Fic: Listen Twice, Speak Once (Dean/Castiel, PG-13)
This isn't exactly fix-it fic, because I don't think the episode needs much fixing. But it's certainly "fix my broken heart" fic.
Title Listen Twice, Speak Once
Author: bree_black
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 2300
Summary: Sam spends a lot of time just listening, so when he talks you'd better pay attention. 6x20 coda character piece thing.
Sam wakes up to find Dean standing in the doorway of Bobby’s guest bedroom, staring at him. In and of itself this isn’t an unusual occurrence lately because Dean’s been a little overprotective since that seizure awhile back. But then Sam notices Dean’s hands, shaking and covered in blood.
“Dean?” Sam says, throwing the quilt back.
“Hi Sammy,” Dean says, voice awful-quiet, like the whisper you use at a funeral.
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam says, nearly tripping over the pile of his own clothes he’d left on the floor before collapsing into sleep. He grabs Dean by the wrist and drags him into the tiny bathroom across the hall to examine him in the light. Dean’s blood gets on his hands, but that’s nothing new.
“Bobby screwed up the angel-proofing,” Dean explains. “I tried to fix it but you know I’m not good at that kind of stuff and I think I’ve still got something wrong.” The terrible stillness slides out of Dean’s voice, replaced by the note of rising panic that means they’re in danger. “I’ve always got something wrong, Sam.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Sam says, keeping his voice hushed. He pulls Dean’s hands under the faucet, and once he’s washed away some of the blood he sees that the cut on Dean’s left hand is deep, but clean. Intentional. He bandages it quickly with the supplies Bobby keeps under the sink; it’s a little harder than usual because Dean can’t seem to hold his shaking hands still.
Once he’s finished he goes back to the bedroom, switching off the bathroom light behind him so that before his eyes adjust everything is pitch blackness. Sam blinks rapidly. He hates these moments of emptiness - they remind him of Hell. But once his eyes adjust there’s Dean again, staring at him from the doorway.
“You should sleep here tonight,” Sam says, and Dean just nods and climbs under the covers next to Sam, still fully clothed. His body radiates cold. How long had he been outside, trying to correct Bobby’s sigils?
They haven’t shared a bed since Sam was fifteen, and even then it had been a tight squeeze. Now they must look pretty ridiculous, two grown men sharing a twin bed and a single threadbare quilt. But they’re so close Sam can hear Dean’s heartbeat, and as it slows down to something closer to Dean’s baseline - still slightly faster than it probably should be, Sam often worries - he knows he made the right call.
“How do you know Bobby messed up the warding?” Sam asks finally.
Dean shifts slightly, and sucks in a breath like he’s preparing to do something he knows is gonna hurt. “I’m going to have to kill him,” he says, voice whisper soft.
Sam doesn’t need to ask who.
“It’s my fault,” Dean continues. “If I had been paying more attention maybe I could have stopped him. But I lost him, just like I lose everybody.”
Images flash through Sam’s mind. Their mother, their father, all the temporary girlfriends Dean might have loved, Lisa, Ben, Rufus and, of course his own face. Himself twenty times over. They’ve lived the same life but for Dean the string of people they’ve left behind still burns hot and new. Somehow Sam has always managed to stay a little more detached, like Dean could feel grief for the both of them.
“Hey,” Sam says gently. “You thought you’d lost me, but I came back.” Sam just wants to be reassuring - he’s not even sure which time, which death, which loss, he means.
“Yeah,” Dean says, “but you’re different. You’ve got…” He trails off, then sits up slightly so he can reach over and place his bandaged palm on Sam’s chest. Sam imagines his brother’s blood seeping through the bandage and through Sam’s thin t-shirt. Right through his skin and into his heart.
“My heart,” Sam says.
“Right,” His voice goes gruff. He snatches his hand away and lies flat on his back again, like touching Sam was a mistake. Maybe that year with Lisa had softened Dean more than he lets on. “You’ve always been so good, Sam, even when…even when things got bad.”
Demon blood. Ruby. Dean lying bleeding on a pile of shattered glass in a swanky hotel room. You walk through that door, don’t you ever come back. Sam forces those memories down, tries to bury them even deeper than the ones behind the wall.
“Cas is good too,” Sam says. “Cas is an angel, remember?”
“He’s not like you, though. Cas is all head, no heart.” There’s a chilling certainty in Dean’s voice.
“I don’t know if that’s true,” Sam says, partly just ‘cause he hates it when Dean’s so damn sure he’s right. “I think Cas cares about you.” He tries to lighten his voice, lighten the air. “You know, for awhile I thought he cared about you a little too much.” He elbows Dean suggestively in the ribs.
“Yeah, well, for awhile there I thought I…” Dean trails off. “You know, this is an incredibly inappropriate conversation to have in bed with my little brother.”
Sam’s heart rejoices at the embarrassment in his voice, at any shift away from fear and pain and grief. “Dean and Ca-as sitting in a tree,” he chants softly.
“Shut up,” Dean says, but Sam can hear the smile in his voice. Then he goes deadly serious again. “It doesn’t matter Sam, because I have to kill him or he’s going to kill me.”
“I’d kill him first,” Sam announces, defiant. “No one gets to kill my big brother but me.”
Dean chuckles. “Sure thing, Sam. I’ll make sure to let you know when I’m ready to check out so you can pull the trigger.”
***
It takes another hour or two before Dean’s breathing evens out enough for Sam to be sure he’s asleep. Once he’s certain, Sam climbs carefully out of his side of the bed, making sure not to disturb Dean’s half of the quilt. He gets dressed in perfect silence.
First, he slices open his hand, climbs up the cold metal ladder Dean has left against the side of the house and fixes the angel-proofing symbols, just in case. It only takes him a few minutes - Sam has always had a feel for this kind of work. Then he climbs down carefully and goes back into the house for supplies.
The angel-killing sword is under the pillow on the couch where Dean had been sleeping, in the place of the usual handgun. The blade feels warm in his hand, like it had absorbed Dean’s body heat. Sam tucks it into his belt.
Outside, Sam pours a circle of holy oil and makes sure that the lighter in his jacket pocket actually works. He steps into the circle, and sits down cross-legged at its center. He closes his eyes.
“Castiel,” he says, louder than he needs to. “Get your feathered ass down here, you asshole.”
Nothing happens for a long moment, and Sam wonders whether he’s too late. Then there’s the faint sound of ruffling wings, and Cas appears, some distance across the yard. Sam lights the holy oil, and watches the flames encircle him. The fire is oddly silent and barely gives off any heat.
“You can come closer,” he says. “This is just a defensive measure.”
The angel moves swiftly and silently across the yard. His eyes are wary and he keeps glancing over his shoulder like he expects someone to sneak up behind him. He stands two feet from the circle of flames surrounding Sam.
“What is it?” Cas asks. His voice isn’t as booming as usual, like he doesn’t have the energy for that sort of performance.
“You always try to talk to Dean,” Sam explains. “But you never come to me.”
Castiel hesitates. “Fine,” he says. “I’m sorry, Sam. For what I did to you. I swear on my Father I meant to pull you from the pit whole, but I understand why you no longer trust my word.”
“No, I believe you about that,” Sam says lightly, relishing the look of surprise on Cas’ face. “I mean, it was just one soul so it wouldn’t be worth much to you anyway. Besides, I can feel that it definitely spent all that time in Hell.”
Castiel looks at the ground guiltily. “I thought I could bring you back. I thought that after all you had sacrificed for the greater good you deserved to be brought back. I was trying to do the right thing.”
“Believe me,” Sam says. “I know all about trying to do the right thing.” Castiel meets his eyes through the wall of flames, then, and for a moment Sam sees himself mirrored there, because for all their differences - species, age, wardrobe - he and Cas have so many bad choices in common.
Castiel breaks first, looking down at the grass again. “Then you must understand that this has not been easy for me,” he says. “I have been praying for a sign from my Father for weeks.”
“I know all about waiting around for absent fathers too,” Sam says. “And you know what? Fuck ‘em.”
Castiel gapes.
“It’s funny,” Sam continues, “that you’re fighting a war for free will but you don’t understand it one bit. How you’d die for freedom without ever having experienced it.”
“What are you talking about?” Castiel asks, tilting his head. It’s a gesture so innocent it makes Sam want to hug him - or hit him. “I have rebelled. I’m free right now.”
Sam laughs. “And is it worth it?” he asks, gesturing at the wall of flames between them. “You know, while you and Dean talk I listen Cas, and all I ever hear from you is obedience. You may not be working for Michael, or Raphael, but everything you do you do because you think God willed it, right?”
Castiel shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Whether you’re a slave to a bunch of douchebag angels or to the greater good, you’re still a slave, Cas. What you haven’t learned yet is how to be selfish.”
“Dean told me I was being too selfish.” Castiel says. His voice catches on Sam’s brother’s name. “He said I can’t have everything I want.”
Sam shrugs. “Dean was wrong,” he says. “Sometimes he gets so caught up in what he’s saying he forgets to really hear anyone else. I don’t think you’ve ever done a single thing you really want to do, even after you rebelled. And I think you’re a fucking hypocrite to fight for free will if you have no idea what it feels like.”
“You have a point,” Castiel acknowledges. “So what should I do about it?”
Sam laughs, and the sound rings out across the yard, echoes coming back to them. “Don’t ask me, what do you want, Cas? What’s the one thing you want most in the world?”
Castiel hesitates only briefly. “I want him to know me,” he says, voice so quiet Sam can barely hear him.
Sam doesn’t need to ask who.
“That sounds like a good place to start,” Sam says. “Now can you put out this fire?”
***
Dean reaches under his pillow for the non-existent knife the moment he opens his eyes. Castiel winces visibly, but Sam puts a steadying hand on his elbow.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dean spits out, already climbing out of the bed.
“I want to know if it’s too late to change my mind,” the angel says quietly. “You asked me to not to do it, and I don’t think I want to.”
Sam can see the gears turning in Dean’s mind, hope warring with suspicion. “What?”
“I don’t want open the door to Purgatory. I don’t want to be partners with Crowley. I can help you hunt him down if you like, though I doubt he’ll be able to achieve his goal without my help. What I want is to be your family.”
Sam sees hope win out on Dean’s face, probably a moment before Dean himself even realizes it’s happened. Dean takes a step towards them, and Sam pushes Cas forward. They stand a mere foot apart.
“I’m not certain that I want you to think of me as a brother, though,” Castiel says. And then he leans forward and presses his mouth against Dean’s. It’s awkward and a little messy, and Dean has to tangle his un-bandaged hand in Cas’ hair and sort of guide him until they get lined up properly. Then the kiss is a little less sweet and a little more heated, and Sam starts to feel uncomfortable.
“So, um, I’m gonna go sleep on the couch tonight,” Sam says, and turns quickly to leave.
“Thank you, Sam,” he hears Castiel say solemnly as he walks down the hall.
“Yeah, thanks Sammy,” Dean echoes, though his voice is significantly more full of glee. Sam just shakes his head.
***
“We got a problem?” Bobby says when Sam gets downstairs. He stands by the sink holding a half-full glass of water. He gestures at the smeared angel-proofing on the front windows.
“Naw, we just had a visitor. He might stay awhile.”
There’s a scraping sound from upstairs like two bodies falling into a bed built for one, and Bobby doesn’t need to ask who.
“I always figured those two would either knock each other off or knock boots,” Bobby says with a knowing smile. “You get any sleep tonight yet, kid?”
“Not really,” Sam admits. “I might try and grab a couple of hours now. And then we’ve gotta figure out how to kill an archangel.”
Bobby finishes his glass of water in one long swallow. “No problem,” he says once he’s finished. “It’s not like we haven’t seen worse.”
Sam lies down on the couch, settling into the groove Dean’s body has left behind. As the sun peeks over the horizon outside, Sam closes his eyes and dutifully tries to ignore the rhythmic creaking noises from upstairs.
Title Listen Twice, Speak Once
Author: bree_black
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 2300
Summary: Sam spends a lot of time just listening, so when he talks you'd better pay attention. 6x20 coda character piece thing.
Sam wakes up to find Dean standing in the doorway of Bobby’s guest bedroom, staring at him. In and of itself this isn’t an unusual occurrence lately because Dean’s been a little overprotective since that seizure awhile back. But then Sam notices Dean’s hands, shaking and covered in blood.
“Dean?” Sam says, throwing the quilt back.
“Hi Sammy,” Dean says, voice awful-quiet, like the whisper you use at a funeral.
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam says, nearly tripping over the pile of his own clothes he’d left on the floor before collapsing into sleep. He grabs Dean by the wrist and drags him into the tiny bathroom across the hall to examine him in the light. Dean’s blood gets on his hands, but that’s nothing new.
“Bobby screwed up the angel-proofing,” Dean explains. “I tried to fix it but you know I’m not good at that kind of stuff and I think I’ve still got something wrong.” The terrible stillness slides out of Dean’s voice, replaced by the note of rising panic that means they’re in danger. “I’ve always got something wrong, Sam.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Sam says, keeping his voice hushed. He pulls Dean’s hands under the faucet, and once he’s washed away some of the blood he sees that the cut on Dean’s left hand is deep, but clean. Intentional. He bandages it quickly with the supplies Bobby keeps under the sink; it’s a little harder than usual because Dean can’t seem to hold his shaking hands still.
Once he’s finished he goes back to the bedroom, switching off the bathroom light behind him so that before his eyes adjust everything is pitch blackness. Sam blinks rapidly. He hates these moments of emptiness - they remind him of Hell. But once his eyes adjust there’s Dean again, staring at him from the doorway.
“You should sleep here tonight,” Sam says, and Dean just nods and climbs under the covers next to Sam, still fully clothed. His body radiates cold. How long had he been outside, trying to correct Bobby’s sigils?
They haven’t shared a bed since Sam was fifteen, and even then it had been a tight squeeze. Now they must look pretty ridiculous, two grown men sharing a twin bed and a single threadbare quilt. But they’re so close Sam can hear Dean’s heartbeat, and as it slows down to something closer to Dean’s baseline - still slightly faster than it probably should be, Sam often worries - he knows he made the right call.
“How do you know Bobby messed up the warding?” Sam asks finally.
Dean shifts slightly, and sucks in a breath like he’s preparing to do something he knows is gonna hurt. “I’m going to have to kill him,” he says, voice whisper soft.
Sam doesn’t need to ask who.
“It’s my fault,” Dean continues. “If I had been paying more attention maybe I could have stopped him. But I lost him, just like I lose everybody.”
Images flash through Sam’s mind. Their mother, their father, all the temporary girlfriends Dean might have loved, Lisa, Ben, Rufus and, of course his own face. Himself twenty times over. They’ve lived the same life but for Dean the string of people they’ve left behind still burns hot and new. Somehow Sam has always managed to stay a little more detached, like Dean could feel grief for the both of them.
“Hey,” Sam says gently. “You thought you’d lost me, but I came back.” Sam just wants to be reassuring - he’s not even sure which time, which death, which loss, he means.
“Yeah,” Dean says, “but you’re different. You’ve got…” He trails off, then sits up slightly so he can reach over and place his bandaged palm on Sam’s chest. Sam imagines his brother’s blood seeping through the bandage and through Sam’s thin t-shirt. Right through his skin and into his heart.
“My heart,” Sam says.
“Right,” His voice goes gruff. He snatches his hand away and lies flat on his back again, like touching Sam was a mistake. Maybe that year with Lisa had softened Dean more than he lets on. “You’ve always been so good, Sam, even when…even when things got bad.”
Demon blood. Ruby. Dean lying bleeding on a pile of shattered glass in a swanky hotel room. You walk through that door, don’t you ever come back. Sam forces those memories down, tries to bury them even deeper than the ones behind the wall.
“Cas is good too,” Sam says. “Cas is an angel, remember?”
“He’s not like you, though. Cas is all head, no heart.” There’s a chilling certainty in Dean’s voice.
“I don’t know if that’s true,” Sam says, partly just ‘cause he hates it when Dean’s so damn sure he’s right. “I think Cas cares about you.” He tries to lighten his voice, lighten the air. “You know, for awhile I thought he cared about you a little too much.” He elbows Dean suggestively in the ribs.
“Yeah, well, for awhile there I thought I…” Dean trails off. “You know, this is an incredibly inappropriate conversation to have in bed with my little brother.”
Sam’s heart rejoices at the embarrassment in his voice, at any shift away from fear and pain and grief. “Dean and Ca-as sitting in a tree,” he chants softly.
“Shut up,” Dean says, but Sam can hear the smile in his voice. Then he goes deadly serious again. “It doesn’t matter Sam, because I have to kill him or he’s going to kill me.”
“I’d kill him first,” Sam announces, defiant. “No one gets to kill my big brother but me.”
Dean chuckles. “Sure thing, Sam. I’ll make sure to let you know when I’m ready to check out so you can pull the trigger.”
***
It takes another hour or two before Dean’s breathing evens out enough for Sam to be sure he’s asleep. Once he’s certain, Sam climbs carefully out of his side of the bed, making sure not to disturb Dean’s half of the quilt. He gets dressed in perfect silence.
First, he slices open his hand, climbs up the cold metal ladder Dean has left against the side of the house and fixes the angel-proofing symbols, just in case. It only takes him a few minutes - Sam has always had a feel for this kind of work. Then he climbs down carefully and goes back into the house for supplies.
The angel-killing sword is under the pillow on the couch where Dean had been sleeping, in the place of the usual handgun. The blade feels warm in his hand, like it had absorbed Dean’s body heat. Sam tucks it into his belt.
Outside, Sam pours a circle of holy oil and makes sure that the lighter in his jacket pocket actually works. He steps into the circle, and sits down cross-legged at its center. He closes his eyes.
“Castiel,” he says, louder than he needs to. “Get your feathered ass down here, you asshole.”
Nothing happens for a long moment, and Sam wonders whether he’s too late. Then there’s the faint sound of ruffling wings, and Cas appears, some distance across the yard. Sam lights the holy oil, and watches the flames encircle him. The fire is oddly silent and barely gives off any heat.
“You can come closer,” he says. “This is just a defensive measure.”
The angel moves swiftly and silently across the yard. His eyes are wary and he keeps glancing over his shoulder like he expects someone to sneak up behind him. He stands two feet from the circle of flames surrounding Sam.
“What is it?” Cas asks. His voice isn’t as booming as usual, like he doesn’t have the energy for that sort of performance.
“You always try to talk to Dean,” Sam explains. “But you never come to me.”
Castiel hesitates. “Fine,” he says. “I’m sorry, Sam. For what I did to you. I swear on my Father I meant to pull you from the pit whole, but I understand why you no longer trust my word.”
“No, I believe you about that,” Sam says lightly, relishing the look of surprise on Cas’ face. “I mean, it was just one soul so it wouldn’t be worth much to you anyway. Besides, I can feel that it definitely spent all that time in Hell.”
Castiel looks at the ground guiltily. “I thought I could bring you back. I thought that after all you had sacrificed for the greater good you deserved to be brought back. I was trying to do the right thing.”
“Believe me,” Sam says. “I know all about trying to do the right thing.” Castiel meets his eyes through the wall of flames, then, and for a moment Sam sees himself mirrored there, because for all their differences - species, age, wardrobe - he and Cas have so many bad choices in common.
Castiel breaks first, looking down at the grass again. “Then you must understand that this has not been easy for me,” he says. “I have been praying for a sign from my Father for weeks.”
“I know all about waiting around for absent fathers too,” Sam says. “And you know what? Fuck ‘em.”
Castiel gapes.
“It’s funny,” Sam continues, “that you’re fighting a war for free will but you don’t understand it one bit. How you’d die for freedom without ever having experienced it.”
“What are you talking about?” Castiel asks, tilting his head. It’s a gesture so innocent it makes Sam want to hug him - or hit him. “I have rebelled. I’m free right now.”
Sam laughs. “And is it worth it?” he asks, gesturing at the wall of flames between them. “You know, while you and Dean talk I listen Cas, and all I ever hear from you is obedience. You may not be working for Michael, or Raphael, but everything you do you do because you think God willed it, right?”
Castiel shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Whether you’re a slave to a bunch of douchebag angels or to the greater good, you’re still a slave, Cas. What you haven’t learned yet is how to be selfish.”
“Dean told me I was being too selfish.” Castiel says. His voice catches on Sam’s brother’s name. “He said I can’t have everything I want.”
Sam shrugs. “Dean was wrong,” he says. “Sometimes he gets so caught up in what he’s saying he forgets to really hear anyone else. I don’t think you’ve ever done a single thing you really want to do, even after you rebelled. And I think you’re a fucking hypocrite to fight for free will if you have no idea what it feels like.”
“You have a point,” Castiel acknowledges. “So what should I do about it?”
Sam laughs, and the sound rings out across the yard, echoes coming back to them. “Don’t ask me, what do you want, Cas? What’s the one thing you want most in the world?”
Castiel hesitates only briefly. “I want him to know me,” he says, voice so quiet Sam can barely hear him.
Sam doesn’t need to ask who.
“That sounds like a good place to start,” Sam says. “Now can you put out this fire?”
***
Dean reaches under his pillow for the non-existent knife the moment he opens his eyes. Castiel winces visibly, but Sam puts a steadying hand on his elbow.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dean spits out, already climbing out of the bed.
“I want to know if it’s too late to change my mind,” the angel says quietly. “You asked me to not to do it, and I don’t think I want to.”
Sam can see the gears turning in Dean’s mind, hope warring with suspicion. “What?”
“I don’t want open the door to Purgatory. I don’t want to be partners with Crowley. I can help you hunt him down if you like, though I doubt he’ll be able to achieve his goal without my help. What I want is to be your family.”
Sam sees hope win out on Dean’s face, probably a moment before Dean himself even realizes it’s happened. Dean takes a step towards them, and Sam pushes Cas forward. They stand a mere foot apart.
“I’m not certain that I want you to think of me as a brother, though,” Castiel says. And then he leans forward and presses his mouth against Dean’s. It’s awkward and a little messy, and Dean has to tangle his un-bandaged hand in Cas’ hair and sort of guide him until they get lined up properly. Then the kiss is a little less sweet and a little more heated, and Sam starts to feel uncomfortable.
“So, um, I’m gonna go sleep on the couch tonight,” Sam says, and turns quickly to leave.
“Thank you, Sam,” he hears Castiel say solemnly as he walks down the hall.
“Yeah, thanks Sammy,” Dean echoes, though his voice is significantly more full of glee. Sam just shakes his head.
***
“We got a problem?” Bobby says when Sam gets downstairs. He stands by the sink holding a half-full glass of water. He gestures at the smeared angel-proofing on the front windows.
“Naw, we just had a visitor. He might stay awhile.”
There’s a scraping sound from upstairs like two bodies falling into a bed built for one, and Bobby doesn’t need to ask who.
“I always figured those two would either knock each other off or knock boots,” Bobby says with a knowing smile. “You get any sleep tonight yet, kid?”
“Not really,” Sam admits. “I might try and grab a couple of hours now. And then we’ve gotta figure out how to kill an archangel.”
Bobby finishes his glass of water in one long swallow. “No problem,” he says once he’s finished. “It’s not like we haven’t seen worse.”
Sam lies down on the couch, settling into the groove Dean’s body has left behind. As the sun peeks over the horizon outside, Sam closes his eyes and dutifully tries to ignore the rhythmic creaking noises from upstairs.