. Because an angel pulled him from the pit. An Angel saw all the hell he had endured and created in turn and still saw fit to save him, to cast him from perdition and believe in the worth of his soul when not even he could.
So Dean thinks maybe he owes it to his angel to take a few things on faith alone.
Author: tricky_slip
Disclaimer: I own absolutly nothing. Sadly.
Rating: PG-13
Genre/ Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Word Count: 1,027
Spoilers: Through season 4. Nothing recent.
Notes: I got my groove back! I haven't been able to write much of anything in a really long time, so when I sat down today and couldn't stop writing, it was the best feeling in the world. Thank you Kripke, for creating Castiel and giving me my muse back.
Summary: "Sometimes he can feel the cool press of metal resting like sin against his palm."
.
Sunlight pours like water through the cheap motel blinds, casting a haze over the still room and it's occupants. Sometimes Dean doesn't hate living in these rooms as much as he should. He knows there will always be one waiting for him at the end of long hunt, a makeshift home he carved out for himself years ago, and that's all he's ever really needed. Two lumpy beds, one ratty old television set, and a worn out bible in the nightstand are all he needs to sleep at night.
He knows Sammy hates it, can't really blame him much. His brother had the luxury of a solid home for 4 years, one that didn't move across the country from room to cheap room, and anyone would miss that. But he also knows that the fight they are fighting is more important than a comfy bed and a welcome mat. He knows that if they win this war, Sammy will finally be able to have that again, and Dean will finally be able to understand what home really means.
Dean hears the soft rustling of air throughout the room, and knows it's not just him and his little brother anymore. It's no surprise when a gentle hand rests on his shoulder, or when that same hand sends a blanket of warmth covering his body.
He's come to expect this reaction whenever Castiel is around.
"There is work to be done, Dean."
Rolling over on the lumpy bed, he sees exactly what he was expecting. Soft blue eyes look down at him from a warrior's face, and he knows why motel rooms feel a little bit warmer with this presence in them.
"There's always work to do. Doesn't mean I feel like doing it."
He swears there's a hint of a smile on the angel's face, resting just below the surface.
"Fine, fine. I'll wake Sammy and then we'll be your little puppets for the day."
As he makes a move to get out of bed and rouse his still sleeping brother, the angel's hand grasps a little bit tighter to his frame.
"No." Castiel simply says, with no further explanation as to why he apposes Sammy being conscious.
"Alright, but he's not that good to us asleep, you know. He may be psychic boy wonder, but he ain't that great."
"You misunderstand me. This is not for him to do, but for you alone."
And with that they are gone, no longer talking just inside that little motel room, but in the middle of what Dean will always know as the home he wishes he could have had.
Lawrence, Kansas in the spring was a sight to see. Back before all of this began, the Winchester home had been on the outskirts of the city, hugging the countryside with a big open lawn and green for miles. And here, 26 years later, it's the same as it was.
"Why would you bring me here?" Dean can barely whisper out, still trying to understand how he had gone from the cold start of spring in upper Wisconsin to the rolling warmth of his long destroyed home.
"You are here, Dean, because you have to remember what it is you are fighting for." Castiel says with an edge to his voice he barely let any living soul hear, let alone his charge. "You fight, and you do it well, but without conviction of purpose. You fight because I ask you to do so, and I am grateful for that. But I pray more than anything for you to understand that there will be an end to this someday. I raised you from Hell for more than just Heaven's needs."
Dean breathes in the cool familiar air of his childhood, and forgets for a moment that he is in the presence of an Angel of the Lord.
"God, I miss this place."
The hand that never left his shoulder finds the place it's mark had left in his skin. It's a knowing touch, possessive almost in it's need. Castiel's soft blue eyes sweep over the place Dean dreams of, and a silent prayer is sent to Heaven.
"When your part is over in this war, you will find home again. This is my promise, Dean Winchester. All that you have lost to this cause will be restored. Have faith."
And for the first time in all his years, Dean felt the seeds of something far greater than himself sowing deep inside his soul.
With that, he feels the air start to move around him and his angel, pulling them back to that quiet motel room with the bible tucked safely in the drawer, his brother still sleeping on a lumpy mattress and not caring at all. The sun pours in the window and he realizes that Castiel is no longer at his side, gripping his mark and praying for a charge he never thought he'd have.
And Dean, he's stuck thinking about something he can't quite explain, what he never thought he'd want and what he's had all along but never knew are rolled tightly together in his mind, making him hope for the first time in years.
He knows it won't be easy, knows there are more than one foe out to there waiting for them to fall, to start believing Hell still flows through his veins. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he swears he can feel the cool press of metal resting like sin against his palm. But when cool licks of something he's come close to recognize as grace tingles through an angels mark on his shoulder, he thinks maybe hope isn't that far a stretch.
And that's one thing he can't dispute, one thing he really doesn't even have the right too. Because an angel pulled him from the pit. An Angel saw all the hell he had endured and created in turn and still saw fit to save him, to cast him from perdition and believe in the worth of his soul when not even he could.
So Dean thinks maybe he owes it to his angel to take a few things on faith alone.