“Overflow” (Supernatural; Dean, Sam; gen)
Title: “Overflow”
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam; Dean/Castiel undertones
Genres: angst
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,589
Challenge: blindfold_spn, “After 7x02, Dean notices that water acts strangely when he's around.”
Summary: Water acts strangely around him now. Maybe it’s all in his head. Maybe it’s not.
Warnings: Spoilers for 7x02. Depending on how you interpret the fic, the last scene has what could be construed as a suicide attempt.
Mirrors: AO3
It rains the day after Castiel-
No. Dean refuses to say that Castiel died, because that’s not right. Can’t be right. Angels don’t drown, because angels don’t breathe. Right? They don’t eat; they don’t sleep. So they don’t need to breathe, either.
And they don’t just-disappear.
They’re parked by a small river somewhere in Minnesota. The banks are muddy. Trees rise over the mist, a smudge of green against the horizon; the scent of dirt and pine drifts into the air. Sam sleeps in the passenger seat, his body cramped and his feet up against the dash. Castiel’s coat is still in the trunk. Dean leans against the cooling hood of the Impala and lets the rain wash over him, lets the drops drum against the roof.
He’s getting soaked, but he doesn’t care.
He’s slept for half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, tops. So maybe it’s the sleeplessness-induced nausea, or maybe it’s the residual shock, or maybe it’s his brain shutting down, telling him to rest-but he swears the rain is whispering. Speaking. Saying Dean, Dean, Dean, a chorus of little voices. Raindrops pelt through the surface of the lake, and he keeps seeing that ripple course through its surface, blackness and ooze spreading out from a point not too far from the banks.
He feels like throwing up.
He yanks open the door, slides into the driver’s seat and slams the door behind him with so much force that the entire car rocks, and Sam jerks awake with a snort.
Dean pulls off his jacket and tosses it into the back seat, where it lands with a wet plop.
“Dean?” Sam says, his brow furrowed, his lips parted as if to continue, but Dean revs the engine and shifts gears into drive.
“Let’s go,” he says, and within seconds, they’re on asphalt again. They blaze around a curve, tires kicking up mist in their wake.
❧
Eight days since-
Dean turns the tap. They’re lucky that this house has running water. Showers are rarer now, and very much needed. Dean finds himself almost longing for shit motels with roach infestations and moth-eaten curtains; at least those reliably have running water. Nowadays, it’s hit-or-miss. He’s never realized how much of a luxury a hot shower was until now.
The spout sputters to life. The water’s so hard that he can almost feel it scraping against his skin, but it will do. He has to scrub hard to get the soap to lather at all, and even then, it’s just a couple of weak bubbles. The soap clings to him, a film against his skin, and he wonders if he’s washing anything off at all.
It’s dark. Dean scrubs his hair and lets his hands rest at the back of his head, his fingers intertwined. He feels something hitch in his chest. The wetness clinging to the corners of his eyes is too hot to be water from the spout. His breaths are shallow.
He knows the signs. He blinks faster, then squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t cry-he won’t cry.
What little hot water there is is running out, fast. He shivers; goosebumps dance up his arms. Water traces little paths down his limbs, circles his nipples. Hugs his chest, touches his inner thighs. Like it’s pleading. Like it’s begging.
He grits his teeth. It’s getting cold. He fumbles for the knob; maybe if he turns the heat up, he can pump out the last few drops of warmth.
He opens his eyes again.
The water is black.
He jumps out of the shower so fast that he nearly rips the curtain off the rings. His foot skids on the tiles, and it’s only by chance that he manages to keep his balance. He pulls a towel around his waist and stumbles out of the bathroom. It’s colder out here, and he shivers.
Sam looks up.
“Something’s wrong with the water,” Dean says, chest heaving; Sam gets up and brushes past him. He tugs the shower curtain back. The shower is still running, plink-plink against the stained porcelain bathtub. The water’s clear. Maybe a touch of calcium white, but not black.
Sam raises an eyebrow and turns back to Dean.
“Dude, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His heart thuds against his ribs. He can still feel a couple of spots where his skin is slippery with soap. He rubs at them with the towel. Good enough.
❧
They manage to track the Leviathans to somewhere out in Virginia, but the trail stops there.
It’s getting hot. Humid, with moisture so thick in the air that it’s oppressive, crushes the breath out of him. They’ve been driving for hours, and Dean feels a crick forming in his neck.
They park at a rest stop by a lake. Dean tugs off his shoes and his socks and lays them out next to the Impala; he unbuttons his flannel shirt and pulls it off, tosses it to the side. Fuck this. Baby’s A/C gave out about a hundred miles back, and there’s only so much that rolled-down windows can do.
Dean steps out and slams the Impala’s door shut. A tiny breeze puffs against his skin. This is a little better, but not by much; he can already feel sweat soaking through his undershirt.
He takes a few steps. Pebbles grind together beneath his feet and dig into his soles. Not enough to hurt-more like a massage. By the lake, the pebbles give way to dirt, and Dean feels the mud squelch up between his toes. Cool. Soothing.
He rolls up his pants and wades in.
The water laps at his ankles, and a stronger breeze whips up. The lake manages to be chilly despite the heat, and Dean feels himself cooling down, just a little bit. He fans at himself and takes another step. The water is murky, and part of him tells him that he should be more careful, that maybe there’s something sharp at the bottom of the lake that he can’t see-trash and bits of broken glass and all that other shit that people toss in lakes when no one’s looking-but this place is pristine, almost to the point of being abandoned. He’ll be okay. Besides, it’s so damn hot that he doesn’t really care about any of that.
Except-
It’s not really the heat that drives him to take another step, and then another. It’s not the humidity that’s practically condensing on his bare shoulders that forces him forward. There’s something else, something in the way the water wraps around his ankles and beckons him in. Something in the way the darkness swirling beneath the surface tugs at him, like fingers tracing their way up his legs. Touching, exploring, as if unrestrained, as if needing to know him. Imploring him to acknowledge its presence.
The water’s up to his hips now. The wind is more violent, and those little waves of dark water slosh up around him, slam into his skin.
Dean. Dean. Dean.
He takes a breath and plunges into the water.
He opens his eyes. He can’t see anything except for vague patterns of light and dark sifting through the surface of the water. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find, what he’s expecting to see. He pushes himself off the ground, kicking up a cloud of silt, and pushes through the murkiness toward the center of the lake. Towards deeper waters.
He feels the ground drop out beneath him and he lingers there, suspended. His clothes float around him, except now they’re laden with water and dragging him down, the tiniest bit.
Something tugs at him. Something familiar. He closes his eyes and eases himself into that pull.
The world is quiet here. Stifled. Water presses up against his eardrums. This emptiness is a relief.
He parts his lips-opens his mouth-unblocks everything, and breathes.
The world grows darker. Black. Cas, he thinks, and takes another breath.
And then the silence breaks with a splash. Someone’s grabbing him. Someone has a hand around his shoulder, and his heart skips a beat. Someone’s dragging him up, pulling him up; someone is there, freeing him from the darkness. His head breaks through the surface of the water, and he takes in a deep, shuddering gasp, then coughs up a couple mouthfuls of water. He’s being tugged toward the shallow end. He shakes his head and flings droplets of water everywhere; he runs a hand over his face, wipes the water away from his eyelids. His feet touch ground.
“Dean, seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?”
He turns. Sam’s hair clings flat to his head, and he glares at Dean. Dean doesn’t realize he’s smiling until that smile drops off his face.
“Nothing,” he says, his voice hollow. Sam grabs Dean’s wrist and practically throws him onto the banks; Dean stumbles over his feet and lands on his palms. The gravel scratches against his palms, but he doesn’t care. The stinging doesn’t bother him.
“You just tried to drown yourself,” Sam says, his hands balled into fists.
“I’m-”
“Don’t tell me you’re fine.”
Dean shifts until he’s sitting on the bank, his knees drawn up to his chest, his palms pressed flat against the fabric of his pants. He parts his lips.
I miss Cas, he wants to say, sees himself saying, but the words lodge in his throat, and all that he can manage to squeeze out is a dry, throaty laugh.
“I’m fine.”
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam; Dean/Castiel undertones
Genres: angst
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,589
Challenge: blindfold_spn, “After 7x02, Dean notices that water acts strangely when he's around.”
Summary: Water acts strangely around him now. Maybe it’s all in his head. Maybe it’s not.
Warnings: Spoilers for 7x02. Depending on how you interpret the fic, the last scene has what could be construed as a suicide attempt.
Mirrors: AO3
It rains the day after Castiel-
No. Dean refuses to say that Castiel died, because that’s not right. Can’t be right. Angels don’t drown, because angels don’t breathe. Right? They don’t eat; they don’t sleep. So they don’t need to breathe, either.
And they don’t just-disappear.
They’re parked by a small river somewhere in Minnesota. The banks are muddy. Trees rise over the mist, a smudge of green against the horizon; the scent of dirt and pine drifts into the air. Sam sleeps in the passenger seat, his body cramped and his feet up against the dash. Castiel’s coat is still in the trunk. Dean leans against the cooling hood of the Impala and lets the rain wash over him, lets the drops drum against the roof.
He’s getting soaked, but he doesn’t care.
He’s slept for half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, tops. So maybe it’s the sleeplessness-induced nausea, or maybe it’s the residual shock, or maybe it’s his brain shutting down, telling him to rest-but he swears the rain is whispering. Speaking. Saying Dean, Dean, Dean, a chorus of little voices. Raindrops pelt through the surface of the lake, and he keeps seeing that ripple course through its surface, blackness and ooze spreading out from a point not too far from the banks.
He feels like throwing up.
He yanks open the door, slides into the driver’s seat and slams the door behind him with so much force that the entire car rocks, and Sam jerks awake with a snort.
Dean pulls off his jacket and tosses it into the back seat, where it lands with a wet plop.
“Dean?” Sam says, his brow furrowed, his lips parted as if to continue, but Dean revs the engine and shifts gears into drive.
“Let’s go,” he says, and within seconds, they’re on asphalt again. They blaze around a curve, tires kicking up mist in their wake.
❧
Eight days since-
Dean turns the tap. They’re lucky that this house has running water. Showers are rarer now, and very much needed. Dean finds himself almost longing for shit motels with roach infestations and moth-eaten curtains; at least those reliably have running water. Nowadays, it’s hit-or-miss. He’s never realized how much of a luxury a hot shower was until now.
The spout sputters to life. The water’s so hard that he can almost feel it scraping against his skin, but it will do. He has to scrub hard to get the soap to lather at all, and even then, it’s just a couple of weak bubbles. The soap clings to him, a film against his skin, and he wonders if he’s washing anything off at all.
It’s dark. Dean scrubs his hair and lets his hands rest at the back of his head, his fingers intertwined. He feels something hitch in his chest. The wetness clinging to the corners of his eyes is too hot to be water from the spout. His breaths are shallow.
He knows the signs. He blinks faster, then squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t cry-he won’t cry.
What little hot water there is is running out, fast. He shivers; goosebumps dance up his arms. Water traces little paths down his limbs, circles his nipples. Hugs his chest, touches his inner thighs. Like it’s pleading. Like it’s begging.
He grits his teeth. It’s getting cold. He fumbles for the knob; maybe if he turns the heat up, he can pump out the last few drops of warmth.
He opens his eyes again.
The water is black.
He jumps out of the shower so fast that he nearly rips the curtain off the rings. His foot skids on the tiles, and it’s only by chance that he manages to keep his balance. He pulls a towel around his waist and stumbles out of the bathroom. It’s colder out here, and he shivers.
Sam looks up.
“Something’s wrong with the water,” Dean says, chest heaving; Sam gets up and brushes past him. He tugs the shower curtain back. The shower is still running, plink-plink against the stained porcelain bathtub. The water’s clear. Maybe a touch of calcium white, but not black.
Sam raises an eyebrow and turns back to Dean.
“Dude, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His heart thuds against his ribs. He can still feel a couple of spots where his skin is slippery with soap. He rubs at them with the towel. Good enough.
❧
They manage to track the Leviathans to somewhere out in Virginia, but the trail stops there.
It’s getting hot. Humid, with moisture so thick in the air that it’s oppressive, crushes the breath out of him. They’ve been driving for hours, and Dean feels a crick forming in his neck.
They park at a rest stop by a lake. Dean tugs off his shoes and his socks and lays them out next to the Impala; he unbuttons his flannel shirt and pulls it off, tosses it to the side. Fuck this. Baby’s A/C gave out about a hundred miles back, and there’s only so much that rolled-down windows can do.
Dean steps out and slams the Impala’s door shut. A tiny breeze puffs against his skin. This is a little better, but not by much; he can already feel sweat soaking through his undershirt.
He takes a few steps. Pebbles grind together beneath his feet and dig into his soles. Not enough to hurt-more like a massage. By the lake, the pebbles give way to dirt, and Dean feels the mud squelch up between his toes. Cool. Soothing.
He rolls up his pants and wades in.
The water laps at his ankles, and a stronger breeze whips up. The lake manages to be chilly despite the heat, and Dean feels himself cooling down, just a little bit. He fans at himself and takes another step. The water is murky, and part of him tells him that he should be more careful, that maybe there’s something sharp at the bottom of the lake that he can’t see-trash and bits of broken glass and all that other shit that people toss in lakes when no one’s looking-but this place is pristine, almost to the point of being abandoned. He’ll be okay. Besides, it’s so damn hot that he doesn’t really care about any of that.
Except-
It’s not really the heat that drives him to take another step, and then another. It’s not the humidity that’s practically condensing on his bare shoulders that forces him forward. There’s something else, something in the way the water wraps around his ankles and beckons him in. Something in the way the darkness swirling beneath the surface tugs at him, like fingers tracing their way up his legs. Touching, exploring, as if unrestrained, as if needing to know him. Imploring him to acknowledge its presence.
The water’s up to his hips now. The wind is more violent, and those little waves of dark water slosh up around him, slam into his skin.
Dean. Dean. Dean.
He takes a breath and plunges into the water.
He opens his eyes. He can’t see anything except for vague patterns of light and dark sifting through the surface of the water. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find, what he’s expecting to see. He pushes himself off the ground, kicking up a cloud of silt, and pushes through the murkiness toward the center of the lake. Towards deeper waters.
He feels the ground drop out beneath him and he lingers there, suspended. His clothes float around him, except now they’re laden with water and dragging him down, the tiniest bit.
Something tugs at him. Something familiar. He closes his eyes and eases himself into that pull.
The world is quiet here. Stifled. Water presses up against his eardrums. This emptiness is a relief.
He parts his lips-opens his mouth-unblocks everything, and breathes.
The world grows darker. Black. Cas, he thinks, and takes another breath.
And then the silence breaks with a splash. Someone’s grabbing him. Someone has a hand around his shoulder, and his heart skips a beat. Someone’s dragging him up, pulling him up; someone is there, freeing him from the darkness. His head breaks through the surface of the water, and he takes in a deep, shuddering gasp, then coughs up a couple mouthfuls of water. He’s being tugged toward the shallow end. He shakes his head and flings droplets of water everywhere; he runs a hand over his face, wipes the water away from his eyelids. His feet touch ground.
“Dean, seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?”
He turns. Sam’s hair clings flat to his head, and he glares at Dean. Dean doesn’t realize he’s smiling until that smile drops off his face.
“Nothing,” he says, his voice hollow. Sam grabs Dean’s wrist and practically throws him onto the banks; Dean stumbles over his feet and lands on his palms. The gravel scratches against his palms, but he doesn’t care. The stinging doesn’t bother him.
“You just tried to drown yourself,” Sam says, his hands balled into fists.
“I’m-”
“Don’t tell me you’re fine.”
Dean shifts until he’s sitting on the bank, his knees drawn up to his chest, his palms pressed flat against the fabric of his pants. He parts his lips.
I miss Cas, he wants to say, sees himself saying, but the words lodge in his throat, and all that he can manage to squeeze out is a dry, throaty laugh.
“I’m fine.”