The Apocalypse is Not a Buddy Show, 6/6
Title: The Apocalypse is Not a Buddy Show, 6/6
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Castiel, Dean, Anna
Genre: Drama, Humour, Angst
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: Just because you're fallen, doesn't mean you can't fight demon crime. Set late Season 4: Spoilers up to 5.02.
“What?”
Dean couldn’t believe it. Or he could believe it, and didn’t want to.
“I went with them voluntarily,” Sam said again: “They lied.”
“Lying is their modus operandi,” Castiel chose that moment to offer.
“Um hi Cas,” Sam said. “You look…”
“Mortal,” Cas said sadly. “I know. Nonetheless, I have been learning there are avenues which even humans may pursue to the benefit of the greater good.”
“Such as?” Sam half-smiled.
“Agents Bodie and Doyle-”
“Cas, not now,” Dean cut him off sharply. “What did they tell you?” he crouched down next to Sam, resisted the urge to clap his palms on his little brother’s thighs the way he would when Sam was ten and moping over something that happened at school, or hunting, or because he didn’t think anyone liked him.
“Dean, I’m not going to lie to you anymore,” Sam said tiredly. “They said they were working against Lilith. They said they had something that could help me. And they did,” he smirked ruefully. “It just came with conditions.”
That old, cold, feeling of betrayal embedded itself in Dean’s guts again. He ought to be immune to this by now. He chose to push it aside for the moment:
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean pushed himself up and offered Sam his arm: “Let’s get you out of here.”
Sam looked at him. Dean heard, ‘Why?’ But they’d deal with that later, he told himself. Let him get Sammy out of here, cleaned up and fed, and he’d deal with the rest of it later. That way of thinking had worked for the first seventeen years of Sam’s life, and old habits died hard.
* * *
The ride back to the motel was silent - Dean briefly checked over the bruise on Sam’s face, to Sam’s discomfort, and Castiel felt vaguely saddened, because the awkwardness of the humans’ movements and the way they avoided eye-contact with each other was so inconsistent with the bond he had perceived between them once, when his Grace was intact, stretched thin but unbroken even when the divide of Earth and Hell separated them but now…Castiel couldn’t see it anymore, and he fervently hoped that was due to his changed condition.
At the motel, Dean ushered Sam upstairs, kept a hand near his arm, but mechanically, ingrained behavior. He told his brother to ‘go clean up’, and Sam didn’t answer, but disappeared into the bathroom. Castiel shifted awkwardly. He had thought he’d understood. At this point, there ought to be camaraderie, affection, a quiet mood of self-congratulation and good natured-mockery as they reflected on a mission well accomplished. Instead there was only the sound of the shower, and Dean putting his gun away with precise, efficient movements.
“Shall I - procure food?” Castiel offered in a moment of inspiration. The humans, especially Sam, would be requiring it, and in truth he would not be - averse to eating, himself.
“Yeah.” Dean said.
“Of what kind?”
“Whatever you want.”
“This vessel enjoys eating hamburgers.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth quirked, but his eyes remained sparkless.
“Sure thing. Just get some of that healthy crap too okay, for Sammy? Like a salad or whatever? And one of those girly smoothies if they have them.”
“Blended fruit is ungendered.”
“Just get the one with the longest name.”
“I shall return shortly.”
And they were - quiet, the rest of that night, and did not discuss demons, or demon blood, or even talk about heaven. Castiel could barely read Sam at all, but Dean seemed more - content, than the past few days, though the edge of anxiety never disappeared altogether. Eventually - around 4 a.m.- there came the inevitable realization they had only two beds.
“I’ll take the couch,” Sam offered.
“No you won’t,” Dean said quickly. “You need a proper sleep.” And they looked at each other, a slight expression of incredulity passed over Sam’s face, and even Castiel could understand how misplaced, out of context and anachronistic the paternal direction sounded.
“You may both have the beds,” declared the ex-angel: “I do not require sleep.” Really, it was unprecedented, the amount he’d been sleeping lately. Perhaps if he was alone he would receive another message from Anna. Dean looked like he was going to object to that too, then changed his mind.
“Stay out of bars,” he told Castiel. Then: “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“I have existed since before this earth was formed from the abyss,” Castiel told him gravely. “I believe I am capable of navigating the streets of a human city.”
Dean looked skeptical. Sam looked asleep.
* * *
As it turned out, the humans had complicated things, making their streets much more intricate and multiple than necessary. In Jimmy’s tie and office shoes, Castiel was uneasily aware of being stared at, and he wondered if anyone would believe him that he did not, in fact, have a credit card. He stumbled upon an all-night cinema, and watched a film called Starsky and Hutch, which was also about police, but left him confused and vaguely bored rather than entertained. When he returned to the motel around 8 a.m., Dean was alone again. The TV was on, the newscaster discussing freak electric storms with an expert on global warming, but Dean did not appear to be watching it.
“Where is Sam?” Castiel asked anxiously.
Dean didn’t reply.
Castiel went quietly into the bathroom and attended to the demands of his human vessel. When he returned, Dean still stared unseeingly at the television, but he said:
“You know what’s the problem with buddy shows?”
Castiel sat carefully down on the other bed.
“I do not,” he said.
“Or maybe the problem with TV in general. Fucking TV.”
“It is…acting?” Castiel supplied.
“Hey, look at that, you’re learning. That’s not the problem with it, though.” Dean turned to face him abruptly. Castiel started a little at the intensity in his face. “The problem is the fucking medium. It’s 2-D, man. Except for those special screens, but that’s not the point.” It was then that Castiel noted the whisky bottle, empty, by Dean’s bed. Which would explain the bloodshot whites of his eyes, Castiel thought. “TV - shows you the outside of people, but it makes them - emote and stuff, and have chick-flick moments, so eventually you start to think you know a person. Just by looking from outside, I mean. Like if you spend enough time with a person you can know them all the way through. On those buddy shows. Those guys are supposed to like know each other, and read each other’s minds or some shit, because they work together all the time and are like partners. And the audience is supposed to. N Think they know them. But we don’t know anyone like that, we humans, Cas. We can’t do that x-ray vision. Sometimes we don’t even see what’s goddam obvious, for god’s sake, but we still get all wrapped up and dependant on each other, like we think we’re on TV or some shit. But this isn’t TV, it’s the goddam apocalypse, and the apocalypse is not a buddy show, you know what I’m saying?”
And he passed out. Quite suddenly and dramatically, Dean fell backwards onto the bed and was asleep, dropping a second empty bottle which clinked and rolled across the floor to stop at Castiel’s feet. He stopped it, quietly, with his shoe. He didn’t know what a buddy show was, but he felt sad and certain that he’d let Dean down in some way, hadn’t been good enough, had failed. He wanted to remind Dean that they had rescued Sam together, and that whatever Sam did after that wasn’t Dean’s fault and couldn’t be helped by him. Perhaps if he could find another mission, and they could complete that successfully…
Castiel waited patiently, but there were no more messages.
The End.
Rambling A/N: Though this is not slash, it was inspired in response to an article about slash developing out of buddy shows which I really disagreed with. I didn’t write any pairings into this explicitly because I wanted the possibility of any to remain open, but in my little brain, I suppose I was thinking about how SPN is a huge producer of slash in part because it’s rather more complicated than most buddy shows, and is more about the tragedy/failure/angst/or something implicit in the traditional *two-people-are-so-bonded-they-have-amazing-adventures-together-and-can-practically-read-eachother’s-minds* dynamic. Or something.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Castiel, Dean, Anna
Genre: Drama, Humour, Angst
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: Just because you're fallen, doesn't mean you can't fight demon crime. Set late Season 4: Spoilers up to 5.02.
“What?”
Dean couldn’t believe it. Or he could believe it, and didn’t want to.
“I went with them voluntarily,” Sam said again: “They lied.”
“Lying is their modus operandi,” Castiel chose that moment to offer.
“Um hi Cas,” Sam said. “You look…”
“Mortal,” Cas said sadly. “I know. Nonetheless, I have been learning there are avenues which even humans may pursue to the benefit of the greater good.”
“Such as?” Sam half-smiled.
“Agents Bodie and Doyle-”
“Cas, not now,” Dean cut him off sharply. “What did they tell you?” he crouched down next to Sam, resisted the urge to clap his palms on his little brother’s thighs the way he would when Sam was ten and moping over something that happened at school, or hunting, or because he didn’t think anyone liked him.
“Dean, I’m not going to lie to you anymore,” Sam said tiredly. “They said they were working against Lilith. They said they had something that could help me. And they did,” he smirked ruefully. “It just came with conditions.”
That old, cold, feeling of betrayal embedded itself in Dean’s guts again. He ought to be immune to this by now. He chose to push it aside for the moment:
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean pushed himself up and offered Sam his arm: “Let’s get you out of here.”
Sam looked at him. Dean heard, ‘Why?’ But they’d deal with that later, he told himself. Let him get Sammy out of here, cleaned up and fed, and he’d deal with the rest of it later. That way of thinking had worked for the first seventeen years of Sam’s life, and old habits died hard.
* * *
The ride back to the motel was silent - Dean briefly checked over the bruise on Sam’s face, to Sam’s discomfort, and Castiel felt vaguely saddened, because the awkwardness of the humans’ movements and the way they avoided eye-contact with each other was so inconsistent with the bond he had perceived between them once, when his Grace was intact, stretched thin but unbroken even when the divide of Earth and Hell separated them but now…Castiel couldn’t see it anymore, and he fervently hoped that was due to his changed condition.
At the motel, Dean ushered Sam upstairs, kept a hand near his arm, but mechanically, ingrained behavior. He told his brother to ‘go clean up’, and Sam didn’t answer, but disappeared into the bathroom. Castiel shifted awkwardly. He had thought he’d understood. At this point, there ought to be camaraderie, affection, a quiet mood of self-congratulation and good natured-mockery as they reflected on a mission well accomplished. Instead there was only the sound of the shower, and Dean putting his gun away with precise, efficient movements.
“Shall I - procure food?” Castiel offered in a moment of inspiration. The humans, especially Sam, would be requiring it, and in truth he would not be - averse to eating, himself.
“Yeah.” Dean said.
“Of what kind?”
“Whatever you want.”
“This vessel enjoys eating hamburgers.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth quirked, but his eyes remained sparkless.
“Sure thing. Just get some of that healthy crap too okay, for Sammy? Like a salad or whatever? And one of those girly smoothies if they have them.”
“Blended fruit is ungendered.”
“Just get the one with the longest name.”
“I shall return shortly.”
And they were - quiet, the rest of that night, and did not discuss demons, or demon blood, or even talk about heaven. Castiel could barely read Sam at all, but Dean seemed more - content, than the past few days, though the edge of anxiety never disappeared altogether. Eventually - around 4 a.m.- there came the inevitable realization they had only two beds.
“I’ll take the couch,” Sam offered.
“No you won’t,” Dean said quickly. “You need a proper sleep.” And they looked at each other, a slight expression of incredulity passed over Sam’s face, and even Castiel could understand how misplaced, out of context and anachronistic the paternal direction sounded.
“You may both have the beds,” declared the ex-angel: “I do not require sleep.” Really, it was unprecedented, the amount he’d been sleeping lately. Perhaps if he was alone he would receive another message from Anna. Dean looked like he was going to object to that too, then changed his mind.
“Stay out of bars,” he told Castiel. Then: “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“I have existed since before this earth was formed from the abyss,” Castiel told him gravely. “I believe I am capable of navigating the streets of a human city.”
Dean looked skeptical. Sam looked asleep.
* * *
As it turned out, the humans had complicated things, making their streets much more intricate and multiple than necessary. In Jimmy’s tie and office shoes, Castiel was uneasily aware of being stared at, and he wondered if anyone would believe him that he did not, in fact, have a credit card. He stumbled upon an all-night cinema, and watched a film called Starsky and Hutch, which was also about police, but left him confused and vaguely bored rather than entertained. When he returned to the motel around 8 a.m., Dean was alone again. The TV was on, the newscaster discussing freak electric storms with an expert on global warming, but Dean did not appear to be watching it.
“Where is Sam?” Castiel asked anxiously.
Dean didn’t reply.
Castiel went quietly into the bathroom and attended to the demands of his human vessel. When he returned, Dean still stared unseeingly at the television, but he said:
“You know what’s the problem with buddy shows?”
Castiel sat carefully down on the other bed.
“I do not,” he said.
“Or maybe the problem with TV in general. Fucking TV.”
“It is…acting?” Castiel supplied.
“Hey, look at that, you’re learning. That’s not the problem with it, though.” Dean turned to face him abruptly. Castiel started a little at the intensity in his face. “The problem is the fucking medium. It’s 2-D, man. Except for those special screens, but that’s not the point.” It was then that Castiel noted the whisky bottle, empty, by Dean’s bed. Which would explain the bloodshot whites of his eyes, Castiel thought. “TV - shows you the outside of people, but it makes them - emote and stuff, and have chick-flick moments, so eventually you start to think you know a person. Just by looking from outside, I mean. Like if you spend enough time with a person you can know them all the way through. On those buddy shows. Those guys are supposed to like know each other, and read each other’s minds or some shit, because they work together all the time and are like partners. And the audience is supposed to. N Think they know them. But we don’t know anyone like that, we humans, Cas. We can’t do that x-ray vision. Sometimes we don’t even see what’s goddam obvious, for god’s sake, but we still get all wrapped up and dependant on each other, like we think we’re on TV or some shit. But this isn’t TV, it’s the goddam apocalypse, and the apocalypse is not a buddy show, you know what I’m saying?”
And he passed out. Quite suddenly and dramatically, Dean fell backwards onto the bed and was asleep, dropping a second empty bottle which clinked and rolled across the floor to stop at Castiel’s feet. He stopped it, quietly, with his shoe. He didn’t know what a buddy show was, but he felt sad and certain that he’d let Dean down in some way, hadn’t been good enough, had failed. He wanted to remind Dean that they had rescued Sam together, and that whatever Sam did after that wasn’t Dean’s fault and couldn’t be helped by him. Perhaps if he could find another mission, and they could complete that successfully…
Castiel waited patiently, but there were no more messages.
The End.
Rambling A/N: Though this is not slash, it was inspired in response to an article about slash developing out of buddy shows which I really disagreed with. I didn’t write any pairings into this explicitly because I wanted the possibility of any to remain open, but in my little brain, I suppose I was thinking about how SPN is a huge producer of slash in part because it’s rather more complicated than most buddy shows, and is more about the tragedy/failure/angst/or something implicit in the traditional *two-people-are-so-bonded-they-have-amazing-adventures-together-and-can-practically-read-eachother’s-minds* dynamic. Or something.