I Do What I Must (Supernatural fanfiction)
Even though Dean and Cas are settled down with a kid now, Dean still goes hunting sometimes. Cas waits, and worries, and occasionally cleans up after.
Inspired by this fanart from Ask Domestic Destiel.
The Domestic Destiel 'verse is owned by preservedcucumbers.
Zeppelin is owned by lettiebobettie.
Everyone else is owned by Kripke & Co.
Only the words are mine.
-----
When Sam stood to go to bed around midnight, he stopped by the couch first. Castiel was sitting there, a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, trying to hide the way he tensed every time he heard a car pass by outside.
"I've got work tomorrow," said Sam by way of apology.
Castiel looked up from his book. "I'm just going to wait up for a little longer," he said.
Sam clapped a hand over Castiel's shoulder before heading upstairs. Castiel pulled his feet up to sit cross-legged on the couch, and balanced his cell phone in the furrow where his calves came together. He stared at it for a moment before resuming his book. If Dean were going to spend the night at a hotel, he would have called to let Castiel know. Since he hadn't called, he must be on his way home.
Castiel did not bother to contemplate any other reasons why Dean might not be calling.
It was always like this when Dean was out on a hunt. Castiel felt better about it when Dean wasn't alone, but Sam hadn't been able to get the day off work this time and it couldn't be helped. Castiel never brought up the option of just not going. Of letting this one slide. Of assuming that the strange deaths two towns over were just a coincidence and not a reason to load up the Impala with rock salt and holy water. Dean was a hunter. No matter how ordinary their lives became in other respects, he would always be a hunter. When people were in danger, he would always answer that call.
The next time Castiel got up to go to the kitchen, he checked the clock. 2AM. He dumped out the dregs of his tea and switched to coffee.
It wasn't fifteen minutes later when Castiel finally heard the roar of the Impala coming from down the street. He put down his book and his cup and twisted around to watch Dean pull into the driveway. The engine died. The headlights went out. Castiel waited for Dean to emerge from the driver's side door, but the seconds dragged on and there was no movement in the darkness.
By the time the phone buzzed in his lap, Castiel was on such a hair-trigger that he answered it before it was even through its first ring. "Dean?" he said, his heart already sinking. If Dean were uninjured, he would be sweeping in through the door by now, maybe waking Sam up to brag about the hunt. If he was calling ahead, then something was wrong.
"Hey, Cas," came Dean's voice over the phone, sounding strong but tired. Castiel continued to try to gauge how bad things might be. Dean didn't sound like he was in much pain, but Castiel was aware that he might be trying to hide it. "Is Zep asleep?"
"Yes," said Castiel, "Everyone is."
"Go check."
Castiel kept the phone to his ear as he got up and rounded the corner to peek into Zeppelin's room. So it was bad enough that Dean didn't want his daughter to see, but not so bad as to make him go straight to the hospital. Flesh wounds, then. Bruises. Maybe a dislocation or a minor break. Even now that they had the luxury of health insurance, Dean's hospital-threshold remained frustratingly high.
Zeppelin was snoring peacefully. Castiel made sure her night-light was on before quietly closing her bedroom door. "She's asleep," he confirmed into the phone.
"Good," Dean sighed, "I'm coming in."
"I'll get the first aid kit."
"Thanks, babe." And he hung up.
Castiel exited the bathroom just as Dean opened the front door. For a moment, they stood at opposite sides of the front entryway, Dean smiling sheepishly as Castiel stared. Dean's face was streaked with blood from his nose, a split lip, and a gash over his left cheekbone. It was smeared in places, as if Dean had tried to clean it up himself, but fresh blood had fallen over the streaks and dried in place. His eye was blackened, and his stiff, awkward posture promised more injuries hidden under his clothes.
Castiel dropped the first aid kit on the coffee table on his way to Dean. Dean flinched away from his outstretched arms with a soft, "Careful! Ribs! Ribs! Careful!"
Shifting his approach at the last second, Castiel embraced Dean gently around his shoulders. A second later, Dean relaxed into him, resting his hands on Castiel's hips. He smelled terrible, like sweat and grave rot and coppery blood. Castiel nodded his face into the crook of Dean's neck anyway, ignoring the fact that he was getting blood and grime on his clean shirt.
Castiel steered Dean onto the couch and steadied him as he sat, wincing. "Stay," Castiel ordered. He whisked his way into the kitchen to run hot water into a bowl.
When he returned to the couch with the water and a clean washcloth, Dean looked up and said, "Sorry I'm late."
Ignoring the apology, Castiel kneeled beside him and began to dab the blood gently off his face. "Anything besides this and the ribs?" he asked.
Dean's eyes closed as the cloth passed over the cut on his cheek. "Just some bruises," he said, "It's not that bad, really. No stabs or slices. Just a good old-fashioned ass-kicking." His eyes flashed open to see if Castiel was smiling. He wasn't. Dean closed his eyes again.
Once Dean's face was mostly washed, the cuts and bruises standing out starkly against clean skin, Castiel worked Dean's shirt open and pulled it down his arms with only a minimum of grunts and complaints from his patient. The bruises over Dean's torso were so dark that they were reddish-black at the centers. Castiel could identify at least three impact points severe enough to correspond to cracked or broken ribs.
He didn't think about what his expression must look like until Dean said, "Aw, Cas, don't be mad at me."
Castiel took the cloth back up and wiped away a fresh trickle of blood from the gash on Dean's cheek. "I'm not angry," he assured Dean, "I just wish this hadn't happened." He probed at the still-oozing cut with his thumb, making Dean suck a breath through his teeth. "This one is deep," he muttered.
"Just use the glue," said Dean, "It freaks Zep out when I have stitches on my face."
Castiel cleaned out the cut with hydrogen peroxide, earning a few whispered curses from Dean, before sealing it with skin glue. "That doesn't hold as tight as stitches," he reminded Dean, "So don't smile too broadly until it heals, or you'll tear it open."
Dean practiced smiling with one side of his mouth, giving Castiel a lopsided grin. Castiel finally returned the smile as he leaned in to kiss the corner of Dean's mouth, avoiding the split in his lip. He wrinkled his nose. "You really need a shower," he said, which made Dean laugh, which made Dean wince.
By the time Castiel had supported Dean on their way upstairs to their bedroom and helped him out of the rest of his clothes, Dean was nodding off on his feet. He gave up when he was down to his boxers. "Forget the shower. Just let me sleep," he groaned, staggering toward the bed and lowering himself slowly and laboriously into it, "I'll wash the sheets in the morning."
Castiel slid in beside him. Mindful of Dean's ribs, he didn't insist on closeness. He just reached across and grabbed Dean's hand, lacing their fingers together.
They had lied there for several minutes, and Castiel was thinking that Dean was asleep, when Dean suddenly said, "Cas? Do you want me to stop?"
"Stop what?"
"Hunting."
Involuntarily, Castiel's hand tightened on Dean's. For a long time, he just stared at the ceiling and weighed his answer. He imagined Dean working full-time at the garage, where he could be safe and happy. Dean was a good mechanic, and cars were in his blood.
But hunting things, saving people - that was in Dean's soul. No matter how many vestiges of their old life they managed to leave behind, and no matter how many new joys they replaced them with, hunting still gave Dean a sense of purpose distinct from anything else he had accomplished. Maybe one day he wouldn't need it anymore, but Castiel couldn't bear to take it away from him, not even with the offer freely given and staring him in the face. Not even if it meant Dean would never come home late and bleeding ever again.
"No," was all he said.
As they both finally drifted off to sleep, Castiel thought he heard Dean say so quietly that it was almost no more than a thought, "Thank you."
Inspired by this fanart from Ask Domestic Destiel.
The Domestic Destiel 'verse is owned by preservedcucumbers.
Zeppelin is owned by lettiebobettie.
Everyone else is owned by Kripke & Co.
Only the words are mine.
-----
When Sam stood to go to bed around midnight, he stopped by the couch first. Castiel was sitting there, a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, trying to hide the way he tensed every time he heard a car pass by outside.
"I've got work tomorrow," said Sam by way of apology.
Castiel looked up from his book. "I'm just going to wait up for a little longer," he said.
Sam clapped a hand over Castiel's shoulder before heading upstairs. Castiel pulled his feet up to sit cross-legged on the couch, and balanced his cell phone in the furrow where his calves came together. He stared at it for a moment before resuming his book. If Dean were going to spend the night at a hotel, he would have called to let Castiel know. Since he hadn't called, he must be on his way home.
Castiel did not bother to contemplate any other reasons why Dean might not be calling.
It was always like this when Dean was out on a hunt. Castiel felt better about it when Dean wasn't alone, but Sam hadn't been able to get the day off work this time and it couldn't be helped. Castiel never brought up the option of just not going. Of letting this one slide. Of assuming that the strange deaths two towns over were just a coincidence and not a reason to load up the Impala with rock salt and holy water. Dean was a hunter. No matter how ordinary their lives became in other respects, he would always be a hunter. When people were in danger, he would always answer that call.
The next time Castiel got up to go to the kitchen, he checked the clock. 2AM. He dumped out the dregs of his tea and switched to coffee.
It wasn't fifteen minutes later when Castiel finally heard the roar of the Impala coming from down the street. He put down his book and his cup and twisted around to watch Dean pull into the driveway. The engine died. The headlights went out. Castiel waited for Dean to emerge from the driver's side door, but the seconds dragged on and there was no movement in the darkness.
By the time the phone buzzed in his lap, Castiel was on such a hair-trigger that he answered it before it was even through its first ring. "Dean?" he said, his heart already sinking. If Dean were uninjured, he would be sweeping in through the door by now, maybe waking Sam up to brag about the hunt. If he was calling ahead, then something was wrong.
"Hey, Cas," came Dean's voice over the phone, sounding strong but tired. Castiel continued to try to gauge how bad things might be. Dean didn't sound like he was in much pain, but Castiel was aware that he might be trying to hide it. "Is Zep asleep?"
"Yes," said Castiel, "Everyone is."
"Go check."
Castiel kept the phone to his ear as he got up and rounded the corner to peek into Zeppelin's room. So it was bad enough that Dean didn't want his daughter to see, but not so bad as to make him go straight to the hospital. Flesh wounds, then. Bruises. Maybe a dislocation or a minor break. Even now that they had the luxury of health insurance, Dean's hospital-threshold remained frustratingly high.
Zeppelin was snoring peacefully. Castiel made sure her night-light was on before quietly closing her bedroom door. "She's asleep," he confirmed into the phone.
"Good," Dean sighed, "I'm coming in."
"I'll get the first aid kit."
"Thanks, babe." And he hung up.
Castiel exited the bathroom just as Dean opened the front door. For a moment, they stood at opposite sides of the front entryway, Dean smiling sheepishly as Castiel stared. Dean's face was streaked with blood from his nose, a split lip, and a gash over his left cheekbone. It was smeared in places, as if Dean had tried to clean it up himself, but fresh blood had fallen over the streaks and dried in place. His eye was blackened, and his stiff, awkward posture promised more injuries hidden under his clothes.
Castiel dropped the first aid kit on the coffee table on his way to Dean. Dean flinched away from his outstretched arms with a soft, "Careful! Ribs! Ribs! Careful!"
Shifting his approach at the last second, Castiel embraced Dean gently around his shoulders. A second later, Dean relaxed into him, resting his hands on Castiel's hips. He smelled terrible, like sweat and grave rot and coppery blood. Castiel nodded his face into the crook of Dean's neck anyway, ignoring the fact that he was getting blood and grime on his clean shirt.
Castiel steered Dean onto the couch and steadied him as he sat, wincing. "Stay," Castiel ordered. He whisked his way into the kitchen to run hot water into a bowl.
When he returned to the couch with the water and a clean washcloth, Dean looked up and said, "Sorry I'm late."
Ignoring the apology, Castiel kneeled beside him and began to dab the blood gently off his face. "Anything besides this and the ribs?" he asked.
Dean's eyes closed as the cloth passed over the cut on his cheek. "Just some bruises," he said, "It's not that bad, really. No stabs or slices. Just a good old-fashioned ass-kicking." His eyes flashed open to see if Castiel was smiling. He wasn't. Dean closed his eyes again.
Once Dean's face was mostly washed, the cuts and bruises standing out starkly against clean skin, Castiel worked Dean's shirt open and pulled it down his arms with only a minimum of grunts and complaints from his patient. The bruises over Dean's torso were so dark that they were reddish-black at the centers. Castiel could identify at least three impact points severe enough to correspond to cracked or broken ribs.
He didn't think about what his expression must look like until Dean said, "Aw, Cas, don't be mad at me."
Castiel took the cloth back up and wiped away a fresh trickle of blood from the gash on Dean's cheek. "I'm not angry," he assured Dean, "I just wish this hadn't happened." He probed at the still-oozing cut with his thumb, making Dean suck a breath through his teeth. "This one is deep," he muttered.
"Just use the glue," said Dean, "It freaks Zep out when I have stitches on my face."
Castiel cleaned out the cut with hydrogen peroxide, earning a few whispered curses from Dean, before sealing it with skin glue. "That doesn't hold as tight as stitches," he reminded Dean, "So don't smile too broadly until it heals, or you'll tear it open."
Dean practiced smiling with one side of his mouth, giving Castiel a lopsided grin. Castiel finally returned the smile as he leaned in to kiss the corner of Dean's mouth, avoiding the split in his lip. He wrinkled his nose. "You really need a shower," he said, which made Dean laugh, which made Dean wince.
By the time Castiel had supported Dean on their way upstairs to their bedroom and helped him out of the rest of his clothes, Dean was nodding off on his feet. He gave up when he was down to his boxers. "Forget the shower. Just let me sleep," he groaned, staggering toward the bed and lowering himself slowly and laboriously into it, "I'll wash the sheets in the morning."
Castiel slid in beside him. Mindful of Dean's ribs, he didn't insist on closeness. He just reached across and grabbed Dean's hand, lacing their fingers together.
They had lied there for several minutes, and Castiel was thinking that Dean was asleep, when Dean suddenly said, "Cas? Do you want me to stop?"
"Stop what?"
"Hunting."
Involuntarily, Castiel's hand tightened on Dean's. For a long time, he just stared at the ceiling and weighed his answer. He imagined Dean working full-time at the garage, where he could be safe and happy. Dean was a good mechanic, and cars were in his blood.
But hunting things, saving people - that was in Dean's soul. No matter how many vestiges of their old life they managed to leave behind, and no matter how many new joys they replaced them with, hunting still gave Dean a sense of purpose distinct from anything else he had accomplished. Maybe one day he wouldn't need it anymore, but Castiel couldn't bear to take it away from him, not even with the offer freely given and staring him in the face. Not even if it meant Dean would never come home late and bleeding ever again.
"No," was all he said.
As they both finally drifted off to sleep, Castiel thought he heard Dean say so quietly that it was almost no more than a thought, "Thank you."