fic: the dawn poured into me (supernatural)
the dawn poured into me
notes: au imagining of dean's moments after hell; deer!cas fic; entertaining my deer muse, and haley (sailetheach).
What Dean remembers first is the feeling of something sharp digging into his side. His instinct tells him to kill, fight, ask questions later and it takes him almost an entire minute to realize he’s trying to strangle a twig. His eyes aren’t used to the dark yet, and he wonders if this -- this sort of crisp, clear reality -- is a new kind of torture. Something he made without really knowing. It’s something he’d do. It’s something he’d make other people want to see -- to feel real dirt between their fingers and the wind on their face, only to have it torn away in a second.
Only this isn’t Hell and that’s something Dean knows the second he drops the branch and finally takes in his surroundings. The air is clean and cool and he shivers, pulling his jacket closer around him. He realizes he’s in a clearing surrounded by uprooted trees, blackened by an explosion Dean doesn’t remember.
He only takes a few steps out of the clearing before he realizes that he has no idea where he is. Desperately, he reaches into his pocket, searching for the phone that isn’t there. Dean spins on the spot and feels himself panic. Disoriented and terrified, he drops to his knees and begins breathing through the fear. I can do this. I’ve done this before, I can do it again. He closes his eyes, listening to a soft whimper and he doesn’t know where it’s coming from until he realizes that it’s him and that he is making that noise. Dean chokes back a sob, chokes on Sam’s name and memories that threaten to bubble over and consume him. He retches, but there’s nothing to lose, so he breathes through dry heaves for a while.
In his terror, Dean doesn’t hear the steady crunch of something walking through the forest toward him. He realizes there’s something there, something staring at him, something with a distinct presence. Looking up, Dean finds himself staring at the dark, cold nose of a deer, its antlers casting long, angular shadows over the ground. Dean gasps and stumbles-- he’s never been so close to one before, not alive anyway. He’d gone hunting once, really hunting, and he’d brought one down. But he’d stood over it and the animal had been dead. Hollowed out of any life at all. This deer is alive. And more than that, it’s aware. It knows Dean.
Carefully, he sits up straighter on his knees, still below the deer, but able to look it more directly in the eye. “Hi.” The deer says nothing. Dean isn’t surprised. “You’re…you know why I’m here, don’t you?” Dean gets the feeling that the deer is agreeing with him. “That makes one of us,” he mutters, finally forcing himself onto his feet.
The deer continues to stare. Dean get the impression that it’s trying to say something else, so they stare at one another a while until Dean realizes the animal is focused on his shoulder. Dean shrugs off his jacket part way until he can roll up his sleeve. There, shining and red, is hand print. Dean winces, wondering what kind of heat and force it took to leave this kind of mark. Before he realizes it, the deer presses his nose to the scar. Dean’s not sure when he decided that the deer was not an it, but it’s not too terribly important. The next time he looks the deer in the eyes, he’s convinced that there are other deer and then there is this deer and whatever he is, it is something more and Dean is fine with that. He’s comforted by it.
“You’re going to lead me out.” The deer agrees and takes a step forward. The second he leaves his side, Dean feels lost and he throws his arms out, fingers grasping antlers. Instantly, the creature pulls himself back and Dean is alone again, aware that he’s done something wrong. “I’m sorry,” he manages. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Are they…can I touch them? Is that allowed?” The deer almost tilts his head, as though trying to understand exactly what Dean is asking. Finally, he agrees and Dean curls a gentle hand around one antler as the creature begins to lead him out of the woods.
They walk for a long while in silence, the only sound being their feet against the ground. Sometimes a screech owl swoops overhead, its call echoing through the night. When Dean feels like he can’t walk a single step more, the deer stops and Dean realizes they’re at a road. The sun is beginning to rise.
“Is this it?”
Yes. Dean starts, pulling his hand off the antler. He hadn’t known it could speak. Would you rather I remain silent? The animal’s mouth doesn’t move, but the words are clear as day.
“No. I…this is better. I like this.”
I won’t stay here long. Down the road is a store. A mile from there a payphone. No one will believe you. You must make them believe you.
“You’re telling me,” Dean mutters, yawning. He’s exhausted. “Do you…what do I call you?”
Castiel.
“Castiel.” Dean tries the name on his tongue and it feels good, settles evenly and pleasantly enough, so he says it again. “Castiel the deer.”
If that helps, yes.
“Will I see you again?”
I should think so.
“Will you look like this?”
Perhaps. You will know me either way.
“I don’t doubt it.”
Go now, Dean Winchester. The store is closed. You will be alone. Rest. Feed yourself. When it is time, you will see me again.
“Right.” Dean shivers against the chill of the morning, but there are pockets of warmth in places the sun touches. Looking down the road, he can see the store -- a battered gas station from the looks of it. “So are you some kind of--”
But the deer is gone and Dean feels a sharp pang of longing. He reaches out to where the antlers had been, curling his fingers around the memory of them.
He only allows himself a minute, maybe two, and then he goes, turning sharply on his heel and down the road. And though the deer -- man, thing, creature, god -- had said he would be alone, Dean doesn’t really feel like he is at all.
notes: au imagining of dean's moments after hell; deer!cas fic; entertaining my deer muse, and haley (sailetheach).
What Dean remembers first is the feeling of something sharp digging into his side. His instinct tells him to kill, fight, ask questions later and it takes him almost an entire minute to realize he’s trying to strangle a twig. His eyes aren’t used to the dark yet, and he wonders if this -- this sort of crisp, clear reality -- is a new kind of torture. Something he made without really knowing. It’s something he’d do. It’s something he’d make other people want to see -- to feel real dirt between their fingers and the wind on their face, only to have it torn away in a second.
Only this isn’t Hell and that’s something Dean knows the second he drops the branch and finally takes in his surroundings. The air is clean and cool and he shivers, pulling his jacket closer around him. He realizes he’s in a clearing surrounded by uprooted trees, blackened by an explosion Dean doesn’t remember.
He only takes a few steps out of the clearing before he realizes that he has no idea where he is. Desperately, he reaches into his pocket, searching for the phone that isn’t there. Dean spins on the spot and feels himself panic. Disoriented and terrified, he drops to his knees and begins breathing through the fear. I can do this. I’ve done this before, I can do it again. He closes his eyes, listening to a soft whimper and he doesn’t know where it’s coming from until he realizes that it’s him and that he is making that noise. Dean chokes back a sob, chokes on Sam’s name and memories that threaten to bubble over and consume him. He retches, but there’s nothing to lose, so he breathes through dry heaves for a while.
In his terror, Dean doesn’t hear the steady crunch of something walking through the forest toward him. He realizes there’s something there, something staring at him, something with a distinct presence. Looking up, Dean finds himself staring at the dark, cold nose of a deer, its antlers casting long, angular shadows over the ground. Dean gasps and stumbles-- he’s never been so close to one before, not alive anyway. He’d gone hunting once, really hunting, and he’d brought one down. But he’d stood over it and the animal had been dead. Hollowed out of any life at all. This deer is alive. And more than that, it’s aware. It knows Dean.
Carefully, he sits up straighter on his knees, still below the deer, but able to look it more directly in the eye. “Hi.” The deer says nothing. Dean isn’t surprised. “You’re…you know why I’m here, don’t you?” Dean gets the feeling that the deer is agreeing with him. “That makes one of us,” he mutters, finally forcing himself onto his feet.
The deer continues to stare. Dean get the impression that it’s trying to say something else, so they stare at one another a while until Dean realizes the animal is focused on his shoulder. Dean shrugs off his jacket part way until he can roll up his sleeve. There, shining and red, is hand print. Dean winces, wondering what kind of heat and force it took to leave this kind of mark. Before he realizes it, the deer presses his nose to the scar. Dean’s not sure when he decided that the deer was not an it, but it’s not too terribly important. The next time he looks the deer in the eyes, he’s convinced that there are other deer and then there is this deer and whatever he is, it is something more and Dean is fine with that. He’s comforted by it.
“You’re going to lead me out.” The deer agrees and takes a step forward. The second he leaves his side, Dean feels lost and he throws his arms out, fingers grasping antlers. Instantly, the creature pulls himself back and Dean is alone again, aware that he’s done something wrong. “I’m sorry,” he manages. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Are they…can I touch them? Is that allowed?” The deer almost tilts his head, as though trying to understand exactly what Dean is asking. Finally, he agrees and Dean curls a gentle hand around one antler as the creature begins to lead him out of the woods.
They walk for a long while in silence, the only sound being their feet against the ground. Sometimes a screech owl swoops overhead, its call echoing through the night. When Dean feels like he can’t walk a single step more, the deer stops and Dean realizes they’re at a road. The sun is beginning to rise.
“Is this it?”
Yes. Dean starts, pulling his hand off the antler. He hadn’t known it could speak. Would you rather I remain silent? The animal’s mouth doesn’t move, but the words are clear as day.
“No. I…this is better. I like this.”
I won’t stay here long. Down the road is a store. A mile from there a payphone. No one will believe you. You must make them believe you.
“You’re telling me,” Dean mutters, yawning. He’s exhausted. “Do you…what do I call you?”
Castiel.
“Castiel.” Dean tries the name on his tongue and it feels good, settles evenly and pleasantly enough, so he says it again. “Castiel the deer.”
If that helps, yes.
“Will I see you again?”
I should think so.
“Will you look like this?”
Perhaps. You will know me either way.
“I don’t doubt it.”
Go now, Dean Winchester. The store is closed. You will be alone. Rest. Feed yourself. When it is time, you will see me again.
“Right.” Dean shivers against the chill of the morning, but there are pockets of warmth in places the sun touches. Looking down the road, he can see the store -- a battered gas station from the looks of it. “So are you some kind of--”
But the deer is gone and Dean feels a sharp pang of longing. He reaches out to where the antlers had been, curling his fingers around the memory of them.
He only allows himself a minute, maybe two, and then he goes, turning sharply on his heel and down the road. And though the deer -- man, thing, creature, god -- had said he would be alone, Dean doesn’t really feel like he is at all.