FIC: Slow spiral
Title: Slow spiral
Author: apple_buzz
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Castiel
Prompt: 14. Castiel - There’s no trying anymore
Spoilers: Spoilers up to most recent episodes.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of this. Just stompin’ on yer Lego’s Mr Kirpke.
Word count: 652
Warnings: Angst, alcohol use
Summary: After all, Angels aren’t supposed to feel anything.
Notes: So the angst of the last few episodes collided with a prompt and this is what happened. Un-betaed.
It’s an interesting sensation, this buzzing. Not unpleasant, but not fantastic either. Just … interesting.
His thoughts aren’t behaving, floating about in a muddled, fluffy bunch. Kind of like the clouds he and Ilaniel used to sit on, back before she tore out her Grace to become human. So very, very human.
When the liquid in the bottle sloshes around and catches the light from that streetlamp, it almost looks the same color as her hair. Red is a nice color, he muses, swishing the alcohol hard enough for it to climb the sides of the bottle and create a whirlpool.
Back, back it goes and there’s no more whirlpool. No more scotch either. Where’s that other bottle?
The grass under his head is cool, well kept and green under a squat tree whose name he can’t quite remember. That’s awfully rude of him, not remembering its name.
What he does remember though, is where that other bottle is. Jimmy’s tan trench-coat had enveloped it, smuggling it away under dark folds. The irritation that surges in him sends the buzz away for a moment, but even when it fades something else replaces it. Something he can’t name, being new to these emotion thingys and all.
After all, angels aren’t supposed to feel anything.
Angels aren’t supposed to pass out after shifting two humans through time. Not when it’s recent. Well, recent to a being that’s been around for a while anyway. They aren’t supposed to stoop to using blades and guns on demons, a hand and a flash of will should be more than enough.
Angels aren’t supposed to lay flat on their back under trees either, waxing poetic about the way the stars, patterns broken by the leaves between he and they; seem to reflect his wings that lay extended to either side, both of them ragged and limp. Wings that drop feathers to tickle his nose and present barely visible targets for cats and small children to chase.
Angels aren’t supposed to curse out their father, their creator, their God.
Why won’t the damn lid come off? Stupid thing.
Oh hey! The tree seems to be talking. Momentarily distracted in the quest to remove the bottle top, he listens and stares blurrily around. Nope, not the tree. Although, Dean’s eyes share the same green as the trees’ leaves.
“Cas?”
Stupid name. Stupid human name.
“Dean. Can you open this for me?”
The hunter just stares at him, then the bottle being held up. Maybe he doesn’t see it. It does look a bit blurry after all. But Dean doesn’t take it, even when he wiggles it a little.
“Cas, are you drunk again?”
This vessel has nice hands, he notices when he puts the bottle down.
“I think so. Didn’t drink the whole store this time though. I left the vodka behind. It tastes unpleasant and it even sounds unpleasant. Vod-KA. Voooodkaaa …”
Dean crouched down, reaching out and pulling his head down from where it had begun to roll back.
“Cas, focus. We need you on the hunt tomorrow.”
Dean’s voice sounds thick. Worry, he thinks it’s called.
“Nope. Not going. I don’t want to try anymore Dean.”
Time was when he’d be concerned about the emotions on Dean’s face. Shock, worry, anger; and buried underneath is raw fear. But now he’s more interested in his unopened bottle.
“But we need our usual dose of geeky-angel backup.” That’s hope there. “I … we need you there with us, Castiel.”
Dean hasn’t used that name in a long time. That feeling stirs again in his belly, and this time he can name it.
Shame. Disgust. All at himself. Maybe now that the lid has finally come off, he can wash them away with the alcohol.
He flops back onto the grass, staring at the sky.
“There’s your problem Dean. My name’s Cas.”
He pretends not to see the tears in Dean’s eyes.
Author: apple_buzz
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Castiel
Prompt: 14. Castiel - There’s no trying anymore
Spoilers: Spoilers up to most recent episodes.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of this. Just stompin’ on yer Lego’s Mr Kirpke.
Word count: 652
Warnings: Angst, alcohol use
Summary: After all, Angels aren’t supposed to feel anything.
Notes: So the angst of the last few episodes collided with a prompt and this is what happened. Un-betaed.
It’s an interesting sensation, this buzzing. Not unpleasant, but not fantastic either. Just … interesting.
His thoughts aren’t behaving, floating about in a muddled, fluffy bunch. Kind of like the clouds he and Ilaniel used to sit on, back before she tore out her Grace to become human. So very, very human.
When the liquid in the bottle sloshes around and catches the light from that streetlamp, it almost looks the same color as her hair. Red is a nice color, he muses, swishing the alcohol hard enough for it to climb the sides of the bottle and create a whirlpool.
Back, back it goes and there’s no more whirlpool. No more scotch either. Where’s that other bottle?
The grass under his head is cool, well kept and green under a squat tree whose name he can’t quite remember. That’s awfully rude of him, not remembering its name.
What he does remember though, is where that other bottle is. Jimmy’s tan trench-coat had enveloped it, smuggling it away under dark folds. The irritation that surges in him sends the buzz away for a moment, but even when it fades something else replaces it. Something he can’t name, being new to these emotion thingys and all.
After all, angels aren’t supposed to feel anything.
Angels aren’t supposed to pass out after shifting two humans through time. Not when it’s recent. Well, recent to a being that’s been around for a while anyway. They aren’t supposed to stoop to using blades and guns on demons, a hand and a flash of will should be more than enough.
Angels aren’t supposed to lay flat on their back under trees either, waxing poetic about the way the stars, patterns broken by the leaves between he and they; seem to reflect his wings that lay extended to either side, both of them ragged and limp. Wings that drop feathers to tickle his nose and present barely visible targets for cats and small children to chase.
Angels aren’t supposed to curse out their father, their creator, their God.
Why won’t the damn lid come off? Stupid thing.
Oh hey! The tree seems to be talking. Momentarily distracted in the quest to remove the bottle top, he listens and stares blurrily around. Nope, not the tree. Although, Dean’s eyes share the same green as the trees’ leaves.
“Cas?”
Stupid name. Stupid human name.
“Dean. Can you open this for me?”
The hunter just stares at him, then the bottle being held up. Maybe he doesn’t see it. It does look a bit blurry after all. But Dean doesn’t take it, even when he wiggles it a little.
“Cas, are you drunk again?”
This vessel has nice hands, he notices when he puts the bottle down.
“I think so. Didn’t drink the whole store this time though. I left the vodka behind. It tastes unpleasant and it even sounds unpleasant. Vod-KA. Voooodkaaa …”
Dean crouched down, reaching out and pulling his head down from where it had begun to roll back.
“Cas, focus. We need you on the hunt tomorrow.”
Dean’s voice sounds thick. Worry, he thinks it’s called.
“Nope. Not going. I don’t want to try anymore Dean.”
Time was when he’d be concerned about the emotions on Dean’s face. Shock, worry, anger; and buried underneath is raw fear. But now he’s more interested in his unopened bottle.
“But we need our usual dose of geeky-angel backup.” That’s hope there. “I … we need you there with us, Castiel.”
Dean hasn’t used that name in a long time. That feeling stirs again in his belly, and this time he can name it.
Shame. Disgust. All at himself. Maybe now that the lid has finally come off, he can wash them away with the alcohol.
He flops back onto the grass, staring at the sky.
“There’s your problem Dean. My name’s Cas.”
He pretends not to see the tears in Dean’s eyes.